The moment Cassius finished speaking, the temperature in the warehouse seemed to plummet.
Logically, Raynor should have been terrified. He should have been trembling, stammering out a desperate explanation, or begging for a mercy that would never come. That was the standard reaction for any mortal whose heresy was uncovered by the Adeptus Astartes.
But strangely, Cassius saw none of those things. There was no fear, no panic, and not even the tell-tale stiffness of someone trying to hide their dread.
Raynor simply stood there. He raised his head slightly to meet Cassius's gray eyes—eyes that could drive the most ruthless hive-thugs to a total mental breakdown. A calm, composed expression settled over his face. Beneath that surface lay a faint, inscrutable weariness, and the grim relief of a man who had finally made a final, irreversible decision.
Something was wrong.
Cassius's combat instincts, honed through three centuries of blood, fire, and a thousand brushes with death, screamed a warning within a fraction of a second. This mortal's reaction defied all logical deduction. No fear? Not when facing an Astartes who held the power of life and death?
Unless... unless he had anticipated this moment and was ready for it.
0.1 milliseconds. This was the peak response time of a warrior who had undergone nineteen superhuman surgeries. The time taken to convert a neural signal into muscle movement was compressed into an interval beyond human comprehension. Cassius's right hand gripped the handle of the power axe at his waist.
0.5 milliseconds. The axe's engine ignited. The energy field hummed to life, a blue arc of destruction dancing along the edge of the blade. Cassius's body became a taut steel cable; his leg muscles, augmented by power armor, coiled with enough force to pulverize concrete.
0.7 milliseconds. His gaze locked onto Raynor's neck—the most vulnerable point. The strike would be a perfect arc, bypassing any potential armor to sever the cervical spine and major vessels instantly. Death would be immediate; there would be no chance for resistance or a scream.
0.9 milliseconds. The axe moved. Cassius's shoulder propelled his arm, and the adamantine blade tore through the air with a piercing whistle, cleaving straight toward the man standing five meters away. The strike was lightning made manifest, heavy as a collapsing mountain. Even a fully armored Ogryn would have been split in two.
However...
Just as the blade was about to touch Raynor's skin—at the precise moment the energy field made the man's hair stand on end—the world broke.
Time seemed to "stretch" under the weight of an invisible force. It wasn't time itself that warped, but Cassius's perception of it. He "saw" his axe blade slowing, crawling inch by inch toward Raynor's throat. He "heard" the roar of the engine deepen into a low, distorted groan. Every joint in his power armor felt sluggish, as if moving through deep water.
Then, a resonant thrum echoed through the very foundation of his soul. Like ripples in a still pond, a disturbance spread outward from Raynor. It wasn't sound, light, or any physical wave. It was a fundamental disruption of existence.
Cassius froze. He wasn't bound by physical chains—his axe still hummed, his armor still powered—but his consciousness, his control over his own form, was being overridden by a higher authority. It was a power he had only ever associated with the God-Emperor Himself.
From the depths of Raynor's terrifyingly calm eyes, several translucent "psychic chains" etched with shimmering, eerie runes lashed out like venomous snakes. These chains ignored the physical world. They pierced through power armor, flesh, and bone, embedding themselves directly into the core of Cassius's mind.
"Ugh!"
Cassius let out a low, agonizing growl. It wasn't physical pain, though his nerve endings felt as if they were being scorched by red-hot iron. It was a deeper sensation—the feeling of his soul being pried open. He felt a crack being forced into his cold, rational, mechanical mind. A foreign, domineering "agreement"—wrapped in a pink, strangely intimate haze—began to take root.
[System Notification: Interactive high-value target detected – Sons of Medusa, Sergeant Cassius (Male). Side quest binding requirements met.]
[Warning: The target exhibits extreme resistance!]
[Should the system force activation of the "Love in the 41st Millennium" side quest agreement?]
"Activate!" Raynor roared.
The moment he spoke, Raynor paid the price.
Puff! He coughed up a spray of bright red blood that splashed across the rusty metal floor. Immediately after, capillaries began to burst in his eyes, nose, and ears. A headache like a thousand white-hot needles churned inside his skull.
His vision blurred into a mess of static and distorted colors. This was the "backlash" of binding a soul with a will as unbreakable as a Space Marine's.
Raynor's knees buckled. He nearly collapsed, but he gritted his teeth and forced himself onto one knee, using his last scrap of strength to keep from falling. Finally, the familiar interface flickered into existence.
[Option D: The Iron-Blooded Logic Sergeant]
[Target]: Sons of Medusa Sergeant Cassius (Male)
[Tags]: #PracticalityFirst, #LogicProcessor, #Mechanized
[Initial Favorability]: -15 (Base: 20 from shared faction; Current: -35 due to suspected heresy)
[Strategy Tips]:
Efficiency is Virtue: Demonstrate irreplaceable "intelligence acquisition efficiency" and "battlefield value."
Logic Over Dogma: His pragmatism outweighs rigid Imperial precepts.
Limited Cooperation: Any relationship must be framed as a "temporary tactical agreement" with clear objectives and controllability.
"Gift" Preferences: High-efficiency reports, rare battlefield data, or mechanical parts that improve squad lethality.
[Danger Rating]: ★★★★★★
Raynor raised his blood-stained face. He looked at Cassius, who stood frozen, his gray eyes churning with a mix of rage, confusion, and utter disbelief. Raynor grinned, a maniacal, bloody smile.
"It's done..." he wheezed, his voice sounding like a broken bellows.
Cassius had no frame of reference for what was happening. Heretical witchcraft? Chaotic corruption? Psychic enslavement? In three hundred years of war, he had never encountered an attack so bizarre, so illogical, and so profoundly terrifying.