The entire area fell into a deathly silence.
Only the sound of the single chainsword idling remained, emitting an awkward and noisy buzz.
Clark came to a halt.
He stood directly before the underboss, less than half a meter away from the frenziedly spinning chainsword. He stood a full head taller than the augmented brute, looking down at him from a superior height.
Tilting his head slightly, he gazed at the trembling underboss. His voice was deep and rasping, possessing a metallic resonance that sounded like muffled thunder from the depths of hell:
"Who did you say you were going to saw a hand off of?"
"Aaaaaah! Die, you monster!"
Extreme terror caused the underboss to snap. Roaring, he gripped the chainsword with both hands, using every ounce of his strength—even overloading the power of his bionic implants—to swing the blade savagely toward Clark's neck!
This time, Clark raised his hand.
No fancy martial arts movements, no parrying techniques.
He simply reached out his right hand, casually and effortlessly—
And caught the high-speed spinning monomolecular chain-blade with his bare palm!
Screech—CRACK!
The tooth-grinding sound of metal friction lasted only 0.1 seconds before abruptly stopping.
The chainsword, forged from hardened alloys and capable of slicing through Astra Militarum flak armor, snapped in Clark's hand like a brittle wafer.
He slightly closed his fingers.
The jagged teeth, capable of shredding flesh, failed to leave even a white mark on his palm. Under his grip, the hard alloy blade emitted a mournful groan, and the drive shaft instantly shattered, turning into a pile of scalding scrap metal that sifted through his fingers.
"This... this is impossible..." The underboss stared, his eyes bulging as he looked at the smoking, bare hilt left in his hand. His lips trembled violently.
Time seemed to freeze at this moment.
[SOL: Target heart rate detected at limit (180bpm). Adrenaline overload. Immediate elimination advised.]
[RECOMMENDED SOLUTION: Backhand strike. Power output control: 0.05%. Angle correction: 30 degrees horizontal.]
In his mind, the system calmly provided the optimal solution.
Clark looked at the distorted, ugly face before him, reeking of Chaos.
The blue in his eyes lost a fraction of "Clark's" humanity and gained a fraction of "Kal's" divine indifference.
"In this world, do the weak deserve to die?"
Clark asked softly, his tone as calm as if he were asking about the weather.
Without waiting for an answer, he swung his right hand.
Slap.
The sound was very light, sounding like someone swatting a bothersome mosquito.
But in the eyes of the bystanders, it was a scene that defied all physical logic—a moment of extreme horror and violent aesthetics.
The underboss's head, along with his upper torso, vanished the instant the palm made contact.
Yes, it vanished.
Because the speed was too high and the kinetic energy too immense, his body was directly pulverized into a mist of blood particles by the sheer force.
BOOM!
Only now did the sonic boom generated by that slap finally catch up.
Ten meters behind him, a perfect fan-shaped radial blood pattern appeared on the Adamantium wall, looking as though it had been applied with a high-pressure spray gun.
Clark stood before the blood mist, surrounded by a faint, almost invisible bio-electric field. Not a single drop of the gore raining down could touch him.
His red cape (the rag) whipped in the bloody wind.
He remained untainted, like a god descended to earth, yet performing the deeds of an Asura.
The remaining dozen thugs were completely paralyzed by fear. Looking at the leader's corpse—now just two legs still twitching from neural reflexes—they let out soul-tearing screams.
"Daemon! He's a Daemon of Khorne!"
"Run!"
They threw down their weapons and turned to flee in utter terror.
Clark's eyes shifted slightly.
In that instant, the golden flame deep within his pupils extinguished, replaced by two glowing red giants. The air around his eyes began to distort from the extreme heat.
[SOL: Wide-area sweep using Heat Vision. Efficiency: 100%. Zero residue.]
The system gave its cold suggestion.
In the cruel universe of Warhammer, mercy to the heretic is the greatest cruelty to oneself and the innocent.
Clark took a deep breath, and the red light in his eyes receded slightly. He did not fire the all-consuming beams. He remembered Martha's reminder—the anchor of his humanity. But he also remembered the image of Jonathan's brutal death—the verdict on evil.
"SOL, even beasts should know the meaning of fear."
Whoosh!
Clark's figure instantly vanished from the spot.
In the next second, a series of muffled thuds, like a gale passing through, erupted across the scrap yard.
Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump!
There was no bloody massacre.
The dozen fleeing thugs each collapsed at the same time, as if struck by an invisible heavy hammer, clutching their knees and screaming on the ground.
Their right kneecaps had all been shattered with surgical precision—not more, not less—rendering them permanently disabled, never to commit evil again.
Clark reappeared beneath Old Jack.
His feet left the ground as he hovered in mid-air. With one hand, he effortlessly snapped the thumb-thick iron chain and gently caught the falling Old Jack, as if holding a fragile infant.
"Cla... Clark?"
Old Jack, face covered in blood, looked at the familiar "big idiot" before him with his single eye in disbelief.
The face was the same, but the aura—that abyssal, overwhelming majesty—made him feel as though he were being held by the Emperor himself.
"It's me, Jack."
Clark landed, gently placing the old man on a pile of relatively soft rags. His voice returned to its usual gentleness, though his eyes remained fixed on the thugs wailing on the ground.
"Don't be afraid. It's over."
Just then, a high-risk red alert flashed within his mind.
[SOL: WARNING. High-energy signature detected in orbit.]
[TYPE: Adeptus Astartes (Space Marine) Drop Pod.]
[SIGNAL IDENTIFICATION: Ultramarines Chapter.]
[ESTIMATED IMPACT TIME: 30 seconds.]
Clark snapped his head up.
His eyes, capable of seeing through all matter, instantly adjusted their focus. His vision pierced through the thick, polluted ceilings of the Hive and through the atmosphere.
He saw a massive, blue Strike Cruiser hovering in orbit. Several Drop Pods, wreathed in the flames of reentry, were plummeting toward these coordinates like falling stars of divine retribution.
The Angels of the Emperor.
Also, the Reapers of Destruction.
"Trouble is here," Clark whispered to himself, his brow furrowing slightly.
He turned his head toward the wailing thugs on the ground. A glint of red light flashed in his eyes, and a terrifying thermal pressure instantly enveloped the area.
"Shut up."
Two words, whispered softly.
But to the thugs, they sounded like a decree from Death itself. All screams vanished instantly. The thugs clamped their hands over their mouths, tears and snot flowing freely; they didn't dare make a sound even as they fainted from the pain.
In this Underhive, a new god was born.
And the "Old Gods" from the heavens were about to descend.