Half a month had passed.
In that time, Duncan had grown increasingly uneasy.
At first, the pattern had looked like another clerical absurdity from the endless machinery of Imperial logistics: crates arriving without explanation, manifests stamped with codes no one in the regiment could decipher, and supply "servitors" moving with the same cold certainty whether they were unloading ration blocks or priceless wargear.
Then the power armor began arriving.
Not one suit. Not a ceremonial allotment for senior officers. Not even enough for a single honor guard. Pallet after pallet descended from the cargo haulers, each sealed in armored transport frames and marked for frontline issue. The suits were too clean, too new, too numerous, and too impossibly valuable to belong in the hands of ordinary Planetary Defense Force infantry.
The sheer volume was staggering. If Duncan took the manifests literally, every soldier under his command was expected to receive one.
That was absurd.
Common soldiers did not wear power armor. The Astra Militarum did not hand such wargear to line infantry. Tempestus Scions received superior carapace and the best weapons the Munitorum could justify, but even they were not clad like the Adeptus Astartes or the Sororitas. Power armor belonged to saints, transhuman warriors, holy orders, ancient relic-guards, and the rare elite whose equipment was worth more than entire hab-blocks.
It did not belong to mud-stained PDF troopers who still flinched when a laspack vented too loudly.
So Duncan had reached the only conclusion that made sense within the Imperium's usual madness: the logistics constructs had made a mistake.
The "servitors", or whatever Qin Mo's new machines truly were, had delivered a bulk shipment to the wrong mustering point and left the officers to make sense of it. Machines were efficient. Machines were literal. Machines also had a long history of following instructions so precisely that human common sense had to run after them with a shovel and a casualty report.
After a long consultation with Albert, Duncan had made what seemed like the least dangerous decision. Squad leaders in their two regiments would receive the armor first. The remaining suits would be distributed to allied units nearby, ensuring that the broader defensive line benefited from the surplus instead of letting priceless equipment sit idle beneath tarpaulins.
It had been reasonable. Practical, even.
That did not stop the decision from sitting in Duncan's stomach like a live grenade.
Every day afterward, he found himself glancing at the armored squad leaders as if their suits might suddenly become evidence in a trial. Requisitioning exalted wargear for his own officers could be called necessity by a sympathetic commander, but a hostile one might call it hoarding. Redistributing it to other units could be praised as initiative, or condemned as unauthorized diversion of materiel. In the Imperium, survival often depended less on what a man had done than on which clerk, commissar, noble, or warlord wrote the report afterward.
And if Qin Mo judged the matter as misappropriation…
Duncan did not finish that thought.
Albert clearly shared the fear. The man had begun avoiding the armor stores entirely, as if distance might absolve him of the decision they had made together.
Their fears, it turned out, had not been unfounded.
....
That morning, while the encampment churned with the usual motion of supply drones, work crews, and sentries changing shifts, another aircraft descended from the ash-gray sky.
It was not one of the automated cargo haulers. Those came in straight, efficient lines, landed only long enough to disgorge their burdens, and departed without ceremony. This craft approached deliberately, slowing from a subsonic glide as retro-thrusters flared beneath its hull.
The pressure wave rolled over the camp. Loose dust leapt from the ground. Tarpaulins snapped against their frames. Men looked up from weapon maintenance, ration tins, and prayer strips as the aircraft settled over the landing zone with a controlled roar.
By the time its landing gear struck the ground, half the encampment was watching.
The ramp lowered. Steam and hot exhaust spilled across the ferrocrete.
Two armored figures descended.
The first was tall, broad-shouldered, and encased in warplate far beyond anything Duncan's squad leaders had received. The armor was not ornate in the spire-born fashion. It did not need to be. Its authority came from function: dense plating, integrated systems, the faint hum of gravitic mechanisms, and the easy balance of someone wearing a walking fortress as naturally as a coat.
The second figure followed half a pace behind, slightly shorter but no less dangerous. His posture carried the alert stillness of a bodyguard, veteran, and soldier who had learned that every landing zone was a possible ambush until proven otherwise.
When their helmets came off, recognition moved through the assembled soldiers like an electrical current.
Qin Mo.
Grey.
The warriors who had appeared when battle lines were breaking. The ones who had reinforced dying positions, crushed rebel assaults, and turned impossible weapons upon the enemies of the Emperor. Their deeds had traveled faster than official reports, carried by wounded men, vox whispers, and soldiers who still did not quite believe what they had survived.
Duncan stepped forward at once and raised his hands in a crisp Aquila salute. His back was straight. His face remained controlled. Only the tightness around his eyes betrayed him.
Albert stayed half a step behind and to the side. He saluted as well, but his gaze kept slipping away from Qin Mo's face. Guilt had made him smaller.
Qin Mo did not return the salute immediately. His attention had already moved past Duncan and across the encampment.
He saw the problem in seconds.
Some soldiers stood in Standard Praetorian Pattern power armor, their squad markings freshly painted across chest plates and shoulder guards. Others remained in ordinary PDF-issue gear: patched flak armor, worn helmets, reinforced fatigues, and the tired expression of men who knew exactly how little that protection meant against heavy weapons.
Qin Mo's expression did not change much. That made it worse.
His gaze returned to Duncan.
"Why is it that not every soldier is outfitted with Standard Praetorian Pattern power armor?"
Duncan's heart kicked once against his ribs and seemed to stop there.
Of all the accusations he had expected, that was not one of them.
He had prepared explanations for hoarding. Apologies for redistribution. Arguments about morale, chain of command, and the need to strengthen neighboring units. He had not prepared an answer for why every common soldier in his regiment had not been issued a suit of power armor, because until that moment the idea had belonged in a saint's vision or a madman's procurement order.
Grey noticed the silence and stepped forward. His voice was calm, but it carried the weight of someone who expected an answer before the next heartbeat.
"He asked you a question. According to the deployment plan, every soldier assigned to this front was to receive a suit of Standard Praetorian Pattern power armor. Why are your men not wearing them?"
Duncan's lips parted. No words came out.
For weeks, he had feared that giving the armor to squad leaders had been an act of dangerous ambition. Now he was being told the opposite: that he had failed to issue what had always been intended as standard equipment.
The implications struck harder than any reprimand.
....
Qin Mo exhaled through his nose, already understanding the shape of the mistake.
It was not corruption. Not cowardice. Not deliberate sabotage.
It was the Imperium's own expectations working against him. No sane Imperial officer would assume power armor had suddenly become standard infantry equipment. In another army, Duncan's caution might have been praised. Here, it had left most of his men under-equipped because Qin Mo had changed the rules faster than their minds could adapt.
That did not make the situation acceptable.
"Next time," Qin Mo said, "do not redistribute power armor elsewhere unless ordered to do so. The logistics drones deliver wargear precisely where it is needed. They are not dumping surplus for local officers to allocate by instinct."
Duncan swallowed. "So… every soldier was meant to receive one?"
"Yes."
The bluntness of the answer hit the gathered officers harder than a lecture would have.
Duncan looked toward the rows of soldiers still wearing flak armor. "Every soldier?"
Qin Mo raised an eyebrow. "What else would the delivery manifest mean?"
Albert finally found his voice, though it came out thin. "My lord, with respect, no PDF commander would assume such a thing was possible."
"That," Qin Mo said, "is exactly the problem."
Half a month earlier, he had rebuilt the logistics network from the inside out. Before his intervention, manufacturing had moved at the speed of Imperial decay: drones and labor gangs scavenged the Underhive for scrap, salvaged ancient equipment, stripped wrecks, begged components from failing depots, or relied on irregular shipments from Kato's traders. Raw materials were dragged to distant manufactorums, refined somewhere else, transported again for assembly, inspected by too many hands, delayed by damaged routes, then delivered too late to men already dead.
The system had not been merely inefficient. It had been a machine for converting time into corpses.
Qin Mo had cut through that by introducing Fabrication Printing Technology.
The new process was not a miracle, despite what half the soldiers called it when they thought he could not hear. It was a controlled manufacturing chain: raw materials processed locally, structural components printed directly from base stock, armor plates formed to precise measurements, servos assembled in modular batches, and final fitting handled by the drones already managing distribution.
The result was simple. The front no longer had to wait for distant factories to remember that soldiers needed armor before they died.
Grey folded his arms. "When you received what looked like excess wargear, why didn't you confirm the order by vox?"
Duncan gave him a tired look. "Because if I reported that we had received enough power armor for every trooper, I expected someone to accuse me of falsifying inventory, hallucinating, or trying to steal it."
Grey's mouth twitched. "And instead you willingly gave away power armor without authorization."
Duncan closed his eyes for one brief second. "Yes. Put that way, it sounds considerably worse."
"It is worse," Grey said. "Just less stupid than some alternatives."
Duncan bowed his head toward Qin Mo. "My apologies. I will have the suits reclaimed immediately and redistributed according to your order."
Before he could turn, Qin Mo lifted one hand.
"No."
Duncan froze.
"Leave the suits where they are," Qin Mo said. "The allied units can keep them as reserve stockpiles. They will need replacements, spare components, and emergency reinforcement gear soon enough. Pulling armor away now will create confusion for no gain."
He turned toward the nearest cluster of logistics drones. Their sensor heads pivoted toward him at once, awaiting command.
"Update allocation. Priority issue: Duncan's regiment. Complete missing Praetorian Pattern distribution before the next inspection cycle. Adjust production queue to compensate for redistributed stock."
The drones answered in a chorus of mechanical acknowledgements. Cargo frames opened. Fabrication crates unfolded. Internal arms began moving with insectile precision, lifting plates, locking servo-bundles into place, and preparing fresh suits for individual fitting.
The soldiers watched in stunned silence as new power armor began rolling off the mobile assembly line.
Some looked awed. Some looked frightened. One trooper made the sign of the Aquila so fast his fingers nearly struck his chin. Another simply stared at the armor as if someone had placed a noble title, a fortress, and a second chance at life at his feet.
Qin Mo turned back to Duncan.
"I will be conducting inspections across every unit to confirm that issued wargear is being used as intended. When the next shipment arrives, ensure every soldier is properly fitted, trained, and accounted for."
Duncan nodded. "Understood."
The word came automatically. His mind was still trying to catch up.
It all felt unreal. Not like a heretical dream, exactly, but like a devotional painting brought down into the mud and given supply manifests.
The Emperor protected, priests said.
Duncan had never expected that protection to arrive in labeled crates.
Qin Mo turned toward the transport. Grey followed, already replacing his helmet.
Duncan watched them go for three steps before impulse overcame caution.
"My lord."
Qin Mo stopped and glanced back.
Duncan hesitated. Every soldier nearby was listening now. He could feel it. "I know you wield a miraculous form of technology. I have seen enough not to question that. But to outfit every soldier in power armor… is such an undertaking truly sustainable?"
It was not doubt alone. It was fear. Fear that this was a temporary blessing. Fear that men would be taught to believe they mattered, only for the supply line to collapse and leave them dying in flak armor again.
Qin Mo looked at the soldiers around him. Men with burned faces, patched uniforms, and eyes that still measured survival in ammunition counts.
When he answered, his voice carried across the landing zone.
"Power armor is not decoration. It is not a privilege for officers, nobles, or men whose lives are considered expensive enough to preserve. It is a bulwark against the tides of death."
He let that settle before continuing.
"In my forces, no life is expendable. I want every soldier to endure long enough to fight, learn, return, and fight again. That is why each man is to be given the Emperor's protection in the form of power armor."
No one spoke.
Even Grey stood still for a moment.
Then Qin Mo boarded the transport. Grey followed close behind. The ramp sealed, engines rose to a controlled roar, and the aircraft lifted from the ground, scattering dust and loose prayer strips across the landing zone.
It climbed into the turbulent sky, heading toward the next battlefield, where Qin Mo intended to discover whether any other unit had made the same mistake.
Long after the craft vanished into the haze, Duncan remained where he stood. Around him, soldiers began moving again, but quietly now. Carefully. The words had changed something in the air.
In my forces, no life is expendable.
Duncan repeated them silently until they stopped sounding like rhetoric and began to sound like an order.
"In my forces, no life is expendable…"
....
Inside the transport, the tension lasted exactly as long as Grey allowed it to.
Then he chuckled.
Qin Mo looked at him. "What?"
Grey leaned back against the restraint frame, still armored, still armed, and far too amused for a man flying toward another inspection crisis. "Nothing. I was merely admiring that speech."
Qin Mo's eyes narrowed. "You have a tone."
"Do I?" Grey asked innocently. "Funny. Because I seem to recall you telling me that the real reason you ordered mass power armor production was to stress-test the upper limits of the Fabrication Printing system."
Qin Mo stared at him. "When did I ever say that?"
Grey's grin widened. "The night you perfected the system."
Qin Mo said nothing.
Grey continued, clearly enjoying himself. "You were standing in the fabrication chamber, surrounded by half-assembled armor frames, shouting something about throughput, material efficiency, and 'finally having enough test subjects with legs.' Your triumphant declaration was so loud that it disrupted the fortress's gravity field."
"That was a minor calibration issue."
"A wrench floated past my head."
"You were standing in an unsafe area."
"I was asleep."
Qin Mo sighed. For a moment, the commander vanished and the exhausted engineer beneath him showed through. "Fine. I admit I wanted to push the production system to its limits."
Grey folded his arms.
Qin Mo raised a finger. "But that does not diminish my commitment to keeping soldiers alive. The two objectives are not mutually exclusive."
Grey considered that, then nodded. "That, I can indeed agree with."
"…"