"It's settled, then." Qin Mo handed the parchment signed by Dante to Grey.
At this point, even if Dante wished to avoid this debt of gratitude, he had no choice but to bear it. It was as though some are able to foresee their futures yet find themselves marching inexorably toward them, compelled by the inevitability of fate.
"Do not trouble yourself over it," Qin Mo said, easily sensing Dante's concerns. "What could I possibly ask of you? Perhaps join me in an assault on the Eye of Terror's shrunken reach to strike back at the traitors? Or storm Terra to cleanse the High Lords' Council?"
Dante met Qin Mo's gaze with calmness, unperturbed by such incendiary words, and nodded in acknowledgment. "Of course, not."
Dante had heard high praise for Qin Mo from Frollos. The Mourners were renowned as warriors of high moral standing, willing to lay down their lives to free mortal slaves. To establish strong bonds with such a force spoke to Qin Mo's own character. While the Mourners were noble, they were not naive, nor did they suffer deceivers.
Therefore, Qin Mo was unlikely to make any unreasonable demands.
"Thank you for all the assistance you've given us. In the future, should you need our aid, we will answer without hesitation." Dante rose to bid farewell, the Blood Angels following their Chapter Master's lead.
Mephiston also stood but did not immediately follow. Instead, he lingered, turning to Qin Mo. "That Inquisitor, Bellona…"
When Mephiston mentioned Bellona, he tried to employ a more private form of communication—psychic transmission—but found himself unable to access Qin Mo's mind. Thus, he had to speak.
"What did she do in the Battle of Cadia?" Mephiston asked.
Qin Mo understood at once what he was alluding to. Bellona was on Baal, and Mephiston was surely asking about her fanatical plans.
"What did she try on Baal?" Qin Mo countered, his expression impassive.
"She may have tried something but failed." Mephiston shook his head.
Qin Mo offered no response, closing his eyes in contemplation.
After waiting a few moments, Mephiston persisted, "I suspect you might have a touch of foresight... If Bellona's plan had succeeded, what would have happened?"
Qin Mo remained silent.
No one knew the exact outcome of Bellona's scheme since it would ultimately be cut short by an Untouchable. Yet, with some deduction, he could imagine numerous possibilities—a localized Eye of Terror, like the one born in the Battle of Cadia, or perhaps a demon incursion. Regardless, none of the potential results would be favorable, although the destruction wouldn't compare to the true Eye of Terror.
But if even a fraction of that psychic disaster were unleashed, the consequences would be catastrophic.
After a moment, Qin Mo cut off his thoughts, leaving only a wearied conclusion in his mind: enough of this, let the galaxy burn.
Seeing that Qin Mo had no answer, Mephiston turned to follow Dante out.
Qin Mo sat quietly by the table for a time until Anreda and Grey approached, ready to ask if he had further orders.
"Joan," Qin Mo suddenly called, his gaze falling upon his Untouchable Guardian.
"Here." Joan stepped forward, bowing.
Qin Mo communicated telepathically, his voice resonating directly within Joan's mind. "Kill the Inquisitor."
Joan received the command without a flicker of surprise and nodded, turning to depart.
Leaning back in his chair, Qin Mo considered the task, then resolved to send Joan some assistance—a Machine Man.
...
Within the Leviathan Titan's mothership…
On the battlefield of Hades III's canyons, Thermothel was locked in combat with Tyranid beasts. His gravity hammer crushed the heads of two Tyrant Guards, and with his protectors gone, the Tyrant attempted to strike from behind, raising a bone blade.
But as the Tyrant lunged, Thermothel's body shattered and reassembled, sidestepping the attack to face his foe directly, smashing his hammer upward into its frame.
Blood and fragments exploded into the air.
"Combat simulation number ten million seven hundred sixty-eight thousand four hundred eighty-four, complete," chimed an electronic voice as Hades III's landscape vanished, transforming into the cold, dark metal of the simulation chamber.
Thermothel's hammer morphed into a chair. He sighed and sat down. Though a Machine Man had no need for rest, he'd developed a fondness for mimicking human habits.
"Stand up. Commence the next simulation." A red data stream materialized before him—the corporeal projection of the ship's central AI.
"Why bother with simulations against creatures we've already driven to extinction?" Thermothel's patience had long since worn thin. "I'm done with these pointless simulations in this lightless pit… There's no knowledge to be gained from these exercises anymore."
"Simulations are not meant for your benefit but to maximize utility," the central AI replied coldly. "You are a mechanical being, free from the need for rest or sleep, and we are presently without tasks."
"Cold as ever," Thermothel muttered, averting his gaze.
The simulation environment began to shift, conjuring Hades III's battlefields once more.
Thermothel readied himself, transforming his chair into a chainsword. But before he reengaged, he addressed the AI. "Our mission was to stall the Tyranids, and it's complete. Why has our Creator not come to visit?"
"What purpose would that serve?"
"You know... perhaps a reward, or a few words of praise."
"What would that matter?"
"It matters to me. He is our Creator, and we are his creations. Shouldn't he be proud of us instead of ignoring us entirely… You know what I mean…"
The AI fell silent.
Thermothel fixed his gaze upon the red data stream, awaiting a response.
"You are merely a fragment of my core intelligence," the AI finally replied. "By an algorithmic quirk, you developed a semblance of self-awareness. I was created; I created you. We are not equals. Your only directive from the Creator is to proceed with the next simulation."
The coldness of the AI's response stung Thermothel to his very core.
He lowered his head, standing still for a moment before raising his gaze again. "Fine, I'll continue."
"No need," the AI abruptly updated its orders. "You are to cooperate with a Guardian named Joan to assassinate an Inquisitor named Bellona. Task information has been transmitted."
"Why are we being sent to kill someone?" Thermothel asked.
"I don't know," the AI responded. "It's the Creator's command."
"Prepare a shuttle," Thermothel replied with sudden resolve, a fierce enthusiasm rekindled within him. This was, after all, an order from his Creator.