The mining rig's silhouette swelled before him, a jagged monstrosity suspended in the void. The Warp’s oppressive silence pressed against Servius’s ears like a predator’s breath, heavy and smothering. Flickering lights from the rig’s surface played cruel tricks on his vision, shadows twisting into warped shapes that seemed alive, mocking his approach.

  The rig was massive—an amalgamation of ancient machinery and salvaged components welded together in a crude, functional design. Jagged protrusions of rusted metal jutted from its surface like the ribs of a decaying beast, and faint streams of vapor escaped from fractures in the hull, dispersing into the void like ghostly tendrils.

  As he approached, Servius activated his mag-boots once more. His feet clamped onto the rig’s exterior with a muted thud, and he crouched low, his tail flicking once for balance. His sharp green eyes swept over the immediate area, scanning for any signs of activity. The turrets he’d disabled remained lifeless, and no alarms had been triggered. For now, his infiltration was unnoticed.

  The faint hum of machinery echoed through the metal beneath his boots, a subtle reminder that the rig was still alive, still operational. He moved along the hull with precision, sticking to the shadows cast by the structure’s uneven surface. His longlas was slung across his back now, and he had drawn his knife, the blade’s faintly glowing edge held ready for close encounters.

  Servius’s sharp eyes caught sight of a maintenance hatch several meters ahead, its surface scarred and pitted with rust. It was smaller than the main docking bays but large enough for him to squeeze through, and its location made it less likely to be heavily guarded. He crouched beside it, his claws tapping lightly against the control panel. The screen was cracked, its ancient display flickering erratically, but it still responded to his touch.

  “Accessing secondary entry point,” he murmured, his voice low and steady. “Let’s see how welcoming you are.”

  The panel’s interface was primitive, a relic of a bygone age of technology. Its data links were poorly secured, and it didn’t take long for Servius to bypass the basic protocols. The hatch hissed and groaned as it slid open, a faint rush of stale, pressurized air escaping into the void. Beyond the threshold, the corridor was dark and narrow, its walls lined with exposed cables and corroded piping.

  Servius slipped inside, his movements fluid and silent as he deactivated his mag-boots. The hatch sealed behind him, the sound of the closing mechanism barely audible over the ambient creaks and groans of the rig’s structure. He activated his helmet’s low-light vision, the dim corridor coming into sharp relief as he crept deeper into the facility.

  The air inside was thick and heavy, tinged with the metallic scent of rust and the faint, acrid stench of burned-out machinery. It was warmer than he’d expected, the heat radiating from the walls like a faint fever. The deeper he moved, the more oppressive the atmosphere became, as though the rig itself were alive and watching him.

  The Nexus’s threads stirred faintly within him, a subtle pressure at the edge of his awareness. It wasn’t intrusive, but it was there—a constant reminder that he wasn’t alone, even in the silence. The threads seemed to pull at him, guiding his steps as he navigated the labyrinthine corridors. He didn’t know if they were leading him to his objective or to danger, but he didn’t hesitate. Whatever lay ahead, he would face it.

  As he rounded a corner, Servius froze. Voices echoed faintly down the hall, growing louder with each passing moment. Two raiders emerged from a side passage, their figures silhouetted against the faint glow of a flickering lumen. They were dressed in scavenged armor, their weapons held loosely in their hands. One carried an autogun, its barrel scratched and dented, while the other gripped a crude axe with a haft made of scavenged piping.

  “...I’m telling you, something’s off,” the one with the autogun muttered, his voice low and tense. “Those turrets going offline ain’t just a glitch.”

  “Probably just the wiring,” the other replied dismissively, his axe resting on his shoulder. “This place is falling apart. What do you expect?”

  “I don’t like it,” the first raider said, his eyes darting nervously down the corridor. “We should report it.”

  “To who?” the second scoffed. “Vassor? He’s too busy stuffing his face to give a damn. We’re on our own out here.”

  Servius stayed perfectly still, his lithe frame pressed against the shadows. His sharp eyes tracked their movements as they passed, their conversation fading as they continued down the hall. Once their footsteps were distant enough, he slipped from cover, his knife still held at the ready.

  The deeper he ventured, the more apparent it became that the raiders had carved out a crude base of operations within the rig. The corridors grew wider, the walls covered in graffiti and chaotic symbols painted in blood and oil. Servius could hear the faint hum of generators now, accompanied by the clatter of tools and the murmur of voices. He was getting close.

  At last, he reached a wide chamber that appeared to be some sort of cargo bay. Crates and containers were stacked haphazardly along the walls, their labels faded and illegible. A handful of raiders milled about the room, their movements casual and unguarded. They were unprepared for an intruder, their weapons slung lazily over their shoulders or resting against the crates.

  Servius crouched in the shadows, his dimly glowing green eyes narrowing as he observed them. There were five in total, none of them particularly well-armed or disciplined. This was a weak link in the raiders’ operation—a point of entry he could exploit.

  But he needed to be surgical. A single mistake would alert the entire rig to his presence. And that would be rather annoying.

  His claws flexed against the hilt of his knife as he planned his approach. He would strike quickly and silently, eliminating the guards one by one before they had a chance to react. And then, he would move deeper into the rig, unraveling its secrets and bringing the raiders’ operation to its knees.

  Servius slipped into the cargo bay like a shadow, his movements fluid and precise. The ambient noises of the rig—a distant hum of generators, the occasional groan of stressed metal—masked the soft click of his claws against the grated floor. The raiders were spread out, lost in their own distractions. Some worked on scavenged gear, others argued over dice, their voices laced with exhaustion and frustration. None of them noticed the predator weaving through their den.

  The first target was hunched over a disassembled autogun, humming off-key as he worked a grime-covered cloth over the weapon’s barrel. Servius crouched low, his tail flicking slightly as he unsheathed his knife. The blade’s faint glow caught the dim light for only a moment before it disappeared into the soft flesh of the raider’s throat.

  The man jerked, his hands flying to his neck as blood spilled through his fingers. Servius pressed a hand over his mouth, silencing the muffled gurgle as the body sagged against him. With practiced ease, he lowered the corpse to the floor, wiping his blade on the dead man’s sleeve before slipping back into the darkness.

  One down. Four to go.

  The second target stood near a stack of crates, flipping through a battered dataslate, his expression twisted in frustration. He muttered curses under his breath, swiping at the flickering screen. Too focused. Too unaware.

  Servius didn’t use his knife this time. He reached out and hooked two clawed fingers under the raider’s jawline.

  A sharp yank.

  The raider’s head snapped backward with a sickening crack, his body convulsing for a split second before going limp. The dataslate tumbled from his hands, clattering against the floor. Servius stepped over the corpse, nudging it out of sight with his foot.

  Two down. Three left.

  The last three were clustered together near the generator, caught up in an argument over dice. Their voices rose and fell, laced with curses and crude laughter. Their weapons lay forgotten, stacked haphazardly against the crates beside them.

  Servius’s tail flicked. This wasn’t even a challenge.

  He reached into his belt pouch and retrieved a smoke grenade—a compact, sound-dampened model he had scavenged before leaving the fortress. He rolled it forward with a careful flick of his wrist, the small device coming to rest beneath their makeshift gambling table.

  A faint hiss filled the air.

  “What the—?” One of them coughed, waving a hand through the rapidly thickening smoke.

  “Smoke! Get to cover!” another shouted, scrambling for his weapon.

  Servius moved. Fast.

  The first raider barely had time to rise from his seat before a blade punched up beneath his chin, lodging deep into his skull. He twitched once before collapsing.

  The second staggered backward, blindly reaching for his rifle. Servius grabbed him from behind—an arm wrapping around his forehead, yanking his head back as a clawed hand clamped over his mouth. The man thrashed, but Servius drove his knife sideways into the base of his neck, cutting deep into the artery. The struggle lasted mere seconds before the body went limp.

  The last raider heard the bodies hit the floor.

  Panic surged through him. He stumbled back, coughing, his weapon finally in his grasp. He fired blindly, the autogun’s deafening report tearing through the thick smoke. Bullets sparked off metal crates, ricocheting wildly, but none found their mark.

  Servius darted low, weaving through the fog.

  A hand lashed out, claws raking across the raider’s wrist. He yelped in pain, the rifle jerking away as Servius twisted his arm at an unnatural angle. A split-second later, a sharp blade slid under his ribs, angled upward.

  The raider gasped, his grip slackening. Servius held him upright for a moment, feeling the final shudder of life leaving his body, before letting him collapse in a heap.

  Five down. Zero left.

  The room fell into silence once more, broken only by the faint hiss of the dissipating smoke. Servius exhaled slowly, standing amidst the carnage, his sharp green eyes scanning the bay for any signs of reinforcements. When none came, he sheathed his blade, his tail flicking once behind him.

  He crouched beside one of the fallen bodies, rifling through the man’s pockets for anything useful. Most of it was junk—broken tools, scraps of metal—but he did find a crude map drawn on a piece of torn parchment. The layout of the mining rig was sketched in rough lines, with certain sections marked in bold, hasty strokes.

  One area in particular caught his eye: the control room. It was marked with a crude skull symbol, and the words "Vassor’s Den" were scrawled beside it.

  “Vassor,” Servius muttered under his breath. “So you’re the one running this operation.”

  He folded the map and tucked it into his belt pouch before moving toward the nearest corridor. The control room would be heavily guarded—of that, he was certain. But if Vassor was the one pulling the strings, then taking him out would cripple the raiders’ operation and ensure the mining rig was no longer a threat.

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  Servius moved through the dimly lit corridors of the mining rig, his sharp green eyes scanning every shadow, every corner, every faint glimmer of movement. The air was heavy with the scent of oil, rust, and blood, and the faint hum of machinery reverberated through the walls. The raiders had turned this place into their lair, a haphazard maze of salvaged metal and crude barricades. It stank of desperation and chaos—a place ruled by violence and fear.

  The map he’d taken from the dead raider was crude but functional, and it had guided him toward the heart of the rig. Vassor’s Den was located in what had once been the central command chamber, a reinforced hub that overlooked much of the rig’s operations. Servius’s tail flicked sharply as he approached a section of the corridor that opened into a large chamber, the faint sound of voices drifting through the air.

  He crouched low, moving with feline precision as he crept toward the source of the noise. The corridor widened into an open area, where a makeshift throne had been erected on a raised platform at the far end. The throne was a grotesque mockery of power, cobbled together from twisted scrap metal and adorned with bones, chains, and the occasional human skull.

  Sitting on the throne was Vassor.

  The leader of the raiders was a hulking figure, his body wrapped in mismatched armor that barely contained his bulk. His face was a mess of scars and augmetics, one glowing red eye glaring from beneath a crude visor. A massive chainaxe rested against the arm of the throne, its jagged teeth glinting faintly in the flickering light.

  Around him, half a dozen raiders lounged near the base of the platform. Some were sharpening their blades or cleaning their weapons, while others were arguing over a crude game of dice. They seemed relaxed, confident in their safety—likely because of the defensive turrets that Servius had already taken offline.

  That confidence would be their undoing.

  Servius scanned the room, his sharp mind calculating his approach. The raiders were scattered enough that he could pick them off individually if he was careful, but Vassor himself would be a problem. The man’s massive size and brutal weaponry marked him as someone who had survived countless battles, and Servius had no doubt he’d be formidable in a fight.

  The Cat moved silently along the perimeter of the chamber, keeping to the shadows as he positioned himself behind the raiders. The target was leaning against a support beam, his attention focused on the dice game taking place a few meters away. Servius unsheathed his knife, its faintly glowing blade catching the dim light for just an instant before it plunged into the raider’s neck. The man gurgled, his body convulsing before going limp. Servius eased him to the ground, his movements precise and soundless.

  The next raider was pacing near a stack of crates, a battered lasgun slung over his shoulder. Servius waited until the man’s back was turned before closing the distance in a single, fluid motion. His claws flashed, slicing through the raider’s throat in a clean, efficient strike. Blood sprayed across the crates, and the man dropped without a sound.

  The remaining raiders were clustered closer to the throne now, their idle conversations and laughter masking the faint sounds of their comrades’ deaths. Servius adjusted his grip on his knife, his sharp green eyes narrowing as he considered his next move.

  He reached into his belt pouch and pulled out a small device—a frag grenade. Servius held it in his claws for a moment, calculating the throw, before lobbing it toward the dice players. The grenade bounced once, twice, before coming to a stop in the middle of their crude game.

  “What the—” one of the raiders began, his eyes widening as he spotted the grenade.

  The explosion cut him off.

  The frag grenade detonated with a muffled whump, the blast ripping through the dice players and sending shrapnel flying in every direction. Two of the raiders were killed instantly, their bodies torn apart by the explosion. A third staggered back, blood pouring from a dozen wounds as he collapsed to the ground.

  The explosion had shattered the calm, and now the chamber was filled with chaos. Vassor rose from his throne with a roar, his chainaxe growling to life as he gripped it in one massive hand. His glowing red eye scanned the chamber, locking onto Servius as the feline warrior stepped out of the shadows.

  “You!” Vassor snarled, his voice a guttural growl. “You’ve got some nerve, coming into my den!”

  Servius didn’t respond. He moved with measured precision, his knife in one hand and his bolt pistol in the other. The remaining raider—a wiry man clutching a laspistol—fired a desperate shot at him, but the beam went wide, scorching the wall behind Servius. The feline warrior didn’t hesitate. He raised his pistol and fired a single shot, the explosive round punching through the raider’s chest and sending him sprawling to the floor.

  Now it was just him and Vassor.

  The massive raider leader stepped down from his throne, his chainaxe swinging in a wide arc as he closed the distance. The weapon’s teeth screamed as they spun, the air around it vibrating with raw, destructive energy.

  Servius sidestepped the first swing, his movements fluid and deliberate. The axe cleaved through the air where he had been standing, the force of the swing sending a gust of wind through the chamber. Vassor followed up with a brutal overhead strike, but Servius was already moving, his knife flashing as he slashed at the raider’s exposed flank.

  The blade struck true, slicing through the armor and drawing a spray of blood. Vassor roared in anger, his chainaxe swinging wildly as he turned to face Servius.

  “You think you can kill me, little beast?” Vassor spat, his red eye glowing with fury. “I’ll grind you into the dirt!”

  Servius’s tail flicked behind him, his green eyes cold and unyielding. “You’re quite noisy,” he said, his voice a low.

  Vassor charged again, his massive frame barreling toward Servius like a freight train. The feline warrior darted to the side, his movements impossibly fast as he fired a shot from his bolt pistol. The round struck Vassor’s shoulder, staggering him but not stopping his advance.

  The chainaxe came down again, this time smashing into a stack of crates and sending splinters flying in all directions. Servius darted forward, his knife flashing as he slashed at Vassor’s exposed neck. The raider leader roared in pain, blood pouring from the wound as he stumbled back.

  Servius didn’t let up. He moved like a predator, relentless and precise, his blade carving through Vassor’s defenses with surgical efficiency. The massive raider swung his chainaxe wildly, his movements growing slower and more desperate with each passing moment.

  Finally, Servius saw his opening.

  As Vassor raised the chainaxe for one final, desperate swing, Servius lunged forward, his knife plunging into the exposed gap beneath the raider’s arm. The blade pierced deep, severing muscle and bone as Vassor let out a guttural cry of agony. The chainaxe slipped from his grasp, clattering to the floor as his massive frame crumpled to its knees.

  Servius stepped back, his bolt pistol aimed squarely at Vassor’s ruined face. Blood poured from the raider leader’s wounds, pooling at his knees as he glared up with that flickering red eye. Even now, his lips curled into a defiant sneer.

  “You think... this means anything?” Vassor rasped, his voice wet with blood. “Kill me, and a dozen more will take my place. You can’t... stop us.”

  Servius tilted his head, his expression unreadable. “Then I’ll kill them too.”

  The bolt pistol roared, cutting off Vassor’s laughter as his head vanished in a spray of gore. The massive body slumped forward, twitching once before collapsing in silence. Servius holstered the pistol, stepping over the corpse with a flick of his tail. “What a strange man.”

  The silence in the chamber was heavy, thick with the stench of blood, oil, and burnt flesh. Vassor’s lifeless body slumped against the ruined throne, his headless corpse twitching slightly as the last remnants of life drained from it. Servius exhaled slowly, his bolt pistol still raised, smoke curling from its barrel.

  The job wasn’t done yet.

  He moved swiftly, his sharp eyes scanning the chamber for anything of value. The raiders might have been savages, but they had resources—stolen supplies, weapons, and, most importantly, the material that Jek had sent him to retrieve. He crouched over Vassor’s corpse, rifling through the pouches and belts strapped to the man’s bulk. Among the mess of crumpled ration packs and crude trinkets, he found a small metallic keycard marked with a faded serial number.

  “That’ll be for the storage lockers.” His tail flicked once as he pocketed it.

  With practiced efficiency, Servius moved to one of the consoles at the side of the room. The terminal was an old Imperial make, worn but functional. He wiped the blood off the display and activated it. The screen flickered to life, showing a crude layout of the mining rig. He quickly navigated through the files, bypassing the raiders’ primitive security, until he found what he was looking for—Cargo Manifest: Cargo Storage - Bay 3 Contents: Processed ore shipments (3 containers), salvaged mechanical components (2 containers) munitorum-grade supplies (1 container) – LOCKED

  Servius narrowed his eyes. Munitorum-grade. That had to be what Jek was after. He tapped the display again, pulling up security logs. The raiders hadn’t done much in terms of organization, but the logs indicated that Bay 3 was still sealed, the locking mechanism tied to Vassor’s keycard.

  His ear flicked at the sound of distant movement. The rig wasn’t empty yet.

  Servius turned from the terminal, his bolt pistol raised as he stalked back toward the corridors leading to the cargo bays. The sounds of hurried footsteps echoed through the rig, scattered groups of surviving raiders moving about in panic now that their leader was dead.

  He reached the upper walkway overlooking the mining rig’s lower levels. Below, half a dozen raiders had gathered near the main cargo bay, arguing in hushed but frantic voices. They had no discipline, no coordination—just raw desperation.

  One of them, a wiry man with a scavenged rebreather, was clutching a rusted autopistol, his hands shaking. “We’re leaving,” he rasped. “This job’s cursed. We should’ve never stolen from those station rats—”

  Another raider, bulkier and covered in crude tattoos, grabbed him by the collar. “Shut up. We still got guns. We still got a ship.” His eyes darted toward the control tower at the far end of the bay. “We grab what we can and get out. The boss is dead, but we’re not.”

  Servius’s ears flicked forward as he eavesdropped from above. They were going to run—but not without their ship. Good.

  He shifted his stance, steadying his bolt pistol before lining up his first shot. The weapon barked, the explosive round tearing through the bulkier raider’s skull in a spray of blood and bone. The corpse collapsed, and the others spun in panic.

  “They’re still here!” one of them shouted, fumbling for his weapon.

  Servius was already moving. He fired twice more as he leapt from the walkway, landing in a crouch behind a stack of metal crates. The second shot struck a raider in the gut, sending him staggering backward, screaming as the bolt detonated inside him. The third shot missed, impacting against a rusted pipe and sending a sharp clang echoing through the cargo bay.

  The remaining four raiders scattered, scrambling for cover behind old machinery and cargo containers. Autogun fire rattled against the crates Servius had ducked behind, rounds sparking as they ricocheted off the metal.

  “Too slow.”

  Servius rose from cover, snapping his longlas from its sling. His sharp eyes locked onto one of the raiders peeking from behind a fuel drum. He fired. The precision shot punched through the raider’s visor, a clean kill.

  The next raider panicked and broke into a sprint toward the control tower, hoping to escape. Servius let him get halfway before switching to his bolt pistol and shooting him in the back. The man dropped face-first onto the metal floor, his body twitching once before going still.

  A frag grenade arced through the air toward Servius’s position. He darted to the side as the explosive detonated, the blast rattling his bones but leaving him unharmed. He twisted, catching sight of the thrower—a woman with a scarred face and a makeshift combat shotgun. She pumped the weapon and fired, the spread of pellets striking Servius’s shoulder plating. He snarled, feeling the impact, but it didn’t break through his armor.

  He surged forward.

  She tried to fire again, but Servius was already on her. He batted the shotgun aside, his knife flashing as he drove it deep into her side. She gasped, choking on her own blood as she crumpled against him. He yanked the blade free and let her fall.

  The last raider froze, his weapon trembling as his gaze darted between the bodies of his comrades and the feline silhouette stalking toward him. Servius didn’t stop, his bloodied blade catching the flickering light with every deliberate step.

  “Do you want to end up like them?” Servius asked, his voice low but calm.

  The raider’s courage shattered. With a strangled cry, he dropped his weapon and bolted toward the exit, his boots clanging against the metal floor. Servius tilted his head, watching him vanish into the shadows. “Smart choice,” he muttered before stepping over the carnage.

  With the raiders dead or scattered, Servius made his way to Bay 3. The reinforced door was locked, but Vassor’s keycard did its job. The panel beeped, and the door hissed open, revealing stacks of sealed containers within. The Munitorum-grade supplies sat in the far corner, untouched.

  Servius activated his comm-link. “Praedyth. Bring the ship in. Cargo secured.”

  The ship’s mechanical voice responded almost immediately. “Acknowledged. Preparing docking sequence.”

  Servius exhaled, taking a moment to wipe the blood from his blade. The mission was almost done. He had the supplies. He had the rig. And soon, he’d have his payment.