One week had passed since Kingpin's death.
Not a single news outlet—official or tabloid—dared report on the brutal massacre at Fisk Tower. The bodies. The battle damage. The clear signs of gang warfare that had left an entire building soaked in blood.
Any online discussion that managed to surface was deleted within minutes, user accounts suspended or outright banned. Someone with serious authority was scrubbing the incident from public record.
Only whispered rumors survived in Queens, spreading by word of mouth through neighborhoods where people knew better than to trust official stories.
Wilson Fisk—philanthropist, according to government reports—had died in an "accident."
But everyone on the streets knew the truth: he'd been the boss behind New York's entire criminal underworld. And someone had killed him.
Nolan, the instigator of this chaos, showed no signs of stress or paranoia.
He'd returned to something resembling a normal daily routine. Studying for his makeup exams. Occasionally helping his aunt at the restaurant.
A few days ago, The Evening Hearth had completed its soft opening under the new management model. His aunt no longer tried to serve every customer who walked through the door. Instead, she'd implemented limited lunch and dinner services—each meal prepared in advance, sold until supplies ran out.
The change in approach had actually improved business. Lines formed outside during peak hours.
With Jason's assistance in the kitchen, his aunt could finish her work without exhausting herself completely. She seemed happier. Less stressed.
Which freed up Nolan's schedule considerably.
He'd traveled to Queens and collected the second shipment of weapons from Davis. The gun smuggler had delivered as promised, though his news wasn't all positive.
Even with Madam Gao working overtime to consolidate New York's fractured underworld, the sudden power vacuum had created chaos. Every mid-level criminal with ambition thought they could fill Kingpin's shoes. Turf wars erupted. Old grudges resurfaced.
Worse, federal agencies and some mysterious organization—probably S.H.I.E.L.D, though Davis didn't know for certain—had launched aggressive crackdowns. Raids. Asset seizures. Arrests at every level of gang hierarchies.
Everyone wanted guns. Self-defense had become the top priority for criminals who suddenly felt very mortal.
The resulting demand spike was making Davis's acquisition and resale operations difficult. Supply couldn't keep pace.
Nolan had simply told him to do his best and not worry about quotas. He'd notified Madam Gao to start preparing her own gun pipeline for future operations. Diversify the supply chain.
With immediate concerns handled, Nolan checked the simulator. His cooldown time reduction had expanded to 497 hours from accumulated survival time.
He offered a brief prayer to the Emperor—more habit than faith at this point—and initiated a new simulation.
[Simulation starting]
[Current identities available: Catachan Recruit, Death Korps of Krieg Grenadier, Kashezin Sergeant Major.]
[Please select identity for deployment.]
[If you refuse selection, deployment will be randomized.]
[Identity selection refused.]
[Simulation starting—]
[You have descended into the Warhammer universe.]
[Time: M30, Great Crusade Era]
[Location: Galaxy · Unknown Segmentum]
[You have materialized inside a Shark-class assault boat...]
[You find yourself wearing Solar Auxilia pattern void combat armor, the same set you salvaged. An assault bolter rests in your hands—not the standard Astartes pattern, but a mortal-scale weapon designed for human auxiliaries.]
[You survey your surroundings carefully. Tall figures in void combat armor fill the assault boat's cramped interior. Including yourself, ten soldiers total.]
[Before you can process the situation further, the red boarding indicator light above your head begins flashing silently.]
[You take a deep breath. Your fingers tighten around the assault bolter's grip. Combat mode engages automatically—adrenaline sharpening your focus, training taking over.]
[The assault boat shudders violently. The sound of superheated melta cutters chewing through enemy hull armor reverberates through the cabin. Then comes the impact—metal screaming as the Shark rams into its target and locks magnetic clamps.]
[Before your fully-armed boarding team, the sealed landing hatch explodes outward with explosive charges.]
[You catch a glimpse of your team commander—a mortal soldier with sergeant's markings—raising his arm in the universal signal to advance.]
[Without hesitation, you rush into the dimly lit enemy vessel.]
[You immediately encounter an alien lifeform with writhing tentacles where its limbs should be.]
[It releases a strange warbling sound from wriggling mouthparts—begging for mercy, perhaps, or demanding explanation. You can't tell and don't care.]
[Its tentacles are empty. No weapons visible.]
[You hesitate for a fraction of a second, finger tensing on the trigger but not quite pulling.]
[Then training overrides sentiment. You squeeze the trigger.]
[The assault bolter roars. The mass-reactive round strikes the tentacled xenos center mass.]
[The creature begins burning from the inside out as the bolt's payload detonates, scorching red light consuming alien flesh. The explosive force creates a brief fireball that scars the metal deck plates nearby.]
[The flames reveal more tentacled aliens—previously invisible, their natural camouflage failing under the heat and light. They screech and surge toward you in a wave of writhing limbs.]
[Several more assault bolters behind you add their voices to the chorus, shredding the dying xenos with practiced efficiency.]
["Heresy can never be trusted." Your team commander appears at your side, slapping your pauldron in rough camaraderie before joining the slaughter. "Remember that, soldier."]
[You take a deep breath and follow your commander deeper into the vessel, systematically exterminating the tentacled xenos.]
[Day One: You successfully purged a xenos refugee vessel attempting to flee Imperial advance forces.]
[This particular heretic species—skilled at stealth and ambush tactics—were merely primitives from a backwater planet. They'd been deemed unsuitable for compliance and marked for extermination.]
[After the boarding action concludes, you carefully piece together your current situation from context clues and overheard conversations.]
[You belong to a Letalis Storm Squad of the Solar Auxilia.]
[You currently serve under the overall command of Warmaster Horus, participating in Mankind's Great Crusade to reunite the scattered colonies of humanity.]
[Boarding actions like today's xenos purge are routine. Just another day in the grinding monotony of interstellar warfare.]
[Day Two: Your storm squad commander finds you during additional training exercises.]
[He expresses dissatisfaction with your hesitation during yesterday's engagement. Hesitation gets soldiers killed.]
[You readily admit your error and attribute the problem to inexperience with this particular xenos species. First contact protocols.]
[The commander accepts your explanation grudgingly. He assigns additional punishment: when not training or eating, you will recite the Imperial Truth until it's burned into your memory.]
[Day Three: Morning training. Midday meal. Afternoon recitation of Imperial Truth.]
[Nothing noteworthy occurs. The voyage continues through the void.]
[Day Four: Morning weapons drill. Midday meal. Afternoon Imperial Truth recitation.]
[Still nothing eventful. You hear meteorite fragments pinging off the hull exterior. Nearby servitors issue automated safety reminders about potential micro-meteor damage to outer sections.]
[Day Five: No training scheduled today. You're not even required to recite the Imperial Truth.]
[Something is wrong. The routine has broken.]
[Week One: Your squad receives new orders directly from Warmaster Horus.]
[A strange alien force has manifested in a nearby sector—something unprecedented, requiring immediate investigation.]
[You will join the Warmaster's personal expedition fleet, accept Horus's direct command, and participate in what's being described as an unprecedented grand expedition.]
[The mood among the storm squad is mixed—pride at being selected by the Warmaster himself, unease at the vague mission parameters.]
[Week Two: After a lengthy warp transit, you rendezvous with Warmaster Horus's main expedition fleet.]
[Shortly after docking, a detachment of Astartes from the Luna Wolves Legion boards your vessel and assumes command of your storm squad.]
[You are forbidden from communicating with other units, touching any weapons, or leaving your assigned quarters.]
[Not just you—every member of your squad notices something is deeply wrong with this situation.]
[Unfortunately, unarmed mortals don't question Astartes wearing power armor. You obey orders and wait.]
[Week Three: With assistance from a maintenance servitor, you carefully map the overall structure of your confinement area.]
[You manage to infiltrate the ventilation system and navigate to the cabin where your commander is being held separately.]
[He shows no surprise at your arrival. Instead, he immediately asks if you've found a route to the ship's armory.]
[You confirm you can attempt it, but first you need his assessment of the current situation. Context before action.]
[The commander stares at you for a long moment, weighing his words carefully.]
["There's no doubt... this may be an impending rebellion. But I don't know where the orders originated." His voice drops to barely a whisper. "Could be fleet command. Could be higher."]
[From beginning to end, he never speaks the Warmaster's name...]