Waste Reclamation Yard No. 17, underground bunker.
The air was thick with the pungent scent of cordite and the scorched smell of ionized ozone—the lingering echoes of the god-like battle that had just concluded. Beneath their feet, the Adamantium floor emitted faint, rhythmic groans from the previous "Serious Punch," as if the earth's agony had yet to subside.
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Three Ultramarines, standing over two and a half meters tall in deep blue Mk.VII "Aquila" Power Armor, were now kneeling on one knee. These killing machines, who usually treated death as an old friend, were now like the most pious pilgrims, bowing their proud heads toward the figure hovering in mid-air.
Behind them lay the scattered, mangled remains of daemons, the scorched traces of evaporated flesh, and ruins still billowing with black smoke.
And Clark Kent, the boy who had grown up in the darkness of the Underhive, hovered just ten centimeters above the ground.
He was bare-chested, his muscles as perfect as a Greek sculpture without a single speck of dust on them. His arms were folded, and the red cape behind him snapped and billowed without wind, driven by the agitation of his bio-field. On his chiseled face, marked with divine majesty, his brow furrowed slightly.
This situation—being stared at like this—reminded him of the awkwardness he felt as a child when he first accidentally displayed his freakish strength and was gaped at like a monster by the other kids in the Underhive.
Only this time, the "kids" were three interstellar giants capable of tearing tanks apart with their bare hands.
"...Everyone, get up."
Clark finally spoke. His voice was no longer as cold as when he faced the daemon; instead, it carried a hint of helpless human warmth, even a touch of the gentleness of a big brother next door.
However, the three Astertes on the ground didn't budge. Sergeant Titus buried his head even lower, as if a mortal's direct gaze upon Clark's face would be an unforgivable sacrilege.
"I'm not used to talking to the tops of people's heads."
Clark sighed helplessly.
He ceased his hovering, and his body slowly descended. His bare feet finally touched the ground covered in rubble and metal shards, making a light but solid sound.
He walked up to Titus and reached out a hand. Quite casually, without any pretense, he grabbed the heavy left pauldron of the Astartes.
Creeeeak—
The sound of metal being squeezed was ear-grating.
Titus's pupils underwent an earthquake in that instant. He didn't feel a hand; he felt the pincer of a crane operating at full power!
One must understand that this was Astartes Power Armor! Counting the wearer's superhuman weight, the thick ceramite plating, the miniature fusion reactor in the backpack, and the dead weight of the servo-motors, this hunk of steel weighed nearly a ton!
Without activating servo-assistance, even an Ogryn would find it difficult to budge it an inch.
But in Clark's hand, Titus felt like a plastic toy soldier being picked up at will by an adult.
Without any visible leverage or bulging muscles, Clark gave a light lift, and Titus's massive frame was forcibly "plucked" up, his legs forced into a standing position.
Titus stole a terrified glance at his left pauldron—five clear finger indentations remained there. The hard ceramite coating had been as soft as heated butter under the man's fingertips.
"Listen, big guy."
Clark released his grip and even considerately patted the dust off Titus's shoulder (while simultaneously trying to flatten the finger marks a bit, though he failed). His tone was sincere and serious:
"I don't know what you mean by 'Primarch,' and I don't understand your complicated Imperial etiquette. My name is Clark Kent, though you can call me Kal. I'm not some important figure; I'm just a... well, a mutant who ended up here in a pod? I don't know myself."
Clark felt he was being very honest.
Since he had already exposed his power, admitting he was an "outlier" was better than being treated as some Son of God.
However, he severely underestimated the "overthinking" ability of the Warhammer natives, as well as the sheer impact of his own face.
Titus stood straight, his servo-motors emitting a faint hum. He looked at this face—almost identical to the statues in the Great Temple of Macragge—and saw the "sincerity" flickering in those azure eyes.
Titus's brain worked at high speeds, and countless logical circuits closed into a loop in an instant, sparking with revelation:
Denying his glory? What humility! In this galaxy filled with vanity, lies, and arrogance, only a truly divine bloodline could possess such noble character!
Calling himself a mutant? No! How is that possible! No mutant could possess such a pure aura! No alien could possess such a perfect human form!
The Lord's memory must have been damaged during Warp transit! Or... is he testing us on purpose?
That's it! An undercover visit! The Lord wants to use a mortal identity to observe this fractured Imperium! He is testing us—to see if we are merely sycophants blindly following power and bloodline, or if we possess the true loyalty to see through appearances and recognize the essence of Truth!
I understand now! I must play along with the Lord's 'mortal roleplay'!
At this thought, Titus snapped his legs together.
CLANG!
A loud sound of metal striking metal. He straightened his back, the red light in his oculars flickering, and roared in a resonant voice filled with meaning and conviction:
"Understood! Lord Clark!"
Titus emphasized the word "Lord" specifically and gave a subtle wink (though it couldn't be seen through the helmet), as if saying: I've received your hint; I will keep your secret, even unto death!
Clark: "..."
He looked at Titus's "no need to explain, I get it" body language, and the corner of his mouth twitched.
[SOL: Sir, I recommend giving up on explaining. According to psychological profiling, this individual's logical circuits are completely deadlocked. In their eyes, every denial you make is seen as a more profound 'divine trial.']
"...Never mind."
Clark rubbed his temples helplessly. In this mad universe, reasoning with a group of fanatics was more exhausting than crushing a daemon with his bare hands.
He turned around and pointed to the corner.
There, Old Jack and a few newly awakened workers were huddled in a ball, shivering. They looked at the Space Marines as if looking at Reapers who could drop divine punishment at any moment, not daring to breathe.
"Since you are the regular army of the Imperium, this falls under your jurisdiction, right?"
Clark's tone became serious, and the pressure belonging to a "God Among Men" resurfaced.
"Look at these people, big guy."
"The people here are starving to death. They work 18 hours a day but can't even get clean water. Gangs run rampant here, using living people as sacrifices, while your 'Planetary Governor' or whoever... turns a blind eye."
Clark took a step forward, his blue eyes staring directly into Titus's red lenses, his voice low:
"Take me to see your superiors—whether it's a Captain, a Chapter Master, or the Governor of this planet. I want to have a talk with them. About the 'Right to Survival' and the 'Labor Laws' for the people of the Underhive."
To Clark, these words were based on the teachings of his adoptive father, Jonathan; they were an indictment of the Underhive's cruel reality and the demand of a vigilante.
But to Titus, they were undoubtedly:
The Primarch is extremely dissatisfied with the current state of Imperial governance! The Lord is angry! He is rebuking the Governor's incompetence! He demands an immediate audience with the Planetary Governor for accountability, purging, and judgment and possible exterminatus!
This is... a Priority One Command!
Titus's heart jolted, and cold sweat instantly soaked his under-armor.
The Lord was angry! The scion of the Emperor could no longer stand the corrupt rule of this planet! A storm was coming!
He didn't dare delay for a moment, immediately opening the highest-encrypted communication channel inside his helmet, his speech as fast as a prayer:
"Calling the bridge of the 'Wrath of Macragge'! This is Sergeant Titus! Verification code: Vermillion-Omega!"
"We have discovered... a 'Very Important Individual' in the lower levels of the Hive! Repeat, suspected Strategic-Level Asset! The target has exhibited... superhuman traits and leadership! He is currently expressing concern over the planet's governance!"
"Requesting Level One Protection! Prepare Thunderhawk Gunships! Have the Apothecaries and Librarians ready... no, have the Honor Guard ready! Bring out the finest banners!"
From the other end of the comms came a series of frantic shouts and the sound of an Auspex hitting the floor.
Just then.
Vroom—Vroom—Vroom—
Beyond the blasted doors of the scrap yard, there came the sound of dense, synchronized heavy footsteps and the characteristic low-frequency hum of anti-gravity engines.
Those weren't reinforcements.
That was trouble.
"Where is the heresy?! Where is the daemon?!"
A shrill, hysterical voice, sounding like glass being scraped, came from the smoke.
Immediately following, dozens of Stormtroopers in dark red carapace armor, wielding high-energy Hellguns, flooded into the scrap yard like a red tide. They were highly trained and efficient, instantly occupying all high ground.
Zzzt—
Countless red laser sights landed densely upon Clark and Titus.