Warhammer 40,000: Echoes of Divinity

Nightfall.

By the time official confirmation of the successful decapitation strike reached the Imperial warfront, the Planetary Defense Force (PDF) had already pushed the battle line 100 kilometers forward.

Duncan's composite regiment had advanced with such ferocity that they were compelled to halt at dusk, their impetuous momentum checked only by the necessity of allowing the more deliberate divisions to catch up.

For the ground forces, today's campaign had yielded a victory beyond even the most optimistic expectations.

And yet—

As the warriors gathered around flickering campfires beneath the shroud of night, waiting for their rations to be dispensed from the regimental stores, their faces did not reflect unwavering triumph.

There was excitement, yes—but also disbelief.

"Did we win too easily?"

"I thought this was going to be a desperate, last-stand battle."

"The Emperor protects—no matter what, we secured victory."

Murmurs of doubt and wonder rippled through the assembled PDF soldiers like a silent litany, their voices a mix of awe and apprehension.

While his troopers debated the unexpected ease of their conquest, Duncan sat in reflective silence, replaying the day's events in his mind.

One word defined the entire engagement.

Advance.

That was the order.

That was the battle.

That was the first great victory of the counteroffensive.

At first, the Rebels resisted fiercely.

Then, as the battle raged on, their resistance escalated to an even more frenzied level.

And then—without warning—their entire battle line collapsed.

From that moment forward, Duncan's regiment encountered only panicked stragglers, Rebels scrambling in disorganized retreat, their formations shattered.

Were Duncan ever to pen his memoirs, he knew exactly how his opening lines would read:

"We advanced. Under the covering barrage of autonomous artillery and relentless servitor fire, we pressed ever onward, purging the remaining pockets of heresy after the bombardment and seizing one strategically crucial position after another."

....

"A war fought with overwhelming firepower, impeccable logistics, and absolute preparedness—this is the way battles should be won."

A calm, authoritative voice then cleaved through the murmuring assembly.

Instantly, every soldier sprang to their feet, snapping into discipline as they turned toward the speaker.

From the shadows beyond the firelight, Qin Mo approached, flanked by his elite Thunderborns.

The gleaming adamantium plating of their Thunderborn-pattern power armor caught the flickering light, a vision of Imperial might incarnate.

Without a moment's hesitation, every soldier rose in unison to deliver the Aquila salute, their reverence unmistakable.

Qin Mo's gaze swept over the assembled troops, his presence an unspoken gravity that silenced all doubts.

His eyes finally fixed on Duncan.

"I heard of your performance today," Qin Mo said. "You were the first to push this far, eliminating countless Rebels along the way. Well done."

Duncan straightened, the weight of the commendation bolstering his already stalwart spirit.

"Your recognition honors both me and my men." After a brief pause, he continued, "We also received word of your decisive strike against the enemy leadership. Without your timely intervention, our advance would not have been so seamless."

Qin Mo gave a small smile. "That is true."

His cold, calculating gaze flickered across the assembled troopers once more—not as a mere observer, but as a commander assessing his war machine.

Then, he continued forward.

Duncan followed in silence, his mind racing.

Why had Qin Mo come here personally?

Was it to assign a high-priority mission?

....

"Do you require anything?"

Abruptly, Qin Mo turned to address Duncan directly.

Duncan replied without hesitation. "Our only need is to exterminate more Heretics."

"That is your perspective," Qin Mo responded, his tone even. "But you are not a psyker. You cannot fathom the inner thoughts of your entire regiment. Let them speak for themselves."

The gathered troops hesitated for only a moment before speaking freely—

Some soldiers called for integrated backpacks within their power armor to enhance endurance on prolonged marches.

Others petitioned for larger power cells to extend the operational reserves of their lasguns and plasma weaponry.

 A few even, half in jest, requested rationed alcohol—an indulgence to be savored should they survive the grueling campaign.

Beside Qin Mo, Anrida, one of his Thunderborns, recorded every request on a data-slate.

Anrida was one of the last survivors of the 44th Regiment, a former battlefield scribe under Burr. His logistical expertise had been repurposed into a far more lethal role, yet his keen mind remained sharp as ever.

"I will ensure all your requests are fulfilled," Qin Mo declared.

This was not an empty promise.

With the matter Fabrication Printing technology of his logistics drones, these modifications were trivial to produce.

With the matter settled, Qin Mo redirected his piercing gaze back to Duncan.

"I have come here to inspect the frontline and assess your needs. Now, all that remains is for you to fulfill your duty—advance and conquer."

Duncan saluted sharply. "Understood."

Above them, a transport aircraft hovered, its anti-gravity engines humming softly.

"Maintain discipline. Maintain efficiency. The Emperor provides."

With those final words, Qin Mo turned, boarding the waiting transport alongside his Thunderborns.

The aircraft ascended, vanishing into the darkness for the next regiment's encampment.

....

This post-battle tour had not been Qin Mo's idea—it was Klein's.

Klein believed that by visiting every regiment, allowing soldiers to voice their concerns, and personally granting material upgrades, Qin Mo could cement his authority among the troops.

Moreover, the imposing Thunderborn power armor—now a tangible symbol of Imperial might—ensured that Qin Mo's presence inspired reverence rather than fear.

Most critically, it bolstered morale, instilling in the soldiers the unyielding confidence required to face the Emperor's foes without hesitation.

Qin Mo would soon withdraw from frontline command to focus entirely on developing a Genestealer-specific bioweapon.

Without his direct leadership, the troops needed confidence, motivation, and absolute certainty in victory.

This tour ensured that.

....

The Next Day—Inside the Fortified Laboratory

After spending a Terran day inspecting the frontlines, Qin Mo returned to his fortress-laboratory.

The Patriarch's blood samples were fed into an automated genetic analyzer.

As he waited, Qin Mo's thoughts drifted—not towards the intricate designs of his bioweapon, but back to the earlier decapitation strike.

The Genestealer Patriarch had been psychically powerful beyond measure—

And yet, in battle, it had failed to use its psychic abilities even once.

It had tried—but every time it attempted to unleash its psychic might, it had collapsed instead.

It was as if someone or somthing had silenced it.

Qin Mo was certain—It wasn't him.

He was resistant to psychic influence, but he was no null—he could not actively negate warp powers.

Otherwise, the High Magus would have been just as helpless—yet she had been able to summon warp lightning strong enough to disable gravitic shields.

So who had interfered?

"Ding∼. Ding∼. Ding∼."

The analysis was complete.

Hundreds of thousands of genetic sequences flashed across the display screen.

Setting aside his lingering questions, Qin Mo focused intently on the data.

As he scrolled through the data, one thing became clear—

His instincts had been correct.

The Patriarch's genome was vastly superior to its lesser kin.

A bioweapon synthesized from its DNA would be catastrophic for the Genestealer Cult.

Qin Mo exhaled, his gaze settling upon the preserved biomass.

However—

The Patriarch had already adapted to the unique environment of Tyrone Hive.

A bioweapon based on its genetics would work here—but might fail on other planets, even within the same system.

Minor differences in atmospheric composition or pollution levels could trigger genetic mutations, rendering the bioweapon ineffective.

Once more, he exhaled, his eyes lingering on the preserved remains.

"Who designed you?"

A rare moment of genuine admiration slipped into his voice.

If he were to create a biological warform—

If his capabilities allowed—

It would mirror the artistry of a Genestealer Patriarch.

"What a masterpiece."

If the Patriarch was a masterpiece, then the Tyranids as a whole were a work of art.

Of course, there was a possibility that the Tyranids had evolved naturally—

But the odds were slim.

Unless they had emerged from a worlds of constant, extreme evolutionary pressures, even then chance of it were Abysmal, it was far more likely that they were Bioengineered.

Qin Mo shook his head, dispelling the reverie.

"Focus on the task at hand."

He cleared his mind—

And began designing the weapon that would end the war.