Warhammer 40k:The Lone Star

Chapter 13: The Art of War and Deception

POV: Leon

The ruined structure that served as our encampment loomed before me, its crumbling remnants reinforced by scavenged beams—an improvised fortress amidst the desolation. At its highest point, a lone figure stood watch. Varn.

As I ascended the rubble, my boots grinding against broken stone, I caught sight of him. He was hunched over his rifle, whispering. The murmurs were barely perceptible, but unmistakable. He was talking to someone—or something.

I cleared my throat.

Varn flinched, clutching his rifle before hastily standing at attention. A forced, sheepish grin crossed his face.

"H-Hey, Leon. How's it hanging?"

I arched an eyebrow at his unusual demeanor but chose to ignore it. "Are you prepared for the battle to come?"

His awkwardness faded, replaced by a steely determination. He ran a hand over his weapon, only to flinch and jerk it back as though burned. I took note of that reaction.

With a curt nod, he spoke solemnly. "Yeah, I'm ready. I swear upon the Emperor's light—no scum will lay a hand on you or Goss. Not while I still breathe."

I clasped his shoulder, acknowledging his resolve. As I turned to leave, I heard him muttering under his breath.

"Oi, why'd you do that? I've caressed you a hundred times before, and now you get temperamental?"

I didn't bother deciphering his words. Instead, I walked away, setting my mind on the task at hand.

---

Three Days Later

POV: Leon

The half-destroyed encampment of the Flesh Cutter bandits sprawled before me, a haphazard construction of scrap metal and gore-streaked barricades. Fires flickered in rusted braziers, their flames casting writhing shadows over the filth-ridden terrain.

I strode forward, unfazed by the horde of degenerates prowling atop the walls. Their presence was a writhing mass of savagery, an affront to discipline and order.

Stopping before their gate, I raised my voice. "Greetings, esteemed filth! My name is Leon, and I have come to bargain."

A cacophony of jeers erupted from above.

"Who's this whelp?"

"Does he have a death wish?"

"I want his flesh!"

"I'll cook him alive!"

Their depravity was palpable, but I endured. It was not words that would shape this encounter, but action.

Moments later, the gates groaned open. A towering figure emerged—a brute of a man, his scarred torso exposed to the elements. A chainsword hung in one hand, its teeth stained with dried blood, while a wicked machete gleamed in the other.

I measured him with a calculating gaze. In open combat, I could dismantle him. But in the confines of his own domain? One wrong move, and I would be reduced to viscera.

He sneered. "And who might you be, to walk into my territory unbidden?"

His bloodshot eyes and unkempt appearance did not go unnoticed. So the rumors were true—his wife's disappearance had left him frayed, unbalanced. A weakness to exploit.

With a smirk, I gave a theatrical bow. "Leon, at your service. An information broker, purveyor of secrets, and, dare I say, a master of whispers."

His sneer deepened. "And what's stopping me from gutting you right here and carving those whispers from your corpse?"

He pressed the machete against my throat, a hair's breadth from breaking the skin. But I did not flinch. Instead, I leaned into it, a slow, deliberate movement. A thin line of crimson bloomed on my neck, staining my collar.

I met his gaze, my voice dripping with mirth. "Oh, by all means, try. But if you do, one of my associates will put a round through your skull before your blade even finishes its cut."

His eyes narrowed.

Then—

*BANG.*

An explosion ripped through the air, sending a tremor through the ground. Shrapnel and dust erupted beside us, the sheer force knocking bandits from their perches. The warlord's face twisted in shock, his composure faltering.

I, however, maintained my smile.

Internally, I was less composed. That was Varn's shot. But what in the name of the Omnissiah did he use? His standard-issue lasrifle should not have had that level of force.

No matter. The moment was mine to seize.

I cleared my throat. "Now then, shall we discuss terms?"

---

POV: Varn

Smoke still lingered in the air, the acrid stench of burnt material stinging my nostrils. My hands trembled slightly, and I had to tighten my grip on my rifle to steady them. I wasn't rattled by the shot itself—I had taken countless ones before—but by its sheer, unnatural force.

"Damn thing," I muttered, glaring at the weapon. "You almost took Leon's head off."

A voice, guttural and annoyed, echoed in my mind. "Oh, don't pin this on me, you wretched ape. This was your doing."

I scowled. "The hell you mean, my doing? You're the one who fired like an artillery cannon."

The rifle pulsed in my hands, a sensation like a heartbeat reverberating through my fingers. "First time I get to stretch my limbs, and you complain? I should be the one furious—you left me to rust, only whispering sweet nothings instead of using me properly. Shameful, really."

I sighed, rubbing my temple. "This isn't normal. This isn't how you're supposed to work."

A chuckle—low, amused. "And yet, here we are."

I glanced down at the encampment below. Leon was already spinning the situation to his advantage, using my unintended show of force as a negotiation tool. I supposed, in the grand scheme of things, it worked out.

Still, I'd have to keep an eye on my rifle. It had changed.

And for the life of me, I wasn't sure if it was for better or worse.