King Mrozek descended from the opulent royal train, resplendent in pristine, exquisitely crafted power armor. A breathing mask shielded him from the tainted air of the underhive, isolating his noble form from its impurities. With palpable impatience, he turned to his guard-captain, his voice sharp with irritation as he inquired.
"Where are those vermin? Hasten this affair to its conclusion. I have no desire to linger in this filthy underhive."
Were it not for the successive demise of five incompetent garrison captains, each slain by the wretched scum, a monarch of his exalted stature would never have deigned to set foot in such a squalid domain.
"My king, my men have located the lair of those vermin," the guard-captain replied, manipulating a dataslate to display the intelligence to Mrozek.
"Their nest lies within a dome known as the Sludge Marsh."
"Vermin are vermin indeed. The name Sludge Marsh reeks of filth and degradation," Mrozek sneered.
The guard-captain, eager to curry favor, responded obsequiously, "Your wisdom is unparalleled, my king. Precisely so."
He elaborated, "The Sludge Marsh was once a vast reservoir controlled by the Water Guild. Abandoned long ago, it became the epicenter of ferocious conflicts among over a hundred underhive gangs vying for dominance."
"In the end, the entire region was reduced to rubble. The water pipes burst, transforming the area into a mire resembling a sludge pit, thus earning its name."
Mrozek's brow furrowed tightly, his tone dripping with disdain.
"Vermin lack the intellect to comprehend that their chaotic brawls yield nothing but ruin."
"The garrison forces are even more useless, squandering vast sums annually yet failing to eradicate a mere rabble of scum."
"Lead the way. End this swiftly!" Mrozek commanded, his impatience mounting.
An hour later, the king followed the guard-captain through a narrow passage, his boots sinking into the frozen sludge of Naryanmar's frigid underhive.
Initially, the icy ground offered no resistance, but as his boots grew heavy, Mrozek glanced downward.
Through his night-vision optics, he beheld a grotesque amalgamation clinging to his boots—rotting refuse, rusted metal shards, and unidentified organic matter. His stomach churned, and a shiver of revulsion coursed through him, his skin prickling with horror.
The king hesitated for over a dozen seconds before resolving to press forward. He summoned twenty-five guards, dividing them into five squads, and ordered them to clear the debris from the path.
The guards,dare not to disobey orders, had not anticipated such a task and lacked proper cleaning equipment. They stooped low, using their ballistic shields to shove aside the refuse.
After ten minutes, their backs and waists ached, prompting them to rotate for rest.
Mrozek's irritation persisted. The airflow from the pipes and ventilation systems periodically swept through the passage, stirring the displaced debris and hurling it against his ornate armor.
Two standard hours later, the king reached a convergence of multiple passages, where the line of sight widened.
"This area is relatively clean. We shall rest for ten minutes," he declared.
"Armor attendants, cleanse my armor."
The guard-captain opened his mouth to protest. The complex environment was ill-suited for a pause, especially given the king's earlier insistence on haste.
Yet, seeing the armor attendants already producing cleaning brushes, spray cleansers, and polishing agents, he could only close his mouth in resignation.
The guard-captain gripped his laspistol tightly, his gaze sweeping the surroundings with vigilance.
His eyes darted to an abandoned maintenance platform and scaffolding, where his pupils contracted. A shadow flickered in his vision—not the silhouette of an adult, but perhaps some underhive creature.
Just as he prepared to dispatch a subordinate to investigate, a beam lanced from the suspended ruins, striking with lethal precision between his eyes, piercing his filtration mask.
Bukayo, witnessing the guard-captain felled by his single shot, knew the battle's outcome was sealed.
Intelligence had confirmed that the ostentatious, gleaming false king was no adept commander.
His strike served as the signal for the Third Regiment to launch their assault.
As the cry of "Ambush!" died in the throat of the fallen guard-captain, and as the king's guards—exhausted by his incessant demands—failed to react, dozens of lasbeams erupted from the abandoned maintenance platforms and scaffolding.
Caught unawares, the king's guard retinue suffered grievous losses in the initial salvo, with over twenty men collapsing.
Only then did the guards rally, raising their weapons to return fire.
Yet the warriors of the Third Regiment, still youthful and not fully grown, leveraged their advantages.
Their shorter statures allowed them to conceal themselves behind low obstacles; their slimmer frames presented smaller targets.
In the exchange of fire, the guards struggled to hit their elusive foes. The lean youths, positioned above, wielded superior weaponry, picking off the exposed guards with ruthless efficiency.
Bukayo's rigorous selection process had honed their aptitude for combat in complex environments. The king's guards, venturing into the underhive for the first time and bereft of leadership, scattered in disarray.
At the onset of the attack, Mrozek recoiled in shock, shrinking behind his attendants.
Yet, clad in ornate power armor and draped in heavy furs, he stood out starkly, swiftly drawing the fire of an entire platoon.
As thuds echoed around him, Mrozek watched in horror as his attendants fell one by one.
Over a dozen lasbeams sliced through the air, emitting shrill whistles.
The moment they struck his power armor, they erupted in blinding, searing white light.
Mrozek thought, *I am doomed*, and shut his eyes, still perceiving the flickering glare.
Seconds later, realizing he yet lived, he recalled the ancestral craftsmanship of his power armor.
With a feral grin, Mrozek raised his heavy logging gun, sweeping the upper levels with fire.
Bukayo noted several warriors from the fourth platoon fall. Unwilling to sacrifice more lives, he issued the order to withdraw.
The enemy had entered the dim underhive, becoming prey in his domain. He had ample time to toy with this false king.
"You worthless fools, follow me!"
Having repelled the attack, Mrozek's confidence surged. He strode forward, leading his guard retinue to press the assault.
Over the next hour, the king repeatedly triumphed over his foes, his assurance growing with each victory.
"Indeed, none can withstand the enlightened and martial King Mrozek," he proclaimed.
The "Sleepless One," observing the dwindling number of guards at the prey's side, noted that the power armor's leg plating, targeted under his orders, now bore several cracks.
Raising his lasrifle, the "Sleepless One" took aim. The darkness did not impair his vision. He pulled the trigger, striking with precision at a fissure in the false king's right calf.
With a resounding *bang*, Mrozek stumbled and fell.
Wracked with agony, he clutched his leg, wailing piteously.
Having lost one hundred and four warriors, Bukayo conducted a recruitment drive in the underhive before launching an assault on the upper hive, intent on dedicating the Naryanmar Hive to Nimrod.
Nimrod, leading the First Regiment and having conquered two hives, received an unexpected vox-transmission from Bukayo, announcing that his regiment had seized the northernmost Naryanmar Hive.
Thus, Nimrod left the First Regiment to replenish its ranks and journeyed to Naryanmar with Marlena and others.
He was astonished to see that the Third Regiment comprised adolescents, yet Bukayo had led them to conquer a hive.
After hearing Bukayo's report, Nimrod learned that the youths employed harassment, luring, and guerrilla tactics to secure the hive. He could not help but offer praise.
"Commendable tactical application," the Primarch remarked, his mind already envisioning broader implications. "Your selection methods could be disseminated further."
"Underhive gang members unwilling to toil as laborers could undergo selection, with criteria tailored to the needs of each regiment."
"Your wisdom is profound, my lord," Bukayo lauded, before continuing.
"My lord, I have a gift to present to you!"