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Ordinarily, the System only announced that a reward would be granted. It never specified what that reward would be or when it would arrive. This time was different. It offered a choice.
Ketal did not feel surprised. He understood what the System meant now, enough to read the intent behind its light. He closed the window for the moment. Footfalls, hundreds of them, came up fast, gathering from every street until the sound filled the ruined capital like rain.
“Ooh!”
“Chieftain!”
The barbarians ran to him in a torn, triumphant swarm, bodies striped with cuts that already paled and sealed. They had been fighting the Twisted’s apostles, a battle of iron and teeth that shook the ground.
Then, in the middle of it, the apostles had simply turned to dust and blew apart. Even the dullest among them understood what that absence meant: their king had defeated the enemy that anchored them.
Hekate pushed to the front, eyes bright as coals. “Chieftain! Chieftain, did you win?”
“I told you not to call me—” He let the correction fall. “Yes. I won. The Twisted is dead. There are no Primarchs left in this world.”
A roar lifted. “Ooooh!”
“As expected of our chieftain!”
“Wahahaha!”
Joy broke over the city like surf. The feeling ran through bodies and out into the cold until even the snow seemed to shift its weight.
Ketal let out a breath. He wanted to sit longer and let his bones remember stillness. However, he did not have that luxury. If he left the barbarians in this high state without a task, they would test the world until it snapped...
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