John fired back with his laser gun, trying to snipe the cannon operator. But the gun shield absorbed his shots, sparking and deflecting the energy harmlessly. His attacks only drew the operator’s attention. A bright red laser beam zeroed in on him, and he froze, momentarily stunned by its intensity.

Luck was on his side. John tackled the young Pietist to the ground just as the laser cannon fired, its beam scorching the air above their heads. The blast tore through mechanical debris, leaving destruction in its wake. “Let’s move!” John shouted, hauling the young man to his feet. Together, they sprinted under the relentless barrage, dodging flying shrapnel and the relentless heat of the laser cannon’s glow.

Dragging the younger fighter, John dove into the hiding place of the gang’s leader. The injured boss gritted his teeth, using his one remaining arm to pull the younger Pietist closer and out of harm’s way. His legs were shattered, leaving him barely able to move.

The three of them crouched behind a bunker, their refuge rapidly deteriorating under the heat and impact of the cannon fire. Red flashes lit up the area, and the intense heat grew closer with every passing second.

“This is insane,” the boss groaned, his voice tight with pain. “Damn fool Luft! Marshall, you were right. We should’ve never—”

“Don’t start, sir,” Marshall interrupted, leaning against the bunker with his weapon ready. “In the Emperor’s name, you tried to talk him out of it. Luft paid the price for his arrogance.”

“And now we’re all paying for it,” the young Pietist muttered, pulling his arm back to avoid a stray spark. The boss glanced at John, then at the younger fighter’s arm, spotting a tattoo.

“You’re one of Martin’s men? Is Martin still alive?”

“No,” John said grimly. “He’s gone. Luft dragged us into this mess. Looks like I’m the last one left from my crew.”

“That damn fool,” the boss cursed. “Not only did he get his own killed, he dragged down brothers from every gang. He deserves to rot in the void!”

The machine gunner’s attention shifted, giving them a brief respite. John peeked out from cover, assessing the situation.

“You can curse him later,” he said. “Marshall, get the boss out of here. Now.”

Marshall gave a quick nod, slinging his laser gun over his back. He hoisted the boss, helping him limp toward safer ground. John stayed behind, setting his sights on the deadly laser cannon. He steadied his weapon on the crumbling bunker, exhaling slowly. “One shot,” he murmured. “Just one.”

With a calm breath, he squeezed the trigger. The laser bolt streaked through the chaos, slipping through a narrow gap between the gun shield and the cannon’s muzzle. It struck the gunner square in the head, killing him instantly.

The surrounding fighters stared in disbelief. John’s second shot dropped another man, then a third, and a fourth. Panic overtook the remaining gunners, who abandoned the cannon and fled for cover. John lowered his weapon and smirked at the broken machine nearby, its surface bearing the Imperial Skyhawk insignia. “Thanks for the assist,” he muttered.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Later, Marshall stood beneath a weathered porch, his laser gun slung over his shoulder. He watched as battered Pietist fighters limped into the ancient church, leaning on one another for support. Inside, the hall flickered with the glow of countless candles, their light reflecting off the golden icon of the Emperor.

The wounded knelt in prayer beneath the icon’s serene gaze, their pain seemingly eased by the sacred ambiance. Medical staff worked tirelessly, tending to the injured. Even Marshall, who usually dismissed such rituals, couldn’t deny the change in their expressions. It was as if the agony had left their bodies. “Looks like you’re in one piece, Brother Marshall,” John said, appearing in the doorway with his weapon in hand.

“So are you, Brother John,” Marshall replied, eyeing him curiously. “Your aim’s impressive. Were you with the Planetary Defense Force?”

“Marine Commandos. Ultramar Fleet,” John answered with a nod. “What about you?”

“Local law enforcement,” Marshall said with a shrug. “But that was a long time ago.”

Their conversation was cut short by an angry voice echoing through the church. “This is your fault, Harry Moore! All your fault! If your brother hadn’t botched the flank, we’d have the factory by now!”

A bald man with a strange, hose-like contraption attached to his head stormed forward, jabbing a finger at the boss. The injured leader, propped up nearby, frowned. “Watch your tone, Mosley,” Harry growled. “Martin was your brother too, a member of this faith and family. Show some respect.”

The tension in the room thickened. Mosley sneered, pacing as he continued to rant. “We’ve been floundering since I returned from the space station. Gods above! We can’t even take a factory!”

Harry’s voice hardened. “That factory is one of the Hammer Gang’s main strongholds. Or have you forgotten our homeworld while you played prophet among the stars?”

The two men glared at each other, the air heavy with unspoken challenges. John and Marshall stepped closer as the argument escalated. Mosley finally stepped back, raising his voice to address the gathering crowd. “Brothers of faith and family! Today, here in this sacred monastery, we must choose a new leader—one who will guide us to salvation!” he proclaimed. “I, Mosley Fox, have heard the gods themselves! They have chosen me as their messenger!”

The room erupted in cheers, but John and Marshall exchanged skeptical glances. Neither joined the fervor.

Harry stepped forward, his voice calm but firm. “You claim to be a messenger of the gods? Do you truly believe their whispers make you fit to lead?”

Mosley smirked, gesturing grandly. “I’ve seen their visions and heard their words. I am their chosen emissary.”

Harry hesitated. Despite his anger, he couldn’t openly challenge Mosley in front of the congregation. But John had no such reservations. He handed his gun to Marshall and strode into the center of the hall.

“Who are you to interrupt?” Mosley barked, eyeing him with suspicion.

“Let him speak,” Harry said, silencing the murmurs. “This is Brother John Constantine. He saved many lives today and struck a blow against the heretics.”

The crowd murmured in hushed tones, ripples of unease spreading like wildfire. Montana's face darkened, his expression twisting with fury. "Are you accusing me of betraying the Order? Of trying to start a rival one?"

John’s eyebrows rose in mock surprise. "Did I say that, Brother Montana? Why would you jump to such conclusions?"

Montana let out an enraged roar and lunged forward, seizing John by the collar. Despite his lean build, Montana’s strength was formidable, and he yanked John close with ease. John merely arched an eyebrow, his lips curling into a playful smirk as he stared into the angry man’s eyes.

"I am loyal to the family! How dare you question my devotion?" Montana bellowed, his voice trembling with rage.

Harry stepped forward, his stride purposeful, and pulled Montana away from John. "Calm yourself, brother. Brother John’s words are not slander," Harry said firmly, his hands steady on Montana’s shoulders. "They’re a reminder to guard against the betrayal and greed that can grow within us all."