#intense action

The first kill had been small—just a school of fish—but it had reminded him that he was alive, that his body worked, that his mind was still sharp despite sunburn and broken ribs. The hunger persisted, gnawing beneath his chest plate, reminding him that survival demanded more than scraps.

He dove deeper, letting the briny water envelope him. Currents pulled at him, strong and erratic, but Karlsor adapted. He reached out with his Psyker senses, letting his awareness slide through the water, stretching tendrils of thought, feeling the life around him. Tiny pulses of movement registered—a crab, a small predator hiding among coral—but more than that, something alien, warped, radiating faint heat and psychic unease.

Hunger sharpened into predatory focus. He launched, slicing through water with inhuman speed. Claws tore through flesh, teeth snapped through bone. The taste of living flesh—warm, slick, resistant—was ecstasy. He devoured it without hesitation, shoving past instinctive revulsion. Every kill reinforced the rhythm: hunt, kill, consume, heal, survive.

The Warp whispered again. Subtle now, in tremors and flickers, in the almost imperceptible vibration of the water. He paused, eyes narrowing. The reef in the distance seemed to pulse with a sickly glow, coral twisted into grotesque shapes, whispers curling through his mind like smoke. Something moved among it, too large, too wrong. His instincts screamed: avoid it. But hunger and curiosity—two equally dangerous predators in themselves—nipped at him.

A shadow detached itself from the reef—a leviathan, pale and sinewy, with eyes that burned faintly violet. Warp-taint radiated off it in waves. It knew him. It hunted him. Karlsor felt the thrill tighten his chest. This was no mere beast. This was something the Warp had touched, something that could shred flesh and soul alike. And yet… it moved slowly, deliberately, as though testing him, waiting for him to make the first mistake.

He grinned—or at least as close as a Night Lord could manage underwater. Teeth bared. Tail flicking, muscles coiled. He sent ripples of psychic energy through the currents, shaping the water to push the leviathan closer, confusing its senses. The creature hesitated, shrieking in psychic resonance that grated against his mind. Delicious.

Karlsor lunged. Water exploded around him as claws met scales. Teeth sank into the alien flesh, shredding, tasting, pulling. The leviathan fought, but he was faster, sharper, more hungry. The Warp rippled around them, echoing the violence, amplifying his senses, sharpening his focus, feeding the raw, primal joy of predation.

Even as the leviathan thrashed, he sensed more: currents swirling, movement in the shadows, flickers of unnatural light from the reef. More predators. More threats. But he was not afraid. Fear was a luxury he had shed long ago on Nostramo. Survival demanded hunger, cunning, and ruthlessness—and he had all three in abundance.

Finally, with a guttural roar, he ended the struggle. The leviathan floated limp in the water, still twitching. He tore into it, feeding not only his body but his rage, his satisfaction, his claim over the sea. The Warp hummed faintly around him, amused, perhaps even impressed. Perhaps mocking. He did not care.

Hours passed—or days, time blurred in the deep. Karlsor hunted, fed, healed, and hunted again. His Psyker senses grew keener, his control over currents more precise. The cursed reef loomed ever closer, whispering threats, broadcasting horrors he could not yet fully comprehend. And yet, he survived. He thrived.

Above him, the sun rose and fell. Pain in his sunburned scales flared and faded. Hunger returned. Shadows shifted. Warp-taint whispered.

And in the distance, faintly, almost imperceptibly, another pulse: larger, slower, more intelligent. Something waited. Something far worse than the leviathan he had just devoured.

Karlsor’s lips curled into a grin.

Good.