Isekai Warhammer40k

by Mnbv1473

Summary:

Eric, an ordinary office worker, had an accident and woke up in an unfamiliar place — and his body had changed

Chapter 1

 

 

 

 

 

Eric de la Cruz woke to the rhythm of his alarm. The blue glow of a screen reflected on the ceiling of his small studio in central Berlin. A small copper dish for keys and coins sat beside a coffee cup with a dried brown ring and the plastic lunchbox he’d used for his midday meal.

 

He was half German, half Filipino, raised with two languages in the house — German from his father and the round-eyed voice of his mother.

 

Eric dressed plainly: a light blue shirt and gray slacks. Some of his clothes were so worn the collar had softened with time. He gave himself a quick look in the mirror and saw the outline of a man who worked hard enough to pay rent and send money home, but whose life contained few stories worth telling.

 

On the corner table was a small photograph — him as a child, standing between his mother and father. He kept it there so he wouldn’t feel alone when he was far from home.

 

Work was a loop: emails to answer, slides to review, conference calls that repeated with the same urgent accent on the word “urgent,” which, more often than not, weren’t truly urgent. He liked only the mornings because he could eat lunch slowly and think about the books he wanted to read. Some days he had a coworker like Martin — another ordinary man whose life resembled his own, who tried to drag him into conversations about a money-devouring board game called Warhammer 40K. Eric would answer briefly and then go back to work.

 

(Note: yes — Martin is from another story of mine and is friends with Eric; the two stories are connected in one way or another.)

 

Eric’s job wasn’t his dream, but it was enough. Enough to get by.

 

One evening before the accident, he worked late to finish a project due the next day. The office corridor was empty and the neon lights low. He packed up, shut down his computer, and carried his leftover lunchbag out toward the elevator. Fatigue sat heavy in his bones, but there was a comforting familiarity to the routine: commute, work, go home, sleep, repeat.

 

Outside, a fine drizzle began. He pulled his hood up and kept his head down to keep his hair dry. One hand gripped his messenger bag, the other fiddled with his keys. Sometimes he glanced up at the glaring, garish billboards and felt they looked unreal — bright but not warm, like his own life reflected back at him.

 

He crossed the intersection. The pedestrian signal was green, but traffic on the main road moved faster than usual that night. A long truck roared by, exhaust belching thick smoke. He saw streaks of reflected light on the wet pavement, neon mixing with headlights until everything blurred slightly.

 

Eric never viewed the world through heroic expectations; he viewed it with the carefulness of someone who worked for a living. He knew shortcuts to the train station, when restaurants stopped serving, and the uncertain balance between sleeping on one bed and meeting financial responsibilities.

 

A small voice in his head reminded him not to do anything stupid — don’t walk slowly, don’t stop, don’t overthink — it had repeated so often it had become a part of him.

 

He reached the far curb and stepped down. He adjusted his bag strap and then the ordinary streetlight flashed brighter than it should have from the opposite side, as if a car had suddenly hit its high beams. White light pierced the rain, brakes screamed, and then everything went… dark.

 

 

---

 

The first thing Eric heard when he came to was the drip of water from an iron pipe above him.

 

…ting… ting…

 

Cold water hit his cheek and made him flinch. Dust from the old ceiling fell with the tremor of distant machinery somewhere deep in the city. The air was oppressive, smelling of rust and rot — a bitter metallic taste stuck at the back of his throat. Everything around him was dim; a strip of light leaking through a ventilation shaft was the only thing faintly revealing the shapes of pipes and oil-stained walls.

 

He opened his eyes slowly and pushed himself up from the floor.

“Ugh…” he groaned, the sound thin and weak, and he frowned at how strange it sounded.

 

The shirt that had fit him when he left work now hung loose; the sleeves extended well past his wrists. His slacks threatened to fall if he didn’t grab them. He tugged at his collar; the fabric was soft but felt like someone else’s garment.

 

“What the—what is going on?” he mumbled, looking around.

 

A large iron pipe ran along one wall, scuffed and dented as if struck by something heavy. Near his feet lay a mangled piece of metal packaging stamped with a symbol he half-recognized: a skull merged with machinery, half organic and half robotic, coupled with a cog. He’d seen that icon somewhere — in one of Martin’s models — but he couldn’t place it now.

 

There were no lights from cars, no noises of people — only the echo of dripping water and faint tremors from afar. The silence made the place feel vast and forbidding. Eric breathed slowly, trying not to panic.

 

“Okay… Eric, you must be dreaming. Maybe you were hit by a car, you’re in a coma, and your brain’s making all this up,” he told himself aloud. His own voice interrupted him — and he froze.

 

It sounded different. Sharper, clearer, not the voice he used to bark at coworkers when the printer jammed. He stood very still as his heart hammered in his chest and tried to speak again.

 

“Hey… can anyone hear me?” He heard his voice come out like a young woman’s — slightly hoarse but distinct.

“...what the hell…”

 

He grabbed his throat and felt long hair tangling at his fingertips; it was rough and damp. He stumbled back and hit the metal wall, eyes wide in the dimness.

 

His hands were slender, smaller than he remembered. The skin was smooth and cool — foreign. He looked down and saw a chest beneath the loose shirt, a shape that shouldn’t have been there on a man. Eric’s hand went to the rounded swell — two bumps like fat pads — and a strange feeling rose in him.

 

For a moment, his mind went blank.

 

“No… this has to be a dream. It must be a dream.” He slapped his face hard; the sound echoed in the metal tunnel, and the pain was real. Warm blood seeped from the corner of his mouth.

 

“Oh God…” The words slipped out in a voice that was wrong, and Eric sank against the wall. His unfamiliar body trembled; breathing was ragged. His eyes searched the darkness for answers and found none — only the soft hum of distant machinery.

 

Eric forced himself to focus. He could not die here. He would not die in a place he didn’t know, not by neglect or starvation, not as some forgotten shape in the dark.

 

“I am not going to die here,” he whispered, pushing himself up and adjusting his pants. He fumbled through his bag. He wondered when the hoodie he’d been wearing had ended up inside — it felt odd but he shrugged and put it on over the top of the one he’d already had.

 

Most of the things inside were useless, except for his phone, which had fifty percent battery. There were pens and papers and, as if struck lucky, a small flashlight and a disposable mask — both useful for a situation like this.

 

He needed to find a safer place, and food. Eric prepared himself and tried to decide which way to go.

 

That was the problem: he didn’t know where he was.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 2: 2

 

 

Time had become meaningless as he walked the dark corridors, fleeing mutated beasts and twisted humans. He never expected to find himself in a place like this whether he was trapped in some science-fiction story he’d never read or something far worse, he didn’t know. What he did know was that he had been running like this for days. Now his stomach growled from hunger; his hands shook from cold and fear. Then, from somewhere down the tunnel, a sound began to speak.

 

“…zzrrt… Cognitio… Errata… …Ave… Machina…”

 

The voice sounded mechanical. It was not English, but neither was it entirely unfamiliar like German, Latin, English and other tongues smashed together until they warped into a chant with a metallic rhythm.

 

He froze and turned toward the source. At the end of the dim passage a dull orange light flashed in time with sparks, and what he saw nearly buckled his knees.

 

The figure was tall and thin, cloaked in soot-streaked crimson. The robe gaped to reveal metal arms wrapped with wiring and small tubes; its face was hidden behind a half-mask of metal with round green lenses that glowed. Two extra mechanical legs jutted from its torso like a spider’s. The man looked like something out of a gruesome science-fiction tale.

 

Most chilling of all was the emblem on its shoulder the same mark he’d seen on the crushed metal box before, and the same symbol in Martin’s models. The situation was getting stranger by the minute. Had he somehow slipped into one of Martin’s favorite sci-fi stories? It seemed impossible.

 

“Binharic… signal… corrupted…” a metallic voice rasped intermittently, like a machine attempting speech.

 

“Don’t come any closer!” Eric called, his voice trembling as he backed away and snatched up a length of pipe to defend himself.

 

“Non-hostilis… vox… femina… curious.” The figure paused and cocked its head as if analyzing, then spoke again in a lower tone.

 

Eric picked out fragments Latin-laced, mechanical speech: vox (voice), femina (woman), curious. He wasn’t sure he’d understood correctly.

 

“I .... I don’t understand! I don’t know what you’re saying!” he shouted back.

 

The half-mechanical man was still for a moment, then raised his metal hand. Motors whirred softly; a pale blue light swept from his optical lenses and scanned Eric’s body. A continuous stream of processing sounds hummed.

 

“…Biological signature… Human… Unknown classification… Non-registered… anomaly detected…”

 

It sounded like a report to itself. Then, after a pause, the words came that made Eric’s heart pound.

 

“Lost… in the dark… little one?”

 

For the first time, Eric understood a full sentence. The voice was cold but not overtly hostile. The figure looked human enough to speak to him, and yet disturbingly other.

 

“If you can understand me, please — can you tell me where this place is?” Eric asked, swallowing. The man did not answer immediately; he inclined his head, some mechanism creaked, and then he spoke slowly.

 

“…The Underhive… Child of ignorance.” He made a motion that was half-gesture, half-invitation.

 

Eric steeled himself and followed the person part man, part machine down a narrow, fetid passage where the smell of oil and incense had fused into something indistinguishable, like a ritual warped by grease and heat. Thick dust dried his skin and stung his eyes as lasers from the priest’s lenses scanned through the suspended particles.

 

An old iron door opened onto a cramped room. One corner contained a cluttered workbench full of servitor parts: rounded heads missing cables, rings of gears, a carved skull-cog mounted on a small plinth. A soot-stained red cloth hung nearby. Bundles of wire, metal fasteners and tools were laid out with the sort of orderliness that felt more liturgical than mechanical.

 

The servitors made him queasy grotesque fusions of human remains and machinery, complete with two tracked feet and heavy manipulator arms. Eric’s mind recoiled at the thought: Would he be turned into one of those things?

 

The dim filament lamp threw dust into sharp lines. The floor was slick with grease and grime. A servitor’s faint mechanical clicks kept time as it moved a lever. The tech-priest’s hand moved slowly to pull out a metal chair; it collapsed with a resonant clang in the narrow room.

 

“Sit,” the voice half machine, half human said again, clearer this time. The spider-like feet clicked across the iron floor; the lens-eyes hummed as they examined the room.

 

Eric, remembering the scraps of Latin he’d learned long ago, realized at least this one used a language with Latin roots. He hesitated at the threshold, but hunger and cold pushed him forward. He sat on a wired stone stool and reached for a cloth bundle the tech-priest placed on the table. When he untied it, the contents were a hard, misshapen slab of stale bread dark-stained and smelling faintly of fish and a gray metal pail with a rust-ringed cup.

 

“Eat. It may hold you a little longer,” the tech-priest said, the mechanical voice rendering and translating the phrase.

 

He looked at the other. The metal face which Eric did not yet know was more than a mask betrayed no emotion, and its manner was not friendly, though not openly aggressive either. Eric took a cautious bite. The bread was bland, dry and carried the sour tang of spoiled yeast; the water tasted faintly of metal. He swallowed and let a dull fullness spread in his gut.

 

His wariness remained, but hunger had won out over suspicion.

 

“Thank you…” he uttered in a clumsy mix of Latin and broken speech, then stopped as the sound felt wrong in his own ears the tone still anchored in the female register.

 

The tech-priest bowed slightly, as if answering a prayer. Its manipulator hand touched the skull-cog emblem on the plinth. Gears in its torso clicked in a slow rhythm, and it spoke a string of Latin fragments that sounded oddly familiar to Eric:

 

“Ave Omnissiah… benedictio… machina…”

 

The words Ave and machina stirred something in him echoes of old liturgical readings or books he’d seen. A small connection formed in his mind: an elementary Latin class his mother had tried to drill into him, the names he’d seen in a game manual. He began to piece together a faint meaning the tech-priest was intoning a blessing or liturgy for machines and the use of such words in this cluttered room warmed and unnerved him at the same time.

 

“Are you… a mechanic?” Eric asked, trying to keep his language simple.

 

“Cult-expel,” the tech-priest replied curtly, then switched to Low Gothic. Eric caught the tone it was more like “exiled” than a detailed explanation. “…expelled from… the Forge.” Eric thought it likely meant the machine priest had been cast out from some faction or workshop.

 

The priest moved slowly, pulling the soot-stained red cloth over the sacred plinth and producing a small metal plate stamped with the half-skull, half-cog symbol. He offered it to Eric with a gesture that tested trust as much as it extended it. Eric took it hesitantly, unsure what the man intended.

 

“What is this?” he asked.

 

“The sigil of the Omnissiah,” the tech-priest said, nodding and saying the name with something like reverence. The tone was ambiguous half worship, half warning and Eric couldn’t be sure which it was. He did not know who or what the Omnissiah was; it might be a god to this man.

 

A pause followed. Eric finished the stale lump of bread and drank half the metal cup of water; a thin warmth spread through him. As he rose to thank the stranger, the tech-priest spoke in short fragments that Eric could only half-understand.

 

“Novus… anomalus… registrare…” the word novus (new) made Eric flinch. Did the priest mean he was a “new” or “unknown” entity the system had not recorded?

 

He stared at the lens-eyes that reflected weak light like damaged but functional instruments. He managed a dry smile.

 

“I… my name is Erica. Thank you again… for helping me.” The reflex to speak as he always had made the first syllable stumble out awkwardly; he felt uneasy using it now.

 

The tech-priest did not smile, but its stillness shifted a tiny concession. It nodded and pointed to a folded cloth in the corner: a narrow place to sleep.

 

“You look like you need rest,” it said.

 

Eric didn’t know how to feel. He was frightened, relieved, and cautious all at once. A voice in his head warned, Don’t trust. But hunger and the warmth of the blanket led him to lie down on the narrow pallet.

 

Before closing his eyes he whispered the Latin phrase that had lodged in his mind.

 

“Thank you…” Then he slept, surrounded by the smell of incense and oil and the ceaseless hum of the servitors. He had no certainty how long he would survive in this place, but for now he had food and a bed from a stranger he could not fully trust and that was enough.

 

 

 

______________________________________________

 

 

 

About five hours later.

 

When Eric opened his eyes again the room was pitch dark. He fumbled for the flashlight beside him and swept its beam around. The narrow circle of light fell across the workbench and revealed the tech-priest slumped against it, motionless.

 

Fear rose in Eric at once.

 

The priest’s head lolled to one side, resting on the table. Dried blood streaked the robe and seeped along a few metal joints. The half-mask was cocked, one lens spiderwebbed with a crack, and a few cables hung loose from the neck.

 

Eric stepped forward slowly, moving through dust motes that drifted in the flashlight beam. His small, careful eyes searched for any sign of movement, but there was none.

 

“No… no he’s dead, isn’t he?” he whispered, voice small and threaded with a strange sadness. He’d only just met the man, but the priest had fed him, given him shelter. It was a grim thought that the man had died alone, but at least Eric would not be turned into some machine thing or be dragged away while unconscious.

 

On the bench lay thin metal plates covered in inscriptions sigils and fragments of Latin he recognized only in pieces. Short notes about something illicit repeated the phrase novus anomalus. Eric picked up one plate and read a few scrap phrases: “registrare… probe… not within canonical…” He did not understand everything, but the gist was clear: this man had been investigating something forbidden, something anomalous.

 

Then he remembered he could hardly read properly in this world.

 

Confusion crashed against his survival instincts, which proved quicker. He knew he couldn’t stay here: not in an unfamiliar body, not beside a corpse that might attract attention. He searched the room in a hurry, careful not to touch the priest’s body, prying open drawers, checking cupboards, even levering a loose floorboard with a crowbar he found.

 

After a while he gathered what he could carry. The haul included:

 

• A small, old-fashioned handgun resembling an M1911 — rugged, with the same skull-cog symbol engraved on the grip — and about twenty rounds.

• An assault rifle that looked AK-like: a battered metal frame, patched and repaired many times. Eric had never used a gun, but he guessed it worked like any firearm.

 

• A box with nearly a hundred rounds of ammunition; he loaded some magazines and tucked them into his pack.

• A sturdy flashlight with about half its battery left.

• A metal water bottle and two or three hard rations — stale, compact cakes of food.

• Small pouches of medicine with faded labels containing a clear liquid and a powder — possibly basic stimulants or antiseptics, and, at worst, simply flour.

• A handful of small parts: screws, tiny gears, and the half-skull/half-cog sigil the man had given him. Eric put the sigil in his pocket; if the priest had entrusted it to him, it had to matter.

 

When he finished packing, Eric stood for a minute and looked at the tech-priest’s lifeless form. Something about the death felt wrong — traces of a struggle or an unrecoverable mechanical failure where none should have occurred — but he had no time to investigate further. Questions crowded his head, but the immediate priority was to leave.

 

He closed the door tight behind him, switched on the flashlight, and walked away without looking back

 

 

 

 

______________________________________________

 

 

 

About eight hours later.

 

Eric moved down the dark corridor with the assault rifle slung across his shoulder and a flashlight taped to it. He stepped slowly, eyes scanning every shadow. Distant echoes told him the area wasn’t empty — some sounds were distorted laughter, others short, harsh commands. He gripped the rifle tightly even though he wasn’t confident about firing it or aiming properly. At least he couldn’t see any monsters nearby.

 

The rifle was unbearably heavy. He finally took the flashlight off the weapon, slung the rifle on his back, and drew the pistol.

 

When he reached the main passage a wide tunnel where weak lights turned dust into streaks he probed ahead with the flashlight, trying to avoid exposing himself. He followed a route that looked like it might lead upward.

 

He wasn’t sure whether it would take him out of this place, but it was worth a try.

 

He pulled a ration from his pack now and then and chewed at the hard cake of food. It tasted awful, but it gave him something to keep going. He drank water from the metal bottle to steady himself.

 

Before moving on, he paused and looked toward an exit farther down. Light shimmered from above like the promise of different air, but he could hear voices and motors in the distance patrols, or gangs, or something else.

 

“God, why does this happen to me?” he muttered aloud in frustration, glancing down at his chest. “I should be sitting at my office, eating lunch, drinking coffee, listening to Martin rant about those stupid toys. Instead I’m stuck somewhere with nothing to eat but these awful rations, worse pollution than Berlin, and of course trapped in a woman’s body!”

 

He closed the flashlight and shouldered the rifle with awkward care. He still didn’t know how to use guns, but he forced himself to look like he could or to try if he had to. He didn’t want to die here.

 

Turning into a side passage, Eric crept forward. His footsteps echoed off heaps of scrap metal and crisscrossing pipes like the strands of a giant spiderweb. The smell of oil and rot clung to the air, and the old overhead bulbs flickered, making everything feel more menacing.

 

He passed an abandoned room where a body lay against a wall stained brown with old blood. He didn’t stop to look. He quickened his pace until other footsteps came from the other side of a junction.

 

“Hey, look at that…”

 

“Score fell into our laps, ha ha!”

 

Rough laughter mixed with a Low Gothic accent and slang he barely understood, but the tone was obvious.

 

His heart hammered. Eric turned slowly and saw three figures step out of the shadows. They wore scrap armor and rags and carried improvised weapons: knives, a short shotgun, and a small makeshift machine gun.

 

“Nice little lady… walking alone. Let’s see if she’s the real thing,” one of them said, leering in a language Eric didn’t fully catch but understood well enough by the look in his eyes.

 

“Where you going, sweetheart~”

 

Eric stepped back automatically. His hands shook, but he didn’t drop his grip on the pistol. He’d never killed anyone before, but the situation left him no choice.

 

“Don’t come any closer!” he shouted, trying to sound threatening. His voice, still higher and softer than before, earned them only laughter.

 

“She’s cute when she’s mad.”

“Don’t scare her — she might start shaking, haha!” One of them stepped too close.

 

Eric didn’t think twice. He raised the pistol and pulled the trigger. The report cracked through the tunnel. The man staggered and fell; the sound of the shot echoed against the metal walls.

 

The other two hesitated then the shotgun barked back. Eric ducked behind a pipe column; a hot gust from a passing round scorched his arm. He gritted his teeth, hands trembling, and fired back when he found an opening. He squeezed off two bursts.

 

The first volley hit the wall and shrapneled metal; the next found a target, striking one of them in the leg. That man screamed and collapsed. Eric used the moment to fumble through a magazine change, fingers clumsy and shaking.

 

An empty magazine hit the floor with a metallic clatter. One of the men lunged, and Eric fired again this time the shot hit the chest. He fell heavily.

 

Breathing hard, Eric moved to the man who’d been shot in the leg and trained the pistol at his head without hesitation.

 

“Please… spare me, beautiful lady,” the man pleaded in a pitiful voice. Eric didn’t understand his words fully, and even if he had, he felt no inclination to spare him.

 

Bang!!!

 

Afterward there was nothing but the smell of gunpowder, smoke, and the ragged sound of his own breathing.

 

He didn’t say anything except, “God…” His hands shook all over. He had just killed people or whatever had been human enough to fire back at him. He had never done this before, and guilt hit him like ice. There was no time to dwell. He had to run before the noise drew others.

 

He stripped the bodies for anything useful: a short shotgun and rounds, then stuffed them into his pack. He shouldered the rifle and ran down a narrow, flickering passage, the dying lights above marking his path.

 

“Dammit… can’t run properly,” he muttered when the rifle strap and his shirt rubbed painfully against his chest with every step. The weight threw him off balance; the stolen gear was heavy and awkward.

 

“This is such a mess…” he complained under his breath as he struggled to tie things down so they wouldn’t swing. Then he vanished into the dark.

 

 

Eric ran down the corridor, his heart still pounding from what had just happened. The flashlight in his hand was set to power-save mode, its narrow beam only wide enough to show the path ahead. Every second he burned the light at full power was a risk of the battery dying mid-route.

 

The damp, oily smell hit his nostrils. He wiped sweat from his brow with the heel of his hand and forced himself to slow—his old shoes were a little loose, and his heels kept slipping, making every step awkward and unsteady. The new chest bounced with each movement, heavy and cumbersome. It wasn’t a problem for many women, but for Eric, who wasn’t used to it, it felt like an alien load. He tried to flatten his shirt and tuck the hem tighter to hold things down, but it only helped a little.

 

When he judged it safe, he slowed to drink and catch his breath, inhaling deeply to calm himself. What he’d done back there had been self-defense he told himself that—yet something ahead caught his eye: a human-shaped form lying on the floor.

 

“What the ....?” he muttered. The corpse looked like a cross between a mummy and a zombie, its body covered in strange sigils and tattoos, including an eight-pointed star. Looking at it gave him an uneasy feeling. Maybe he should go back the way he came, but that risked running straight into them again. Either choice seemed terrible.

 

“See that one? Think the others’ tracks led it this way—those three are dumber than I thought!” someone shouted. A gang of thugs came running toward him from the junction.

 

“Oh shit, what do I do… I’m dead if I don’t—”

Eric decided instantly. He leapt over the body and ran for his life, not knowing that the men behind him were about to suffer a horrific fate the moment one of them touched the corpse.

 

Chapter 3: 3

Eric ran on until exhaustion set in and his breathing became ragged. He thought he had shaken the gang off, but a terrified scream from behind made his skin crawl.

“What the hell is out here?” he muttered. He stumbled against a narrow ventilation grille in the wall — a slit that let foul air rush out in thin ribbons. Gasping, Eric stared at it. Something might be chasing him through there. His instincts said the shaft was passable; his brain screamed that it was risky. Whatever followed him, though, might be worse.

He looked up at the ceiling: a tangle of pipes and rusted metal. He gauged the height and breadth of the vent; it was just wide enough for him to crawl through. The weak flashlight beam revealed a narrow iron ladder inside and a real flow of air — the smell was not just oily machine smoke from below but carried a hint of cleaner air, maybe from above.

(It was marginally better air — only marginally.)

Eric rummaged in his bag for cloth and tore it into two strips. He used one to bind tightly across his chest and waist to compress the new curves and make his shirt lie flatter, hoping it would stop bouncing and be less awkward while he climbed. The other strip he folded for grip.

Before crawling in, he set the flashlight to its dimmest setting. The faint glow was enough to show the ladder rungs and the shaft ahead, and to keep the batteries from dying. Dust brushed his face as he ducked in; mildew and flaking rust clung to the metal edges. The wind in the shaft sighed and pulsed — at once a warning and a small promise.

The air inside smelled heavily of metal and thick dust that seemed to cling in his throat. Eric stood, coughed lightly, and brushed the floating grit from his face. He lifted the flashlight; the weak bulb flickered as if it might go out at any moment.

 

“Maybe… oh God, this is so damn high…” he murmured to himself, tilting his head up to stare at the ladder shaft. The voice was still the woman’s voice he hadn’t grown used to; he frowned, irritated, but tried to ignore it. The ladder looked impossibly tall — but if it might lead him out of here, Eric was willing to take the risk.

He tightened his pack and scanned the area one more time. In a place like this, hesitation could mean death. He stowed the flashlight, gritted his teeth, and began to climb, rung by rung. In the dark the metal screamed and groaned with every shift of his weight, and his heart thudded so hard it felt like it would leap out of his chest.

Will this ladder hold? he wondered.

After climbing a few meters, the awkwardness of his new body returned again. His clothes — still a bit loose despite the bindings — hindered his movements, and every motion made the breasts he did not want to acknowledge bounce. He couldn’t understand it; he’d never had to deal with this before.

“Damn it…” he muttered, forcing himself to ignore the strange sensations and keep climbing, hoping, with each rung, that it would lead him out.

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The cold iron bit into Eric’s palms, rust biting his skin until it stung. He hauled himself up another rung; his arms trembled with exhaustion. The metal grated and screeched against his hands with every movement.

He wasn’t sure whether he’d get tetanus from this, but he prayed he wouldn’t.

The flashlight tied to his backpack sent a weak beam that picked out oil-streaked walls and turned the shaft into a nightmare landscape — narrow, dark, and seemingly endless.

Eric paused after what felt like hours of climbing. His breathing was shallow and labored. He pressed his forehead to the cold metal and tried to stifle his panting, but his heart kept hammering.

“This ladder is insane… how can it be this long?” he muttered; the voice was still the unfamiliar, higher register of a woman, sounding tired and thinner than how he felt inside. He clenched his teeth. The alien feeling of inhabiting this body clung to every motion: the loose clothing rubbing his skin, mixed with sweat and dust, made him unbearably uncomfortable.

A hood lay folded beneath his arm. His chest rose and fell with his breath; even the smallest movement made it bounce. He had wrapped cloth tight to compress it and reduce the swing while climbing, but it helped only so much — and it made him feel constricted.

He glanced down. Below him was an abyssal blackness, a void like a bottomless gulf. The steady drip of water — ting… ting… — was the only sound proving that time still passed. He dared not look downward for long; the thought of falling filled him with dread, and he couldn’t bear to imagine what his body would look like if he slipped.

By his reckoning it had been nearly three full days — three days of climbing with nothing but the endless ladder: no landings, no rooms, no doors. Just height that never seemed to end.

He had thought of stopping, but each time he peered below the idea vanished. He’d already climbed too far. There was no turning back. Beneath awaited only death and rot; above — maybe, just maybe — a chance to survive.

Eric sat on a rung and let water from his hair drip onto his hand. His fingers shook as he tore off a piece of hard ration and bit into it, then tipped the metal bottle to his lips for a small sip.

He looked up again into uninterrupted darkness, like the throat of some enormous creature that had swallowed him whole.

“Is this a nightmare?” he whispered.
“A dream you can never wake from…”

He stayed clinging to the ladder for a long while, knowing he couldn’t remain there forever or he’d fall. Gritting his teeth, he gripped the iron and forced himself to climb another rung. His hands trembled, but he pushed upward, one step at a time.

Even then he had no idea where the ladder led — whether it ended at all.

But it was long, unbearably long. He wanted to find the person who’d built this damn ladder and slap them — if they were still alive.

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.

Eric ran on, his breathing heavy and ragged from the fight. He thought he had lost the gang, but a terrified scream from behind made his skin crawl.

“What the hell is out here?” he muttered, and he stumbled against a narrow ventilation grate in the wall. A thin stream of stale air breathed out from the shaft. Eric, panting, studied it: something might be following him that way. His instincts said the shaft was passable; his brain screamed that it was dangerous. Whatever was behind him could be worse.

He looked up at the ceiling — a tangle of pipes and rusted iron — and measured the vent’s height and width. It was just wide enough for him to squeeze through. The faint beam of his flashlight revealed a narrow ladder inside, and the airflow smelled different from the oily stench below: a hint of cleaner air, as if it came from a higher level.

(It was only marginally better. Barely.)

Eric tore a strip of cloth from his pack and ripped it in two. He bound one strip tight around his chest and waist, pulling the shirt in so the new curves would be flatter and less likely to bounce while he climbed. He folded the other strip to help him grip the ladder.

He set the flashlight to its dimmest mode and crawled into the shaft. Dust hit his face; mildew and flakes of rust clung to the metal edges. The wind in the shaft sighed and pulsed — at once a warning and a small relief.

The air smelled metallic and thick with dust that scratched at his throat. He coughed, brushed grime from his face, and ducked his head into the shaft. The weak bulb flickered as if it might go out at any moment.

He climbed until his arms trembled. The cold iron dug into his palms and the rust stung. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been climbing — long enough that his supplies were nearly gone — and once, a rotten rung gave way beneath him and he almost fell.

POK!

“Ow!” Eric cried out as his head slammed into something. When he looked up he saw a metal plate or cover blocking the ladder. Finally — somehow — he had reached the top.

“Yes! Finally!” he shouted in relief. He shoved at the plate. It was stuck tight, or maybe he was just weak — this woman’s body felt weak sometimes — but eventually he forced it open. The air above felt cleaner, somehow — still foul and stale, but unquestionably better than below.

“I’m not stuck in that dark tunnel anymore,” he said to himself, elated.

He hauled himself over the edge. His whole body was cramped and numb; his shoulders ached from climbing; his palms were raw and scored with dried blood from gripping the ladder. Dirt ground under his fingernails. The heaviest burden, though, was the chest wrapped tight against his ribs. He tried to breathe deeply but felt a constant tightness from the binding.

He looked around and found himself in a narrow alley whose floor and walls were metal. Trash, rust and filth clung to the ground, and dust lay everywhere. Overhead a metal ceiling rose dozens of meters, scattered with a few weak lamps that offered only a dull, thin light. The place felt dangerous, but Eric didn’t care — he was exhausted and desperately needed rest.

He closed the metal plate behind him to block the ladder; he didn’t want anything from below to climb up. He also didn’t want anyone else to fall down into that pit.

Shouldering his rifle, he eased further into the alley. His tired arms trembled with the weight of the gun. A few mutated cockroaches scuttled by, but they were easily dispatched by a quick burst from the rifle.

Turning into a deeper passage, he met a shabby man emerging from the shadows. The man was gaunt, dressed in rags, and looked at Eric with a predatory gaze that made him uneasy — even though Eric had nearly covered himself, leaving only his eyes and forehead exposed.

“Lost, little sister?” the man leered in a crude, menacing tone. The language was one Eric didn’t fully understand — the same guttural slang from below rather than the chipped speech of the tech-priest — but the meaning was obvious. Being a woman here felt dangerous, and the thought made a hot flash of frustration and fear roll through him. Still, he had a gun.

“Don’t come any closer!” Eric shouted, leveling his pistol. He clicked the safety off and curled his finger around the trigger, ready to fire. Fear was turning into anger; he just wanted to sleep. If this creep stopped him, he’d make sure the man slept for good.

The man only smiled with yellowed teeth and reached into his pocket as if for something. He took a step closer and started to laugh.

Bang.

Eric didn’t hesitate. The shot struck the man, and he crumpled to the ground. The alley fell silent except for the smell of gunpowder and Eric’s quick, ragged breaths.

He stripped the body for anything useful and found a few small round coins stamped with a two-headed eagle and a short knife. The area felt lawless and brutal — a far cry from the most dangerous neighborhoods he’d known back home.

When he made sure the passage was clear, Eric picked a dark corner with a jut of wall for a backrest and settled down. He took off his shoes to check his feet; blisters and raw spots burned from the constant climbing and the tight shoes. He massaged his feet briefly, tightened his laces, and lay down on his side despite the discomfort. He hugged his rifle to his chest and, for the first time in days, let himself try to sleep.

Chapter 4: 4

Eric blinked awake slowly and pinched himself again to make sure he wasn’t dreaming — or to jolt himself out of this nightmare. His arms and legs and feet still ached from the strain, but the pain had eased. He pushed himself up, propped his back against the wall for a moment, then sat and packed the bag he’d been using as a pillow. He checked his supplies. Only a few rations left. It was bad, but at least he still had the coins he’d stolen from the corpse.

Coins meant commerce — people used money here — which meant there might be a shop.

Right now he wanted something decent to eat: bread, sausage — anything better than the ration cakes. But first he needed a safer place to rest, somewhere he could settle for a while. He wasn’t sure if any of that existed in this district.

He checked his ammo. Forty-one rounds left in the rifle’s magazines — not a lot. The pistol had a little over thirty rounds. He wasn’t planning a war; it might be enough.

Eric moved out of the alley into the dim street, passing the corpse of the man he’d killed before he’d slept. He picked his way through narrow lanes carefully and got turned around a few times — he still didn’t know the layout — but eventually he emerged into an open area that surprised him.

He’d come out between rows of metal-clad buildings. It looked like a crowded quarter, except the buildings weren’t brick but dull gray metal. Scattered street lamps gave a weak glow. It was the biggest slum he’d ever seen, and the smell wasn’t much better than what he’d left below — only the decay here was less extreme. People moved about, but not in a dense crush; something about the scene made him hesitate — he couldn’t quite put it into words.

Most of the people here looked slightly better off than those below, but you could still see the toll of pollution, long hours, and other hard lives. Eric kept his hood up and a cloth over his face, rifle slung across his back and a hand resting on the pistol in his pocket as he tried to walk without drawing attention. As he went he noticed signs of trouble everywhere: people passed out in the streets, symptoms like heavy drug use, people who looked enslaved, brothels. He even spotted a body that had been fused to a triangular tracked base — a human’s torso grafted onto machine treads, eyes and an arm replaced with crude robotics, a broken servitor abandoned at the curb and uncared for. Gross. Like something ripped from a cyberpunk nightmare. This place was getting stranger by the minute.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Gunfire erupted somewhere hundreds of meters away, like a scene out of Mad Max — people fighting with guns and improvised weapons. Eric rubbed his eyes. Where the hell was he? Half-robot people, Mad Max-style fights — this was getting out of hand.

He forced himself to breathe slowly and ignore the chaos. He needed supplies, shelter, anything to improve his chances of surviving — or, ideally, a way out. When he spotted a shopfront or something like it, he didn’t hesitate and walked straight in.

_____________________________________________

 

About a week later.

The clang of metal never stopped in the old factory, where the air always smelled of oil and gunpowder.

Eric — or the person who now wore his face — stood in front of a huge shell-press that thudded with a steady, hypnotic rhythm. The machines were old enough that parts of them were rusted, but steam pipes above kept them running. Spent brass casings lay in heaps on the floor; the scrape of metal and the clatter of machinery made his stomach turn.

Under the stifling heat and chemical sting, everyone here wore heavy protective suits and large respirator masks. Eric wore his as well; the full-face mask and dust goggles caught the orange flicker of the overhead lamps. He was grateful for it — more than annoyed — because it hid everything he didn’t want anyone to see.

The suit wasn’t comfortable. Sweat soaked him through and made him miserable, but the alternative was worse. Why the factory didn’t have better ventilation was beyond him.

His hands moved in a practiced rhythm: pick up an empty casing, feed it into the slot, pull the lever, check the finished round, stack it in a wooden crate. He hated this work. He hadn’t gone to college to end up in a dim, noisy munitions plant. Yet he was luckier than most here: there was work to do. The pay was small — they were making ammunition for local gangs — but it kept him alive for another day. Fate had also opened a position when a worker disappeared and was later found dead and apparently sexually assaulted in the street, leaving a vacancy that Eric had taken.

Announcements crackled over the system in a language he was beginning to pick out: orders about “new lot” and “don’t drop them.” He didn’t understand everything, but he understood enough: don’t make mistakes. This was not a city company with benefits and understanding supervisors. People who screwed up tended to disappear without anyone asking questions.

Vibrations from the press ran up his arms. He shrugged and flexed his wrists to loosen the ache. He was getting used to this body. At first the shifted center of gravity had felt foreign and awkward, but now his slim hands and arms moved with steady efficiency. The chest that had distracted him when bending or reaching now barely registered — his body had adjusted to the heavy work.

He glanced at the two workers beside him, muffled voices and laughter leaking out from behind their masks. Under the flickering lights they were anonymous labor — nameless hands in a room full of machinery that swallowed conversation.

He pulled the lever again — crack — and stacked another ten loaded shells into a crate. He paused only briefly, glancing up at the faint light slipping through a ventilation shaft. And finally, the moment he had been waiting for — in whatever world this was — came: the end of his shift.

The factory whistle screamed and vibrations rippled through the metal floor like a bone-deep tremor. Machines that had been roaring eased one by one into clicks, then into the tired exhale of pressure pipes letting off steam.

Eric set the final crate down and, using the back of his hand, wiped sweat from his mask (though the sweat was actually inside, steaming and sticky). “Finally… I’m exhausted,” he mumbled, his voice muffled and hollow through the respirator.

Workers peeled off oily gloves and sighed until mist fogged the filters on their masks. Tools clattered as they were set down. Eric threaded his way through the flow of people leaving via the main gate. He disliked jostling, especially now in a body that felt exposed; even a light touch made him uncomfortable in a way it hadn’t before.

At the wash corner he removed his gloves and revealed pale hands streaked with soot and powder. He turned an old, leaky tap and rinsed them, staring at hairline cracks in the concrete wall while thoughts wandered. He’d grown accustomed to the smells of oil and hot metal — whether he liked them or only accepted them, he couldn’t say.

Outside the factory the whistle blew again — not for starting work, but to mark the evening shift’s beginning. Life in the Hive never paused. Eric lifted his face under a ceiling of metal and weak lamps; there was no sky to see, only a dim false light that always seemed moments from dying. He breathed in, turned, and began the walk back to the place he called home, hand ready at his pistol.

His route took him down a run-down street where the lamps flickered and buildings wore soot and gothic flourishes. People moved about as they always did: the homeless slept in doorways, local gangs negotiated with shopkeepers — clearly collecting protection money. The distant gunfire from gang fights was a recurring, baffling ritual: fights broke out near quitting time, lasted an hour, then resumed again the following day. He didn’t understand the point, but it was part of life here.

What bothered him most was how often the shooting happened during his commutes. He was glad the gangs generally ignored him, but stray bullets were a constant worry.

He passed a church that had been modified with darker iconography — black skulls and gloom mixed into otherwise familiar Christian ornament. Symbols like lilies and roses still appeared occasionally, and a golden, armored statue holding a burning sword and a clawed gauntlet stood in a niche. Faint chanting leaked out; from what he knew, most people here worshipped the Emperor as a quasi-religious figure. Fortunately, the priests didn’t yet have the power to turn the area into a theocratic nightmare — areas where the clergy ruled tended to resemble the medieval past, and he’d seen people burned on stakes a few days earlier. Eric hurried past the church and ducked into a shop three blocks down.

 

A narrow little shop revealed itself behind the counter. Most of the goods were cans and bars of corpse starch, other packaged foods, bottled water, a few items of clothing, medicines, sanitary pads, and a number of guns and rounds. Behind the counter stood a pale woman with blond hair, wearing a red top and a white work apron. One of her eyes was green and the other was a bright blue optical lens; one arm was mechanical and roughly three-quarters of her face looked metallic. She was the first person Eric had spoken to properly since he’d arrived — a strange, cyberpunk-ish woman, though nothing here looked particularly high-tech. She was repairing a prosthetic hand as Eric greeted her the way he usually did.

“Hello, Magda. The usual — a corpse-starch bar and a bottle of water, please,” Eric said in a familiar tone as he pulled off his gas mask, revealing his face. He looked a little better than before: he had enough water and food for now, the dark circles under his eyes had faded slightly, though he still looked exhausted. His white hair was a little messy and greasy. Magda paused for a moment, then spoke without looking up from the prosthetic hand she was fixing.

“Same as always, little miss. Erica — you’re doing well, surviving here for about a week, all things considered,” Magda said flatly, her voice showing no particular emotion.

Eric frowned. He wasn’t from “upstairs” — he just looked like them.

“It’s the same as always. And seriously, Magda, I’m not from upstairs. I can’t tell anyone where I came from — it’s not safe,” Eric tried to deflect. Who would believe he’d come from the 2020s? Dodging the subject made things smoother and kept him safe.

“Some secrets are better left unsaid, kid,” Magda said. “Here — three units.” She rose, moved to the shelf, and grabbed the starch bars and a bottle of water, setting them on the counter. Eric took a coin from his pocket and handed it over.

“So how was work today, kid? I hope pretty girls like you aren’t working in the brothels,” Magda joked as she took the coin.

Eric clenched his jaw and puffed his cheeks in annoyance. He knew she was teasing, but the comment still irked him. Why did people keep talking to him like that?

“Look at me, Magda. I’m in this suit. I work in a factory. I’m not in any brothel. This is factory work,” Eric replied, annoyed, and pointed to his heavy brown coveralls and gas mask. Then he tucked the starch bars and water back into his backpack.

“I didn’t mean to offend, little one… be careful out there. Don’t vanish mysteriously, and don’t end up a corpse dumped in the street. This place is dangerous — especially for pretty ones like you,” Magda warned as she sat down again and continued repairing the prosthetic. Eric exhaled. At least someone seemed to care, or at least to pretend to care.

“Thanks for worrying. May the Emperor or the Omnissiah watch over you,” Eric said, using the local blessing people often spoke. It felt strange, this quasi-religion of machine worship, but in this place anything could be true.

“You too. Be safe,” Magda nodded. Eric pulled his gas mask back on and left the shop.

He walked through alleys until he reached a building where he now lived alone — a place set a little away from the busy center, so fewer people disturbed him. He’d gotten the room a week ago. The rules here were informal: if a room was unused and nobody claimed it, anyone could move in — so long as they paid water and electricity to the gangs. Those fees were steep.

He climbed the stairs to a single room where the water and power still functioned. When he unlocked the door and stepped inside, he found a shabby gray room, ten by ten meters: a single window, an empty bed frame, a chair, a hanging rail with a few clothes, and one box. There was a small bathroom — one he rarely used because water was outrageously expensive, even though he badly wanted a proper wash.

 

Eric flipped the light switch and set his bag down gently on the cot. He took off his gas mask and hung it on a hook. He breathed in deeply with relief — he no longer had to breathe through that stale filter, not for a little while at least. He began to strip off his heavy coveralls and hung them on the iron peg in the wall. The sweat and stale smell clung to the clothes; on the outside they looked dry enough, but the inside was soaked with his own sweat. He took off another layer and hung it beside the first, until only a thin undershirt and shorts remained, clinging to him from the heat. It felt strange to be like this — oddly exposed.

Next came the thing that made him most uncomfortable. Eric removed the undershirt and unwrapped the cloth he’d been using to bind his chest — a temporary measure until he could afford a bra. The binding had kept his chest from bouncing while he climbed or worked, but it had been tight and irritating. He untied the knot carefully and eased the cloth down. For a moment he felt the two lumps of flesh free of the binding; then he folded the cloth and set it on the chair before putting the undershirt back on. He felt a real sense of relief without the tight wrap.

He felt oddly embarrassed to be half-naked, even though he was alone.

More comfortable now, he grabbed a towel from the hook and collapsed onto the cot, exhausted from the day’s labor. He wiped sweat from his forehead, neck, chest and thighs with the towel — a surprisingly odd feeling when he wiped his inner thighs, a small discomfort he couldn’t quite explain. He tossed the towel aside, pulled his pack up onto his stomach, and took a swig of water. He put the bottle back, reached for his gun propped against the wall, removed the magazine to count the rounds, racked the slide to chamber a round, and hugged the weapon like a bolster while he thought over everything he’d learned in the past seven days.

For someone in this place, he’d gathered a lot of useful information — and most of it was bad, or at least insane.

First, he was in the far future. The date he’d pieced together: the 265th year of the 986th millennium of the 41st millennium. In other words: a ridiculously distant future. He’d crossed time after being hit by a car? How did that even make sense? He’d expected some otherworldly portal like in cartoons — something sleek and high-tech — not an industrial, medieval-feeling slum. Still, seeing Magda with cybernetic equipment made the future explanation at least plausible.

Second, he was not on Earth. He was on the planet Opel III, on the eastern fringe of the Sacmentum Ultima system, far from Terra, the holy world people talked about.

 

(For anyone who doesn’t know: Sacmentum Ultima is the Imperium’s largest region, overseen by Ultramarines and other Space Marine chapters. It’s infamous for extreme threats — Chaos, xenos, and more — and the eastern flank is especially violent, with heavy activity from Chaos, Orks, Tau, Tyranids, Necrons, and others.)

Third: the Imperium of Man. Eric thought it sounded like the biggest boast he’d ever heard — a human empire that controls most of the galaxy — but judging from some of the technology around him, it might actually exist.

Fourth: the place he’s living in now is called a Hive City — a gargantuan, sky-piercing metropolis or massive slum, packed with people, arms, machines, and all the infrastructure that pays tribute and taxes to the Imperium.

Three noble houses effectively run this Hive: House Korvax, House Malvernis, and House Thalric. These three families have been political rivals for centuries—perhaps millennia—constantly competing and trying to undermine one another. They also sponsor the major gangs in the lower hive and wage proxy wars through their pawns.

All of that politics felt distant to Eric; he didn’t care much about those rivalries. Right now his concern was simple survival — finding a better life and, if possible, getting out. That was very difficult. He’d been dumped in the lower hive, almost the lowest tier: law barely existed, pollution was extreme, and his escape options were slim. One realistic route out might be to enlist in the Imperial Guard.

But the immediate priority was staying alive long enough to consider that option. Worrying too much would only steal the rest he needed, so Eric decided to sleep.

First, though, he had to get up and switch off the light — otherwise he’d be stuck paying a ridiculously high electricity bill.

Chapter 5: “Encounter with the information broker.

Day 268, Year 986 of the 41st Millennium

Hive Spire

Inside a sumptuous hall decorated with antiquities from the pre-fall age, the black lacquered metal walls were exquisitely embossed with the two-headed-eagle crest and the Korvax family sigil — a shield bearing crossed cogwheels and a copper-hued power blade. High above, a thick stained-glass window looked down over a sea of smoke and scattered lights of the Hive City below, where the lives of millions played out in filth and despair.

A tall man sat on a black steel chair at the center of the room. Half his face had been replaced with cybernetics; one eye glowed a faint red beneath white hair receding with age. Lord Valen Korvax, current head of House Korvax and one of the three supreme rulers of Hive Karthion, regarded the view with cold calculation.

Footsteps sounded as another man entered the chamber. He moved with quiet precision; his dark suit was close-cut, a silver cog emblem pinned to his left breast. His eyes were sharp, his motions disciplined — the trained bearing of someone with military experience.

"My lord, intelligence from Lower Hive, Sector Z, has arrived." Malvik knelt and presented a data-slate. Valen nodded slowly as he scanned the figures and reconnaissance images sent from agents operating in that sector.

"Population density is lower than the standard compared with neighboring districts… output is 43% below Sector E… crime rates increased twelve percent in a single month… such conditions are unacceptable," Valen said in a low, steady baritone.

"Shall I initiate a Purity Sweep like in Sector X?" Malvik asked. His tone was even, but the question trembled with the implication: Korvax "Purity Sweeps" meant sending the house's armed retainers into a district to eliminate gangs and dissenters, heedless of civilian casualties. Valen's red optic flared and reflected across the metal at his cheek.

"No… not yet. We will not destroy what still has use," he replied coldly. "Those gangs may be worthless to Malvernis or Thalric… but to me they are raw material not yet forged. They can be turned into my servants — or, properly disciplined, an effective private militia."

"You would… use them?" Malvik looked up, surprised.

"Yes." Valen rose. "We will create Project Z Renewal — in name a reconstruction program, in truth a labor reconditioning initiative." He stepped to the window and gazed down into the dark below, where failing lights winked across the sprawl.

"We will announce the construction of a modern production plant, one claiming efficiency comparable to Sector C… but staffed with cheap labor from the gangs that already control the area. We will offer those gang leaders concessions and resources in exchange for their cooperation in controlling their zones and delivering labor."

"And if they refuse?" Malvik asked, momentarily taken aback.

"Then they are waste to be cleared out before the forging begins." Valen turned, a smile as cold as an ice-world cutting his features.

"And Malvernis and Thalric? They won't let our influence spread into Sector Z unopposed," Malvik said. He and Valen both understood how ruthlessly the rival houses guarded their spheres.

"I do not need them to consent. I only need them to be too slow to stop me." Valen's voice was flat as he returned to the data-slate.

"Spread the rumor that this factory is sponsored by the Mechanicus and falls under Adeptus Arbites production quotas — make them fear touching it," he ordered.

"Understood, my lord. I will have the intelligence unit plant the false reports within a week," Malvik replied.

"Good. Soon Sector Z will become our new copper mine… and as output rises, I will have the pretext to pressure the High Council to expand House Korvax's commercial authority." Valen raised a glass of dark wine and took a sip, then looked straight at Malvik.

"Prepare the operation — and remember: do not spill so much blood that the Arbites take notice, but spill enough that the gangs do not mistake mercy for weakness."

"Understood, my lord."

Valen turned his gaze back to the ocean of smoke and iron below. The grinding of a thousand machines rose up in a terrifying chorus, like a demon laughing beneath his feet — but above all that sound was the music of coin and resources being produced for him.

______________________________________________

 

Sector Z

Eric woke slowly. The first sensation was a dull ache in his arms and legs. He carefully set the pistol he'd been clutching on the floor, put the safety on for good measure, then stretched his hands upward and rolled his shoulders to loosen the stiffness.

He got up and went to the small sink to wash his face, using a damp cloth to wipe the sweat from his skin. He brushed his long white hair — greasy and a little tangled — and thought ruefully about buying shampoo, if only it weren't so expensive. He took care of his other morning needs as best he could.

Once he was dry, he went back to the main room. He removed his undershirt, picked up the strip of cloth he used to bind his chest, and wrapped it on tightly and securely. He breathed a little easier; the binding offered some protection from heat and chemicals, even if it made him hot. He pulled on the scratched black boots — a free secondhand pair — and felt slightly uncomfortable in the heavy outfit. He had no idea how many kilos it weighed, but he'd have to get used to it until he could find better work. He hung his gas mask around his neck.

Eric fumbled in his pack for the corpse-starch bar he'd bought yesterday. He unwrapped the thin foil and revealed a white, rectangular block that smelled faintly rancid. He nibbled at it slowly until it was gone. He hated the gummy, flavorless texture, but the alternatives were either unaffordable or unsafe. A single slab of processed grox meat cost enough to buy thirty corpse-starch bars — and thirty bars, by his reckoning, would keep him alive for a month. So he endured the tasteless ration; it at least kept him full for a day.

He drank, wiped his mouth, and tightened his gas mask to check the fit. He inspected the pistol, checked the rounds and the safety, then slipped it into the pocket of his heavy coat.

He locked the door behind him. The fact that he was the only resident of the building was both comforting and unnerving — comforting because nobody else could surprise him in his room, unnerving because anything could be hiding in the dark. He moved down the corridor, pistol in hand, and finally stepped out into the street.

His lodgings were a fair distance from the denser population and the factories, which made his commute long. Everything outside looked much as it had the day before.

 

As Eric cut through a narrow alley shortcut, he noticed a strange symbol painted on the wall — an eight-pointed star. It was the same mark he'd seen on the mummy-like zombie back in the Underhive. Something odd was going on. Then again, odd things happened here all the time, and this symbol was probably just another one of them.

Suddenly two men in tight, strange leather outfits stepped out and blocked his path. Eric saw they wore a bizarre emblem that merged male and female symbols into one. The exposed skin on one man was scarred from torture, and both reeked of cheap perfume, alcohol and drugs.

"Where're you off to? Fancy a sermon — or to join the Cult of Pleasure?" one of them sneered. This place was full of lunatics. Eric wouldn't let them talk more. He flashed his pistol, fired twice, and both men dropped. Repetition and necessity had made him practiced; he felt oddly proficient with the sidearm after so much real use.

He exhaled, annoyed and guilty, then dragged the bodies to the side of the alley, collected the spent casings, checked their weapons, and continued on as if nothing had happened.

Eric told himself he didn't want to kill, but the situation had left him no choice: if he didn't act, he would have been assaulted or worse. He kept walking toward the denser part of the district, trying not to draw attention. He passed Magda's shop, the church, and the stretch where the Mad-Max-style gangs frequently clashed — the same area where factory-made rounds from his plant often got used. He checked in at the factory and began another shift.

 

As Eric cut through a shortcut alley, he noticed a strange symbol painted on the wall — an eight-pointed star. It matched the mark he'd seen on the mummy-like zombie down in the Underhive. Something weird was definitely going on.

But weird things were common here, and this symbol was probably just one more oddity. Still, as he walked, two men in tight, bizarre leather outfits stepped out and blocked his path. Eric noticed a strange emblem on them: a hybrid of the male and female symbols fused into one. One of the men had tortured flesh exposed beneath his clothing, and both smelled of cheap perfume, alcohol and drugs.

"Where are you going? Fancy a sermon — or joining the Cult of Pleasure?" one of them taunted. This place was full of lunatics. Eric didn't wait to hear more. He drew his pistol and fired straight into both their heads. Repetition and necessity had made him efficient — he felt oddly practiced with the sidearm after so much real use.

Both men collapsed. Eric sighed with a mixture of boredom and guilt, dragged the bodies to the side of the alley, collected the spent casings, checked their weapons, and continued as if nothing had happened.

He kept telling himself he didn't want to kill, but the situation left him no choice: if they hadn't been shot, he would have been assaulted or worse. He walked on toward a more populated area, deliberately trying not to draw attention. He passed Magda's, the church, and the stretch where the Mad-Max style gangs often clashed — the same place where rounds from the factory he worked at frequently got used. He checked in at the factory and started another shift.

After work that day, tired as usual, Eric planned to dig up a little more information. He took a dark shortcut into an alley to find an information broker some coworkers had been whispering about. The passage was rank and shadowed, but he'd grown used to the smells and the dark. He kept his pistol tight in his pocket. This would be the third person he'd have to deal with besides the factory recruiter and Magda. People here couldn't be trusted. In this body — a seemingly fragile, attractive woman — he knew he could be harassed, captured, enslaved, or sold.

Why was being a woman so damn hard? Vulnerable, and also eye candy for predators.

Partway down the alley, he spotted a man in the distance acting oddly; the air nearby shimmered. Then the man flung a ball of fire and, for some reason, lightning shot from his fingertips toward the wall, lighting the alley in a sudden flare. Magic, in the 41st Millennium? Eric scoffed at himself — of course he'd have to run into a spellcaster now. Whatever it was, it looked dangerous, and it was fortunately some distance away, so Eric bolted before the man could notice him.

At the end of the twisted alley he reached a door set in a gray wall and pushed it open. Inside was the kind of shop and dwelling common in the Lower Hive: dim, dingy and filthy. Behind the counter sat a man wrapped in a heavy cloak, all but his strange, glowing blue eyes hidden from view. Such luminescent eyes were odd, but in this place who knew what was normal?

When the man saw him enter, he peered up and spoke in an odd, almost mesmerising voice.

"Welcome, madam… You must be new. What do you seek? News from above… or a noble's scandal you can use for blackmail? I have it all… but everything has a price, depending on its rarity. Or perhaps you're after rare goods?" he said, pulling back part of his cloak to reveal rows of items under his garments: jewelry, ammunition, something resembling drugs, shampoo and bars of soap. Eric's eyes fixed on the soap — he desperately wanted it, even though he knew water was expensive and he could probably only afford to wash his face or hair. More striking, the back of the stall was an arsenal: pistols of many sizes, submachine guns, assault rifles, shotguns, heavy machine guns, what looked like anti-vehicle rifles and grenade launchers. There were also large automatic weapons without conventional magazines that seemed battery-fed (he didn't know what lascannons were), and other monstrous firearms (he didn't recognize the Bolter either). On another shelf sat prosthetic limbs of every kind and size, and a few servitors.

 

He thought this broker wasn't an information dealer at all — he was an illicit arms merchant, with a small arsenal to prove it.

"I just want to ask if there's any way up from here besides the usual routes," Eric said evenly, forcing his voice to sound less like his naturally sweet tone. Still, his eyes kept flicking to the cache of goods behind the counter.

"You really came to ask me that? Waste of time. The alternatives are all ridiculously dangerous," the merchant said. "Best bet is to enlist in the Imperial Guard. That information costs two culfs — pay up. And between you and me, I know you're more interested in the stuff behind me than in intel. Fancy a gun? A pretty thing like you could buy two lascannons with her price." The dealer grinned and made a gesture asking for payment. Eric bristled at the comment. Even with his face hidden by a gas mask and his body wrapped in heavy clothes that made it hard to tell male from female, people here treated him like an object. He disliked the talk, even if most of the men who spoke that way ended up dead.

"All right…" he replied, annoyed, and fished two coins from his pocket. The dealer accepted them, dropped them into a chest, bowed and touched his chest in the two-headed eagle salute.

"Heh. Thanks. Come again. If you've got more money you can buy anything from me. I never knew there were beauties like you up there — you don't look like you're from any noble house, and you don't look like you came from down below either. If you were noble-born, I'd have heard about you already." The merchant, pleased and sly, stroked his chin while sizing Eric up.

"Don't flatter yourself. I'm not connected to any nobles, and I've only been here a week," Eric said, deflecting and trying to sound casual. He wanted to avoid suspicion and maybe win a little goodwill or a discount by chatting.

"Interesting. Hope to see you back," the merchant said.

"Thanks. I'm Erica de la Cruz. What's your name?" Eric revealed, taking off his mask enough to introduce himself — it felt good to speak to someone without a mask between them.

"Haha… she is beautiful. That name sounds noble. I think you're lying about not having ties upstairs. I'm Raul Menendez — pleasure," Raul said, slapping the counter and laughing when he saw Eric's face and heard the name. The name sounded Spanish; he might be useful. Still, Raul was untrustworthy — the sort of merchant who would sell anything for the right price. But if Eric could get on good terms with him, it could pay off.

"Nice to meet you. If I don't die first, I'll stop by again," Eric said, putting the mask back on and heading out. Raul's voice called after him.

"It's a shame a beauty like you is stuck down here. You should be using proper shampoo and conditioners," Raul joked. Eric turned, hopeful that Raul might offer a gift or discount — but Raul simply smiled and added, "Minimum fifty culfs."

Eric's shoulders sank. Of course the things he wanted — shampoo, soap — were outrageously expensive here. He wanted to wash his long white hair and not cut it, but he'd set aside half his savings for his plan to get out of this place.

He wandered the alleys for a while, lost since he'd only been here a short time. Luckily, the spellcaster he'd seen earlier was gone — he didn't fancy fighting a mage. Eventually he made his way back to Magda's shop to buy supplies and greeted her as usual. She looked a little rough today; the counter was full of prosthetic hands to repair. Eric removed his mask, breathed deeply, and said the line he always used.

"Corp-starch bar and a bottle of water, please, Magda."

Magda looked up. The remaining corner of her eye was already darkening with a bruise.

"All right — one moment." Her voice was flat as she steadied herself and stood to fetch the items. Eric tried to make small talk; he'd been isolated and on edge, and some conversation was better than none.

"Why have you been so busy lately?" he asked, glancing at the pile of weapons waiting for repair.

Magda set the packet down and rubbed her temple before answering.

 

"I don't know much, kid. But it looks like something big is coming, and I've been swamped with work — so please, stop pestering me," Magda said in her flat voice, exhaustion clear in her eyes. She turned back to the workbench and resumed repairing a weapon.

A big fight, huh? And all those daily shootouts before and after shifts weren't big enough? Or are people just bored and buying guns to blow off steam? Eric thought. If a major battle really was about to happen, he'd have to be even more careful — it could affect him badly. Still, if a lot of people died tomorrow, at least there'd be fewer stray bullets to worry about, he grimly noted.

"Thanks for the tip, Magda," he said, and reached into his pocket for his coins. Suddenly Magda went quiet — as if she'd seen something, or there was something behind him. Eric hadn't heard a thing.

"Is something wrong, Magda? Say something," he called. Magda stayed silent. A chill ran through him; when she fell quiet like that, it meant trouble. Something was definitely behind him.

"This isn't funny!" he snapped, his voice sharpening in a tone that sounded oddly high and strained.

When Eric turned, he literally recoiled at what he saw.

Chapter 6: Meet arbites

Summary:

He came across the local policeor whatever passed for them herefor the first time…

…and he had no desire to ever encounter them again.

Day 268, Year 986 of the 41st Millennium

Lower Hive — Zone Z

The first thing he saw was a pair of heavy black boots, caked with iron dust and old oil stains from the hive’s streets. His gaze slowly climbed: matte black armor bearing the two-headed eagle crest on one shoulder and a winged fist emblem on the other, plates of metal polished until they reflected the harsh light.

“Oh…” he breathed, almost without sound.

The man before him stood nearly two meters tall. His face was set beneath an almost-full Arbites helmet; one lens glowed a vicious red beneath receding white hair. In his hand he carried what Eric took for a shock baton, and slung at his side was an Enforcer-pattern shotgun. Each of his steps landed heavily, like the weight of the whole room pressed down.

“Routine sector inspection. We’ve had reports of illegal weapons trade in this area.” The deep voice came through a throat mic, cold and controlled. Magda remained motionless behind the counter, her face and eyes expressionless as always. She pushed herself up slowly from the bench piled with guns and parts and answered in a flat tone.

“These items are all customers’ repair jobs. Every firearm is registered — you can check.” The Arbites glanced slowly around the counter and picked up an energy pistol. He inspected the serial plate and factory stamp, then pressed a handheld scanner to the barrel. The scanner beeped softly and the display flashed green; he checked the provenance documents Magda handed him.

“Registration valid… Authorized by the Korvax family production plant, Mosaw Arms dealer, Factory No. 9865…” he murmured, then scanned another weapon and scrutinized its paperwork. Each result was the same: every gun was legally registered.

Eric swallowed; his eye twitched. The weapons these people used to shoot each other every day were registered? His own gun had no registration, and neither did he. He didn’t dare move a finger — his hand still curled around the coins he’d been about to pay with. He wanted to say something to break the silence, but a cold lump of fear tightened in his chest.

The Arbites turned toward him slowly. The red lens reflected Eric’s outline back at him in a way that made him feel like he couldn’t breathe.

“And you? I’ll have to search you by protocol.” The Arbites’ voice was still icy. Eric shifted so slightly his sweat prickled at his temple. He carried nothing illegal — only one pistol and, in the eyes of this place, he himself might be illegal — but in the Lower Hive even the smallest mistake could mean arrest or worse.

At that moment, Magda’s voice spoke up, quietly but firmly.

“He’s a regular customer of mine. He’s not involved with the gangs.”

The Arbites paused and looked back at her.

 

“Hmm. Yes — rules are rules. You must be searched and your registration checked,” the Arbites said, stepping closer until he was within an arm’s length of Eric.

The red lens levelled with Eric’s eyes; its glow reflected in his face. At that moment he knew that if he so much as said or did the wrong thing, his life could end right there.

“Spread your arms.” The Arbites ordered. Eric lifted his arms and spread his legs slightly in the practiced stance they’d taught recruits. The command was short, without courtesy or hint of sympathy.

The Arbites’ thick hand probed the outer layer of Eric’s coat, feeling along the shoulders and down in a careful, methodical search. He palmed the outer pockets, checked zips and seams with deliberate pressure — slow and thorough rather than hurried.

Eric felt as if he were being peeled open, piece by piece. The heavy coat that protected him from heat and chemicals was lifted; the gas mask hanging at his neck was nudged aside. His hands trembled. He tried not to stare at the inspector’s face, but he failed; his cheeks burned with embarrassment.

The Arbites’ fingers ran down to the waist and tested the belt and zipper. When his hand reached Eric’s torso, he asked Eric to lift his shirt slightly so the handheld scanner could pass over his skin. The tiny “beep” of the scanner sounded faintly, but it rang loudly in Eric’s head. He’d been searched at airports before — this felt worse.

“Don’t move,” the officer warned. Shame mixed with the cold reminder that a single illicit item could mean arrest — or worse — in the Lower Hive. Eric stood submissively as the Arbites checked the inner pockets and finally saw the satchel slung over Eric’s shoulder.

“Bring me the bag.” The order was curt. Eric handed it over. The Arbites rifled through the contents without haste but found almost nothing of interest.

The scanner swept the belt again and emitted a sudden sharp tone. A red flare flashed. The Arbites looked up slowly at Eric.

“Open the belt,” he commanded, and then eased the buckle aside as if disarming something dangerous. Eric’s stomach dropped; his hands went ice-cold.

The thick fingers went to the holster and drew out the small, unadorned pistol. When the handheld scanner found no record, the display blinked red with one clear word: UNREGISTERED.

Eric’s heart thudded in his ears. He felt certain something terrible would follow, but he forced himself to answer calmly.

“Unregistered weapon,” the Arbites said matter-of-factly. He didn’t shout, but his voice carried the weight of the law slamming down on Eric. He removed his glove, grabbed a tablet and typed rapidly, recording evidence. He photographed the gun and Eric’s face and added them to the case file.

The Arbites set the evidence aside, handed Eric some forms and instructed him to sign. Eric signed with stiff lips and shaking hands; the signature on the paper felt like an official erasure of his identity in the eyes of the bureaucracy.

When the search finished, the pistol was bagged as evidence and a fine notice was slapped on the counter with no explanation or reprieve. Eric paid the fee and the Arbites left.

“That was rough… you were unlucky today,” Magda tried to comfort him. “You were lucky it was Officer Gerico. If it’d been someone else, they might have hauled you off.” Eric nodded and slipped the corpse-starch into his pack.

“Thanks,” he muttered. He paused for a moment, thinking about how fragile he must look in this body — how visible that vulnerability was even with the mask. Each step forward suddenly felt twice as heavy. Still, he left the shop with the starch and the fine notice that said he would have to go upstairs to pay, or to see Raul — who apparently had connections with the constabulary. That might explain where this little private armory had come from.

Damn — the fine ate up half his savings.

Irritated, Eric kicked a trash can until it dented, then hunted for something to defend himself with on the way home. He found a length of metal pipe that fit his hand.

He made his way back through the dim alleys as usual. Today he passed a group of three mutated humanoids — bald, three-armed, scaled — gathered in a cluster. With only the pipe in hand, he crept up and struck one on the head, then slipped away before they could react. When he reached his building he unlocked the door and stepped inside carefully, as he always did in the dark.

 

Eric slammed the door and locked it behind him. He tossed the pipe onto the floor, stripped off his clothes, and hung everything back up where they belonged before collapsing onto the cot, trembling with fear and a small, burning shame. That damn cop had searched him — the man himself. He’d been frisked like at airports and at checkpoints before, but this felt completely different. The humiliation was hard to describe.

And they’d taken his pistol and issued him a fine. Why did they care so much about weapons while neglecting missing people, assaults, and other crimes? What kind of logic governed this place?

Whatever. At least it had been an Arbites officer who searched him, one apparently cold and by-the-book — not someone who’d relish beating him with a baton or throwing him in a cell. Still, he’d been ticketed for possessing an unregistered weapon. Who would have thought that every gun in Magda’s shop — the ones the gangs brought in for repairs — would be legally registered? Nothing about this place stopped surprising him.

Eric did what he always did: he unwrapped the cloth he used to bind his chest and set it on the nearly-unused chair. He flopped back onto the cot and tried to think through his options.

A big fight seemed to be coming — and it would happen in the same zone he lived in. It probably wouldn’t hit his little corner directly; he lived far enough away from the main population that it was mostly isolated and dangerous rather than immediately lethal. Still, he worried about supplies. He could spend his savings buying extra food and essentials to stockpile, since a conflict would make already scarce goods even harder to find. But that would drain his money. He could try to go without, but that wasn’t a good plan either — he was already borderline malnourished from eating nothing but corpse-starch, and his skin looked paler from days without sunlight. His muscles ached all over.

“Why don’t the factories install semi-automatic machines? Not everything — just automate the packaging, at least,” he muttered to himself. He knew grumbling wouldn’t change anything, but it helped him blow off steam. He shifted to try to get more comfortable.

When he turned, though, he noticed something damp and odd — a painful, strange tackiness. He thought he hadn’t eaten anything bad or drunk contaminated water, not since he’d tried that mutated rat down in the Underhive.

“Huh?” Eric frowned and slipped a hand to the shorts he slept in. He froze when he felt a weird stickiness.

 

He lifted his head a little and saw faint reddish smudges of blood on his fingertips. It made him panic.

“Fuck… did someone stab me while I wasn’t looking?” he muttered under his breath. His other hand fumbled down to check his lower abdomen, frantic, afraid he’d find a wound or a cut he didn’t know about. There was no wound — only a little soreness and… blood… flowing from… oh shit!

“What!? What the hell… this can’t be,” he whispered hoarsely, eyes wide. He didn’t know what to do. His mind raced for an explanation, and the only word that came to him was… period. He sat motionless for several minutes after that thought arrived.

“Calm down, Eric… remember you’re not in a man’s body anymore… and this is normal for women,” Eric told himself, taking a slow, steadying breath. He forced himself to accept it: if he could survive this place, he could cope with this too. He hoped so, at least.

He wanted to go buy sanitary pads from Magda right away, but the streets weren’t safe. He decided to do a quick fix. He grabbed the cleanest scrap of cloth he could find in his bag and wrapped it roughly to hold things in place. He sat back against the wall and stared at the rust-streaked metal ceiling and the leaking patches.

“God… why do I have to deal with this now?” he murmured. Fatigue hit him like a wave. He turned out the light, pulled the blanket over himself, and tried not to think.

Eric closed his eyes slowly. The last thought before sleep was a single, annoyed sentence:

“...being in this body sucks.” But he clearly couldn’t just lie there. He needed pads. Eric got up, switched the light back on, dressed, counted his ammo, loaded the assault rifle and headed out to Magda’s shop. Bald three-armed mutants, psychotic freaks, whatever — he’d had enough. He wasn’t carrying a pipe anymore; he had a real gun. If he got fined again, fine — he’d deal with that later.

…Why was he so emotionally volatile? Eric wondered.

 

______________________________________________

 

Hive Spire — Korvax Manor

Malvik stood in a small workroom beneath the great hall of the Korvax manor. The dim light from an iron lamp cast a narrow circle over the metal table; data chests and maps of Zone Z lay scattered on the floor. He snapped on his leather gloves, picked up Lord Valen’s tablet, and began preparing to carry out the orders he had heard from his master.

His fingers danced a small pen across the screen, his eyes quick and cold as machinery. He drew boundary lines on the map: entrances, frequent repair access points, gathering sites of the three main gangs, black-market vendor clusters, the ruined site of the old factory, and water and power conduits that could be rerouted.

“If this is to appear ‘legitimate,’ we must stage it as an industrial necessity,” he muttered. Malvik summoned two subordinates: one to handle intelligence and data infiltration, the other a former house security operative to manage field operations. He gave them clear assignments, issuing the same concise orders: plant forged approval documents claiming endorsement by the Mechanicus and the Arbites; open negotiations with local gang leaders with an “offer” they cannot refuse — steady work, resources, and protection under the civil apparatus in exchange for controlling labor and sharing profits.

“Initially, appoint the Ivorian and Moloch gangs to handle logistics. Let the Delaque act as reconnaissance and counter-intel against rivals. If needed, apply ‘incentives’ — money, services, or offers they can’t refuse,” Malvik directed, tapping points on the map.

He then opened the set of forged documents already prepared: approval forms styled to appear as Forge World authorizations and ceremonially stamped Arbites decrees — good enough to fool the inexperienced. “Our intelligence unit will leak a partial dossier to local outlets within the week,” he said. “When they see the Mechanicus stamp and the Arbites name, the lesser gangs will step back for fear of provoking the higher authorities.”

He turned to the operations team. “Send small teams to cultivate relations with the gang bosses. Make the first offer attractive enough to buy two weeks’ leeway. If persuasion fails, apply pressure: burn or sabotage supplies to make it look like inter-gang conflict, then present our ‘corrective’ proposal.” His voice was cool and precise; the tactic was clear — force the gang leaders into aligning with their plan.

On weapons and manpower, he ordered logistics to pre-position machinery components and production chips and to prepare forged licensing to make the new factory appear lawful when the time came. He instructed the weapons division to ready non-lethal control tools and containment kits for workforce management during construction — instruments designed to enforce authority rather than unnecessary brutality.

Malvik prepared the financial channels: secret house funds would route through shell accounts and under-the-table payout wallets to bribe gang leaders during the initial phase, making the arrangement seem credible. He ordered selective bookkeeping to hide the true flow of funds and assigned a risk unit to monitor for interference from Houses Thalric and Malvernis.

 

Malvik also paid close attention to the public “image.” He drew up a plan for the house’s photographers and PR team to release articles claiming that House Korvax relied on the Mechanicus for the project and that the investment would save jobs for the local population — accompanied by staged photographs of children getting work. (Author’s note: yes, they intend to use child labor, paying with food and water — a practice that, while common here, at least prevents the children from starving.) Those falsified images would help calm middle-class resentment in the neighboring districts.

Before he rose, Malvik stood very still for a moment, staring at the map whose lines now crisscrossed like a spiderweb. He wrote down the names of the people who would carry out the operation. He knew the next steps would demand careful coordination and carry great risk: failure could stab the family in the back, but success would mean enormous profit.

“Begin,” he ordered, then slipped on a long coat and left the room for the staging area beneath the manor. His tone remained cool and composed — the temperament of the man who had designed a plan to squeeze lives into economic advantage. Malvik descended the stairs, leaving the map on the table and the forged seals waiting for their moment to be revealed — the scheme to turn Zone Z into a profit-producing machine for House Korvax.

 

______________________________________________

 

Day 269, Year 986 of the 41st Millennium — Deep in the Lower Hive, Zone E

A man lay in an alley, waiting for death, utterly hopeless. He was cold and alone; a lifetime of hardship had turned him into a vagrant, and now he was close to dying from hunger. Just before his consciousness slipped away, he heard a whisper — an offer that would erase his pain and replace it with pleasure. He accepted without hesitation. The agony and suffering faded and were transformed into a serene joy and an urge to share it. Slowly he rose to his feet; his eyes had become a milky white, and his skin began to change.

He started to laugh, a quiet, uncanny sound. He meant to bring that happiness to others — to give them the same blessing his elder had bestowed.

Chapter 7

Day 269, Year 986 of the 41st Millennium

Malvic stood still for a moment, his face cold in the dim light of the under-hall. He looked at the lines drawn across the map: red lines marking the gang leaders' locations, yellow lines showing the supply routes to be seized. The words from the report still echoed in his head — "The gang leader rejected the offer." Short words, but their consequences were large and unwelcome. It meant the strategy of buying time and laundering legitimacy with forged papers had stalled before them (even if, in truth, punishment was unlikely — they preferred the appearance of propriety).

His composure did not dissolve into panic; it immediately reshaped into the next calculation. Malvic set his pen down and rose, moving to the tall window to peer down over the filth of the Lower Hive. His cold eyes found opportunity in the chaos. He summoned the operations commander for an urgent briefing; the steel door shutting behind them was the cue. There was no ceremony in the conversation — Malvic gave short, precise orders.

"Mobilize the House Guard. Prepare an Iron Cohort, roughly two hundred strong, with servitor support and fully armed armored transports. Deploy into the area within thirteen hours. No prior announcement." He pointed to another spot on the map. "Field teams will sever the key supply routes, temporarily cut power and water links, and destroy the stockpiles the gangs use as bases. Then capture the gang leader alive. Do not kill, except when unavoidable. Use the capture as leverage to force the remainder to capitulate."

He did not neglect the political dimension. "Intelligence will release a new brief: this operation is a 'regulatory enforcement' requested by local authorities and technically supported by the Mechanicus. Notify local media and the Arbites only one hour before the operation to prevent time for organized resistance." Malvic spoke slowly, as if composing a scene; he knew the presence of the Arbites on the ground would make the troop movement appear more legitimate.

Other orders were issued in sequence: weapons teams prepare crowd-control gear and breaching tools; clear embarkation points for armored transports; issue face coverings to operatives to avoid alienating lower-tier gangs that could still be controlled; have field medics ready for the wounded. Everything must be silent and swift. He also ordered Finance to open secret wallets and shell accounts to pay the gang leader's bounty up front if necessary.

When the directives were given, Malvic lingered a moment, watching those preparing for the operation from the window once more. He offered no encouragement, no slogans, no grand imagery — only a steady confirmation that the plan must succeed and the numbers must add up. Risks were weighed against expected gains.

Orders were transmitted as signals that faded into the small noises of the under-hall. People began to move: weapons were readied, gear donned, servitors primed. Men and machines fused into Korvax's engine of operation. Soon the steel doors would open onto the stair that led down into the Lower Hive, and the Spire's light would leave a cold smile on their heads as the procession descended into darkness.

 

______________________________________________

Day 273, Year 986 of the 41st Millennium

Lower hive

POV: Raul

Raul's shop was the same as always — dim, with a small armory in the back. He checked the merchandise as usual; right now he was inspecting several pieces of jewelry to see whether they were genuine. Of course, they weren't — they were contraband, stolen from the upper levels — and he planned to fence them when the right opportunity came.

Before long he would leave this planet and move to a civilized world. He'd paid a deposit on a parcel of land with money he'd spent his life earning through smuggling and selling information. He imagined a life of clean air, farming and winemaking, a couple of beautiful wives, and, above all, freedom from this Under Hive and this world.

Today he was in high spirits because he had found a job that would put money straight into his pocket. He'd been lucky to meet that shy woman — as expected, her fee was worth two lascannons.

The nobles had paid well. If he saw her again he'd have to tell her immediately. And speaking of her, she walked into his shop at that exact moment, looking rough.

Erica De la Cruz entered, exhausted; when she pulled off her mask she looked sleep-deprived, several guns slung across her back.

"Oh — hello… Erica, I've got good news. A noble is interested in you and he'll pay a lot! He'll—" Ack! As Raul finished, Erica grabbed him by the collar and yanked him off the counter. Raul hit the shop floor. The woman was shockingly strong; anger and frustration burned on her face and in her eyes.

"Let me finish," Raul tried to calm her as he pushed himself up, but Erica straddled his waist. Raul tried to shove her off, but the scrawny merchant couldn't move her. She rained a flurry of punches into his face.

 

______________________________________________

 

Earlier

Eric woke and checked himself, went through his morning routine as usual, and found that the bleeding had stopped, though he still felt uncomfortable. Today he decided to take the day off — he was tired and sleepy after last night's fight, and the dressing hadn't made him feel any better.

Right now Eric was slightly irritable. Today he had to use half his savings to pay a fine to Raul, who turned out to be on the police's payroll.

Last night, on the way here, Eric had fought three mutant, three-armed, bald humans. He'd managed to kill about fifteen of them before they closed in, and he'd scavenged five contraband guns — which he knew exactly what to do with. He would sell them to Raul, because he needed the money. If it got him more cash, he'd do it.

Eric touched his chin and thought: if Raul really was an informant, there was a chance Raul would double-cross him by reporting him for dealing illegal weapons — and then fine him again. A weapons dealer who was secretly with the police. It didn't make sense, and yet it did. Whatever.

Eric put on his clothes, drank some water, slung the stolen guns over his shoulder, took money from the metal box, and left his lodgings for Raul's shop. He passed the fight site from last night and saw the bodies still there, but he paid no mind and kept going.

When he reached the alley that led to Raul's shop, Eric raised his assault rifle into a ready position and proceeded cautiously. Who knew what might be lying in wait inside? He moved through the maze of darkness and managed to reach the shop entrance safely.

Eric opened the door and saw Raul inspecting jewelry. He removed his gas mask; Raul glanced up and seemed slightly more interested in him than usual. Raul pocketed the jewelry and stood to greet him in his customary sly tone, this time sounding pleased.

"Oh — hello… Erica, I've got good news. A noble is interested in you and he'll pay a lot! He'll—" Ack! Irritable, sleepy, and worn out, Eric heard Raul's words and — before Raul could finish — grabbed him by the collar and yanked him off the counter. Raul's weight wasn't much, and Eric's body had become stronger from hard work, so he pulled Raul down easily.

Wasn't yesterday bad enough? And now this in the morning? He didn't want to hurt or kill anyone, but he couldn't stand it — Raul was treating him like merchandise, like an object to sell. He needed to teach anyone who thought like that a lesson.

Eric threw Raul to the floor; the jewelry and goods fell out of Raul's cloak. Raul tried to rise and offer an excuse.

"Let me finish—" Raul began, but Eric didn't listen. He kicked Raul down again, straddled his waist, and rained punches into Raul's face. Raul tried to fend him off but couldn't. A blow knocked Raul's face covering loose, and Raul cried out in despair. He was battered and bleeding; his face was bruised, and some of his teeth were broken.

"Listen!!! This noble just wants you!!! To be his model for fittings!!! I only meant to tell you so we could split the cut! Stop it now!!!!" Raul shouted, tears mixing with blood.

 

.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.

 

Eric sat motionless on a metal chair that creaked with every shift. In front of him was Raul — a tall young man with a scar running across his left cheek — pressing an ice pack to his face. His features still held the lingering displeasure from the earlier incident.

"...Are you sure you want to take this job? I'm not going to say it twice. It's risky, but if it succeeds, you'll have enough money to get out of the Z district. You won't have to work in a factory for another two years," Raul said in a low voice, folding his arms, still annoyed from being punched.

Eric was silent. He looked down at his hands, callused from lifting at the plant. His body was still tired from last night's shift, but the idea of getting away from here kept running through his mind.

"...So what would I actually have to do?" he asked at last. Raul raised an eyebrow and flopped down onto a rusted metal cot.

"Simple, Erica. Either a fitting model or just a model. This noble likes your look and wants you to work for him."

"What?" Eric blurted, frowning.

"Listen till I finish. People from this noble's household need a new model to try on the clothes she's making or designing — fashion stuff. You don't have to say anything. Just wear what they tell you, pose for the photos. It's not the kind of work you're imagining," Raul continued. Eric remained still.

"Look, I know you hate people staring at you like that. But if it means you get out of here — a decent room in the mid-district, clean water, cheaper utilities, less crime — wouldn't that be worth it?" Raul sighed and looked him straight in the eyes; his tone was more persuasive than threatening.

Eric lowered his gaze slowly. Conflicting feelings surged — doubt, shame, and the desperate wish to escape the life he hated. He finally exhaled and said, "...I'll think about it." That much money could move him somewhere better, someplace with a higher quality of life and a chance at better work, maybe something he used to do.

"Don't think too long. There are plenty of others ready to take those jobs," Raul shrugged, stood, and walked to the counter. He opened the metal drawer underneath with a loud creak, reached in, and placed something onto the scarred wooden table — a lightweight, ivory-white fabric that shimmered under the flickering bulb above, the lace trim at the hem visible in detail. (Writer's note: to be clear, it's not a sheer lacy nightgown.)

"This is the sample outfit they sent to try on first," Raul said, tossing the fabric-wrapped bundle to Eric. Eric caught it off-guard. He opened it…and almost immediately wanted to shut it again.

 

In his hands was a lightweight white lace nightgown that looked like it had come straight from an upper-hive girl's bedroom. It was far too short and so sheer that Eric felt a flutter of unease.

"...You're joking, right? This is—" Eric whispered, trying to put the garment back as if it were something hot.

"Not joking. They want a woman who looks delicate and proportioned. You already look that way, and you're a bit too sturdy," Raul replied flatly, rubbing the cheek Eric had punched.

"I—!" Eric nearly snapped back, but the words caught in his throat. He pressed his lips together. Confusion churned in his chest. A fleeting image flashed through his mind: when he was his old self in the old world, he might have drooled at a sight like this. Now he was the one who would have to wear it. He swallowed hard.

"…I'm not sure I can wear something like this," Eric said quietly. In truth, he was embarrassed even to be bare-chested when he was alone. Raul snorted a laugh.

"Don't act like it's a big deal. You won't be parading through the mid-district — they'll just photograph you in a room. It'll take less than an hour. Hopefully."

Eric stared at the outfit for a long moment. The fabric was fine, soft, and far too thin. For someone who used to be a man, it felt humiliating and terrifying to decide. At last he sighed.

"If it really gets me out of here… I'll try," he murmured.

"Good. Then meet me in three days at the Mid District, Level Thirteen. Don't be late." Raul gave a thin smile — part satisfaction, part mockery.

"Wait — take me with you. I don't know the route."

"Fine, fine — you're persistent. Come by here and I'll get you up, either by the lift or a back route," Raul said with an annoyed tone.

He studied the lace and Eric's pale face for a moment, then nodded with satisfied calm. He rummaged under the counter; metal grated softly as he produced a small pouch and a metal box of assorted items, setting them in front of Eric.

 

"Take these." Raul said, opening the pouch to reveal a bar of herbal soap, a small shampoo bottle with a peeling label but still bright color, a soft towel, a jar of powder, a jar of skin cream, and at the end of the box a small comb and a folding hand mirror — little things he'd like to have right now.

"Pretty faces like yours shouldn't have soot all over them. If you're going to sell your looks, you need to be clean and—well—presentable enough to get money out of them. Understand? The noble likes your face, but not like this," Raul said with a sly smile. Eric took the items with trembling hands. Outwardly he seemed grateful, but his eyes hid many emotions. He'd wanted things like these for a long time, but receiving them now felt awkward.

"Thanks," he murmured uncertainly. Then, remembering why he'd come, he hurried to speak.

"Wait, Raul. I'm here to pay the fine today — about the contraband guns — and I'll sell these guns to you," Eric said, reaching for his money pouch. Raul raised an eyebrow and, sounding bored, replied,
"You probably ran into Officer Jericho giving you trouble. He's always like that. Don't worry about the fine — I'll handle it." He took the pouch and counted the money.

"Do you think I'll get into trouble?" Eric asked nervously. He knew the area was dangerous and knew next to nothing about the upper levels. The word "noble" conjured images: the very top class, living in luxury, feudal and power-hungry, entitled — people with absolute authority. If one of them set their sights on him, what would that mean? Eric could defend himself to some degree, but he wasn't a professional soldier or a seasoned fighter.

"You think you'll get in trouble? Ha. Let me tell you something — women like you are the trouble," Raul said, laughing and clutching his stomach. "Strong and aggressive as hell. At least the girls from the Moloch gang were aggressive from the start — not like you." Eric frowned and replied, irritated.

"Hey!!! It was just a misunderstanding!" he protested. He'd only been sleepy, annoyed, and angry about last night, and Raul's vague comments made misunderstanding easy.

"Fine. But don't let it happen again," Raul said, sounding triumphant. His obnoxious tone made Eric ball his fist, fighting the urge to punch him again. Eric sighed, said his goodbyes, put on his mask, released the safety catch on his gun, and walked out of the shop with a paper bag and the pouch containing soap, shampoo, and the small items.

 

Eric thought about what had happened today. In three days he would do the most humiliating thing he had ever done — but he'd already made up his mind. It was money that would make his future more comfortable (and it would be even better if Raul didn't skim a brutal 20% commission). Eric moved carefully through the dark, tangled alleys as usual. At first it seemed like nothing would happen, but as he neared the main thoroughfare he heard the sounds of a fight — the sort of thing that happened every day, except it really shouldn't be taking place here. When he reached the main street he took off his mask, rubbed his eyes, and put it back on as he approached.

Soldiers clad like knights, bearing a cog-and-copper-sword emblem on their chests, were holding rifles that fired red beams as they fought the gangs.

Knights in a future world?

It must be a hallucination, Eric told himself. Knights with laser rifles in a future world? I must be losing my mind.

(This is Eric's view of ordinary Korvax household troops — soldiers equipped better and trained on par with the Imperial Guard.)

 

---____

Writer's note: Eric doesn't know much about laser weapons or the advanced technology of Warhammer 40k. If he saw a Titan, a starship, or the wonders of the Warhammer 40k universe, he would be stunned — mouth agape.

Chapter 8: 8

Day 269, Year 986 of the 41st Millennium

Lower Hive — Zone Z

Gunfire, laser blasts, and screams filled the air. When Eric stepped off the main road into a narrow alley, neon bands of light streaked across the wet pavement. The smell of gunpowder mixed with oil and the rot from the drains, making his breath heavy. He pulled off his gas mask for a moment, rubbed his eyes to moisten them, then snapped the mask back on out of habit.

The image from earlier clung to his mind: soldiers in heavy armor with polished plates, a cog-and-copper-sword emblem on their chests, carrying weapons that spat red beams. They weren’t the guns Eric remembered from the old world, but they looked “futuristic” mixed with something archaic — like medieval warriors holding laser rifles. He snorted softly at his own chaotic thoughts.

“Knights with laser rifles… right, Eric. You’re going mad,” he told himself, though that voice echoed as loudly as the real noise outside. In the Lower Hive nothing was truly beyond expectation; odd sights shouldn’t calm him. Danger still lurked around every corner — gangs, mobs, lunatics, or three-armed bald mutants could spring out at any time.

Eric picked his way along familiar alleys, holding the paper bag with soap, shampoo, and the little things Raul had given him tightly. Numbers circled in his mind: the fine he had to pay, the savings he needed to reach the surface, and the sum the noble would pay when his stint as a model ended. Raul’s words were clear — twenty percent commission. That cut would swallow a big chunk, but even after the cut it was still more worth than two years on the factory floor.

“Come on, Eric. It’ll be worth it…” he told himself. He forced himself to think in terms of reason rather than the shame whispering in his chest. He used to be an office worker once; he knew wages and time were money. Trading some dignity, even if humiliating, might be the only way out of this rundown dwelling.

But beneath that reasoning was a sharp fear — of being taken as property, enslaved, or worse. He feared waking up one morning and not recognizing the reflection in the glass.

His feet carried him onward. The bodies from last night’s fight he had helped make had not been cleared away; they lay to rot, and the horror prickled through his mind. He tried not to look. He had killed without hesitation lately, and it did not comfort him.

“Knights… probably House Guard or some kind of Arbites,” he thought, forcing labels into his head to feel a sliver of control instead of letting fear rule him. Having a name for what he’d seen made things slightly more manageable.

Near his lodging he slowed, his breath shallower. One hand clutched the bag; the other went into his pocket to check the money left. The fine receipt felt like a brand — a binding obligation, but also the means to keep living.

He pushed open his metal door. It gave a weary screech and shut behind him. He set the bag on the battered table; the faint scent of soap displaced the oily smell for a moment. He leaned against the door, closed his eyes, and drew a deep breath.

Eric took the towel and wiped his face, brushing away dust from the walk. He glanced at the small cracked mirror on the wall — the reflection looked a touch cleaner, but the eyes were the same ones he knew. He pressed a hand to the glass; its coldness snapped him alert.

“Three days. Practice smiling. Practice posing… then find a way out,” he rasped to himself. He began stripping carefully — filthy work clothes from the factory and alleys tossed onto the stained floor.

Finally down to a simple tee and loose trousers, he sat again on the same creaky metal chair. He unwrapped a stick of corp starch, peeled the plastic, and chewed it slowly.

As he chewed, he stared at the fabric and the items Raul had given him. The faint scent of soap and shampoo hit his nose. Shame about the modeling job lingered, but the bland taste and the odd texture of the corp starch soothed him a little. For a short while he allowed himself a pause from thinking about escape routes and looming risks.

He kept chewing and letting thoughts drift in the room’s quiet — plans to get out of the Lower Hive, working with Raul, and the uncertainty ahead. He looked down at the bag of soap.

A thought occurred to him: he hadn’t used soap in over a month. A real wash would feel good. As he stared, a knock sounded at the door. Instantly he snatched up his gun. Nobody else knew this route like he did — how did they find it? The door had been tried open a few times. He was about to pull the trigger when a voice called from beyond the door.

“Wait, Eric. You need to hurry — you’ve got to get to work. We can’t stay here. I’m getting us out of here.” Raul’s voice came from behind the door, making Eric lower the gun, puzzled.

How the hell had Raul tracked him? Had Raul slipped a tracker on him? Eric rummaged through the bag Raul had given him and found a small device blinking red.

“You bastard, Raul — you slipped a tracker on me. I won’t forgive you,” Eric yelled in anger, hurriedly pulling clothes on. If anyone saw him like this, it would be bad.

“Okay, okay, I’ll wait — but hurry up before we all die!!!” Raul shouted, frantic. Now dressed in a thick shirt, Eric asked, bewildered, “What the hell is happening outside?!”

“I don’t know either, Eric! But there are fanatics — like Chaos cultists — and tons of three-armed bald mutants swarming everywhere!!!” Raul answered, breathless and urgent.

Chapter 9: Xenos

Summary:

“What the hell is that alien? It’s disgusting,” Eric muttered as he prodded the creature with his foot. It looked like a mix of many things — insect-like in some ways. Raul, overhearing him say “alien,” immediately corrected him.

“It’s not an ‘alien.’ It’s a xenos. Anything non-human is called a xenos. What does ‘alien’ even mean?” Raul snapped.

Day 269, Year 986 of the 41st Millennium

Lower Hive

When Eric opened the door and saw Raul’s condition, he couldn’t help but blurt out in surprise.

“What did you pack in that bag?” Eric said, astonished. Raul was carrying an enormous bag — it didn’t look like a hurried escape so much as a household move — and he wasn’t even armed. Who travels in a place like this without a weapon?

“There’s nothing in that bag but money — holy shit.” Raul said, turning and opening the bag to show a huge amount of cash. It wasn’t coins; they were checks, each apparently worth as much as one million Calph. From the looks of it, there was no less than three hundred million in there. Maybe Eric should just knock him out and steal it all — given Raul’s smug talk, he might deserve it on principle.

“Shut your mouth before I shoot you,” Eric said irritably, raising his gun and aiming at Raul. Raul put his hands up, frightened and hurried; Eric realized all over again that he’d never trusted merchants, and in this future world he trusted them even less.

“Stop — we have to get upstairs. The lower levels are no longer safe. At least go do the job, then we can split up,” Raul explained. If a contraband merchant like Raul was in a rush to flee, something serious must be happening. If the three-armed mutants Eric had fought on the way home were everywhere, this place would be impossible to stay in. Eric decided to come with Raul, despite his misgivings.

They left the alleyways together. Everything was worse than before: corpses everywhere, fires burning. Eric hurried to Magda’s shop and found she was gone. Raul led him to a secret route with a lift.

Moving cautiously along the edges of the street to avoid fights and detection, they suddenly came face to face with a large creature about two meters tall — big head, wide jaw, yellow eyes, black shell with red softer parts. Eric didn’t know what it was, but it lunged at him. He raised his gun, aimed for its head, and emptied the magazine.

Most of the rounds pounded uselessly against its thick skin or shell, but one round pierced an eye and the thing collapsed immediately.

“What the hell is that alien? It’s disgusting,” Eric muttered as he prodded the creature with his foot. It looked like a mix of many things — insect-like in some ways. Raul, overhearing him say “alien,” immediately corrected him.

“It’s not an ‘alien.’ It’s a xenos. Anything non-human is called a xenos. What does ‘alien’ even mean?” Raul snapped. Eric thought that in a future forty thousand years from now, people might coin new words like “xenos” instead of “alien” — just an evolution of language.

“‘Alien’ basically means the same as ‘xenos,’ Raul,” Eric said dismissively. Explaining more would be a waste of time, and talking about the origins of the word wouldn’t help now.

“Don’t say that in front of the cultists — you could get arrested or executed,” Raul warned. Eric thought the warning sounded ridiculous, but in this future anything could happen. They continued on the planned route.

They skirmished occasionally with mutants and with what Raul called Chaos-worshippers — things that seemed somehow connected to the mutants. At one point they met a huge four-armed xenos about two meters tall, with dark carapace and red flesh. It was so tough that Eric had to empty an entire magazine into it before it fell. He kept protecting Raul — who still had no weapon — but at least Raul wasn’t a complete liability. When Eric ran out of cartridges, he didn’t hesitate to loot a fallen trooper who looked like a household guard from the upper levels. He found a laser rifle and a strange glowing blue pistol. It wasn’t a conventional gun that fired bullets.

Once they reached a safer spot, Eric ate and drank. He was still tired and wanted to keep moving, but he was exhausted and wanted to rest for four or five minutes. Raul was impatient.

“Hurry, Erika! If you dawdle we’re screwed!” Raul shouted. Eric slapped him once to quiet him. He wasn’t trying to be slow to be obstinate — he was just tired; he hadn’t slept enough last night, and today had been brutal.

“If you’re so eager, go then,” Eric snapped, annoyed, drawing the glowing blue pistol and pointing it at Raul. Raul looked terrified — more afraid of that gun than of Eric.

“B-but—” Raul stammered.

Eric heard the pistol humming, the blue glow intensifying and the barrel heating up. He wondered if it would explode.

“Don’t pull the trigger, we’ll all die!” Raul yelled in panic. Before Eric could decide, something else screamed from the nearby main road — a girl’s terrified scream. He hesitated: should he help? Survive first, or risk it to save someone? If he never helped anyone, he’d be no better than the people he despised. After a few seconds, Eric ran toward the sound, ignoring Raul’s protests.

When he got close, he saw a scruffy girl of about eleven being chased by three mutants. He raised the newly acquired pistol and fired. The gun discharged a lump of blue energy — Eric didn’t know what it was, only that it packed a powerful punch.

Even in the dim street, Eric’s aim was good. The blue energy struck one mutant and exploded, instantly removing its upper torso. The other two froze, then Eric fired again — the pistol grew extremely hot and began to whistle like it might blow. Eric threw the pistol at the remaining mutants with all his strength.

The gun detonated, killing the two mutants. Eric didn’t wait — he grabbed the girl’s wrist and pulled her down a side alley, Raul close behind.

“Quick! Behind the wooden crates!” Eric shouted. The girl obeyed without crying out; she panted as he dragged her into a shadowed corner shielded by trash bins and old pipes.

Behind a large, smelly metal dumpster, Eric crept and readied the laser rifle slung on his back. The girl trembled, breathing fast, eyes wide and distrustful. Raul was still panting.

“You… you’re good, right?” her voice shook. In a place where lives were traded for money, the question carried great weight. Eric set the rifle down where he could still reach it, but ready to grab it again. He blinked and tried to keep his voice steady.

“Yes… I’m not one of them,” he said slowly. “My name’s Erica De La Cruz.” The girl stared at him, then whispered her name back.

“Castra… Castra Wald,” she said softly, still watching him. Eric offered a tentative, genuine smile.

“Castra… nice to meet you. I won’t hurt you. I just came to… help,” he said in a gentle voice, trying not to frighten her.

“Why… why are you helping me? Are you going to sell me?” Castra asked, frowning, still distrustful and wary.

“No. I don’t have time to sell anyone. I’m running away too, and… I know how it feels when nobody helps. Since I moved here I’ve hoped, deep down, that I could help someone at least once,” Eric answered quietly and clearly, speaking what was in his heart.

 

______________________________________________

 

.
.
.
.
.
.Day 269, Year 986 of the 41st Millennium

Lower Hive

Castra followed the pretty woman who had saved her. She’d been separated from her parents and felt increasingly uncomfortable as darkness fell. She muttered to herself a little and bit into the stick of corp starch the woman had given her — the taste was the same as her everyday ration.

Everything around her felt terrifying, especially the man walking ahead of them: he wore an eerie cloak, had his face covered, and carried a mysterious bag at all times.

Castra thought it had been safer at her parents’ lodging. She remembered overhearing them talking about taking her up in an elevator to another place — perhaps even another world — but she’d been separated from them during the move and had ended up with this pretty woman, who had promised to take her to her parents and the frightening man who accompanied her.

 

---

Eric led Castra along the route Raul had described. Normally he would have moved faster through the dim, familiar alleys, but someone had apparently cut the power and everything had gone dark. He had to use a flashlight. Castra, trembling in the darkness, clung to his pants leg with fear — a pitiful sight he understood. She told him her parents had been left waiting at a large elevator that would take them upstairs. Now Eric couldn’t get to that elevator; for the moment he had to follow Raul and hope Castra’s parents were still alive. He didn’t want the responsibility of a child — he could barely survive himself — but he couldn’t bring himself to abandon her.

Finally Raul stopped and motioned Eric to look. Eric could barely see until Raul handed him a night-vision scope. Raul had two night-vision units — and had refused to give one to Eric when the lights went out. Eric wanted to hit him.

“Why didn’t you tell me you had night vision from the start?” Eric snapped. Raul only shrugged.

“You never asked,” Raul answered flatly. Eric took the device from him, but before he could do more, Castra tugged at his shirt and asked nervously, “Sister Erica, why have we stopped? Is something ahead?”

Her small, high voice trembled like any frightened child’s; darkness would do that to her. Eric tried to comfort her.

“I don’t know what’s ahead, but don’t worry — we’ll find out soon,” he said softly, trying to reassure her. He trained the night-vision toward the place Raul indicated and saw it: the passage was crawling with mutants. No wonder Raul hadn’t wanted to go in. Eric shouldered his laser rifle into a firing position — he now understood what Raul planned for him to do — but he couldn’t fight while holding the scope. He searched his bag and found a roll of adhesive tape. With a quick, improvised move he taped the night-vision to his laser rifle. It should work…probably.

“Where will Erica go?” Castra asked, clutching his leg out of worry. Eric felt uneasy but placed a hand on her shoulder and tried to soothe her. He knew the child would become a burden, but he could not abandon her.

“I’m not going anywhere — I’m only going out to fight those three-armed mutants. I won’t die, so don’t worry so much,” he said gently, then readied his weapon. He stepped forward slowly, the barrel the first thing to clear the alley’s edge, followed by his upper body. He aimed at the first mutant: a bulky one carrying a heavy machine gun, muscles corded and large. More mutants clustered nearby with pistols, shotguns, and rifles. Eric prioritized quickly, took aim at the heavy-gunner, and fired.

The red beam lit the alley for an instant. The heavy-gunner was struck dead; its head was destroyed and the body collapsed. The other mutants, shocked by the sudden death and the flash, turned toward Eric.

He didn’t hesitate. He picked off each mutant with precise headshots. Several went down instantly. Some managed to find cover and return fire, but the corner of the wall saved him. Eric ducked back into the alley, rechecked the magazine or power pack on the laser rifle, and reloaded quickly. In his view the laser rifle was excellent — lighter and more powerful than the assault rifle he’d used before, with a high rate of fire and no recoil. Its only drawback was that it was illegal for civilians to possess. That could mean severe punishment if he got caught.

Confident, he popped out and shot the remaining mutants in sequence. Eventually they were all dead or scattered; Eric didn’t bother to pursue those who fled.

When the fighting ended he panted and returned to the hiding place where Raul and Castra waited, annoyed at Raul’s apparent role: carrying equipment and money and guiding them while doing little else. Eric pulled off his gas mask, wiped sweat, and drank from his canteen. He hoped people would leave this area behind and never return — he’d had enough of living in such conditions. Then—

“Sister, what is that thing behind you?!” Castra cried, clutching Raul’s leg. Raul’s eyes widened in fear too. When Eric turned he saw something horrific: a towering figure in blue armor reminiscent of an Ultramarine — about 2.3 meters tall — draped with flayed human skin. Its helmet looked like a human skull with bright red lenses, and bat-like wings adorned its helm. In one hand it held the head of a woman who looked as though she had been tortured. Eric tried to raise his rifle and aim at it, but his hands shook. The armored figure watched them, chuckled softly, and spoke in a voice filled with cruel amusement.

“AVE DOMINUS NOX!!! I have come for you!!!”

 

---

Malric sat in the lift, furious. The purge he had been ordered to carry out for the family he served — an operation that should have been straightforward — had collapsed. At first everything went as planned, but the mutants had emerged in force. They were tough; some had dangerous claws and weapons and fought with brutal tactics. Soon the household troops of the Kovax family were destroyed and routed.

There were simply too many mutants, hidden among the crowds. He needed to bring reinforcements to sweep them away — the family’s interests were at stake. He would report to his lord; it seemed Zone Z might be crossed off the list of strategic areas for the family.

As he thought, the lift stalled. His men panicked briefly but called for help on the radio. Then a black shape slid out of the lift shaft — a tall silhouette in spiky black armor, all anguish and torture devices.

Malric spun and fired his pistol at the thing, but it was faster than he was. The creature stabbed him in the heart before he could blink. The rest of his men in the lift were slain.

“Stay still, monkey. Victims and slaves have their roles,” a Drukhari hissed in a victim’s ear and licked the edge of its teeth with sadistic pleasure.

 

---

Pov Raul

Writer’s note: judging by the armor markings and the mutations and growth of tendrils, if Eric missteps here he won’t survive — or his life will become far worse.

Chapter 10: 10

Day 270, Year 986 of the 41st Millennium

Lower Hive — Between Zone Z and Zone E

The beam from the laser rifle flashed in the darkness… several “pew!”s rang out as Eric de la Cruz — “Erica,” as everyone called him — stood aiming at the towering figure before him. The red ray struck the skull-shaped helmet dead center, but nothing happened.

His weapon did nothing beyond leaving a faint scorch on the deep blue armor, which was marked with a bat-wing-like emblem and patched with what looked disturbingly like human skin. There was no blood, no holes, not even a dent — as if he had fired at a several-inch-thick steel wall.

“I see you… you’re trembling. Cute little gun you have there — a toy for ordinary humans… just a lassgun,” a deep, metallic voice issued from behind the skull helm, sounding as if metal were grinding bone. Eric felt the ground vibrate under his feet and took a step back. The night-vision feed he’d taped to his weapon showed the armor in unsettling detail: what he’d taken for a cloak was stitched human hide, and small heads hung from the belt. This was monstrous.

“What are you… a cyborg? Some experimental power-armor of the Imperium’s troops…?” Eric murmured. He hardly knew what he faced; his mind scrambled for an explanation, but it all collapsed a moment later as the thing began to move.

“Ceramite-coated plaststeel — lassguns are useless against me,” it said, advancing. Eric squeezed the trigger again, unleashing a burst of red beams at its chest, but the light sheared off as if reflected from thick metal. The figure barely flinched.

“How fun… smooth skin… that shape… that voice — I expect you’ll scream rather nicely,” it chuckled. Then the red lenses in its helmet fixed on Eric. The words drained the color from his face; he swallowed hard as his hands began to tremble. This was not an enemy for ordinary humans. Raul, standing behind them, sank to his knees, clutching his head.

“By the Emperor… that’s… a Chaos Marine — a heretic!” Raul cried out in panic. Castra clung to Raul’s leg so hard he could barely move.

“Shall I play with you, or should I let you watch while I enjoy your friend?” the thing taunted. It lifted the head of a woman in its hand — her hair hanging down, blood still seeping — and held it up like a trophy.

Eric ground his teeth. His head was about to spin, but instinct and fear kept his body moving. He raised his rifle, aimed for the helmet, and tried to pull the trigger — but in an instant the figure was gone from his sight.

“Aah—!”

A thunder of metal on metal slammed into him. Eric felt as if a truck had struck his chest; his body flew back and smashed into the wall. The laser rifle flew from his hand and clattered to the floor. He coughed, blood in his mouth, pain lancing through him — he felt certain a rib had broken.

When he looked up, all he could see were the heavy metal boots planted inches from his face. The red lenses peered down at him like a predator inspecting prey caught in a trap.

“Weak… but pretty… and from the sound of you, you’ll scream properly,” it sneered, bending slightly as if enjoying the sight.

 

Eric gritted his teeth and tried to reach for the plasma pistol holstered at his waist. But suddenly, an armored hand larger than his head pressed down on his arm with all his might.

A "CRASH!" echoed through the tunnel, and one of his arm bones instantly shattered.

"AAAAAARGHHH!!!" Eric screamed. The pain nearly blinded him, but in the dim light, he could still see the red eyes glowing with satisfaction. They were "enjoying" his torture.

"Stop it!" Castra's small voice cried out behind him. She picked up a small rock and threw it at the armor with childish courage, which did nothing but draw the iron demon's attention.

"You dare throw rocks at me, little girl? I like brave children like that... they're delicious." It laughed again. Eric gritted his teeth and tried to stand up with his broken arm. He slowly grabbed the plasma pistol with his left hand, though his hand was shaking and his vision was blurry from the blood flowing into his eyes. He aimed it at its chest at close range.

"Just... stop...!"

The muzzle glowed brightly. Plasma shot out with a screeching sound. Whoosh! The target was hit squarely in the chest armor. Blue light exploded, spreading out into fiery streams of energy that melted some of the metal.

But… it seemed his bullets were either too weak or too weak, causing little to no damage.

His pistol malfunctioned, its damage far less than normal.

"Huh…" It stood there, the burns only slightly discoloring its armor before it tilted its head to look at him like a predator enjoying prolonging the kill.

"Good… at least you've hurt me a little. Then I'll reward you… I won't kill you right away. I'll start having fun with you," it said, chuckling. In that instant, Eric knew he… couldn't fight. He didn't have the proper weapons or the power. He didn't have the energy, not even the speed to escape. What was before him wasn't a "human," but a large demon clad in bizarrely decorated armor. He could only pray silently for someone, or something… to stop it before it was too late.

Suddenly, he saw Raoul trying to run away. Now that he'd abandoned him?! But he was struck squarely by one of its mutated tentacles. A loud crash! A loud crash followed by the sound of metal hitting the wall. Raoul's body slammed into the wall with such force that the sound of broken bones echoed through the narrow alley. The contents of his bag flew out: a night vision scope, a silver coin, and a strange-looking pistol with no magazine, a massive barrel bearing the Church's emblem. It fell to the ground with a "click!" Before everything went quiet, only Erik's heavy breathing could be heard.

Erik tucked his pistol away and tried to raise his lassgun to aim. But before he could touch the trigger, the Night Lord's massive steel-armored boots stepped on the gun, turning it into deformed, unusable scrap metal.

"Poor thing... a thin human holding such a toy and expecting to hurt me?" A low voice emanated from his skull. Erik tried to get up, but before he could move, a Night Lord hand grabbed him tightly by the neck. Erik's body lifted off the ground, nearly half a meter away. The sound of metal screeching against metal was heard. "Crack!" As his wrist armor tightened, he squeezed harder.

 

"Squirm! Show that desperate expression again... more," it said, leaning its skull-like face closer. Its red-lensed eyes shone as if they could see every ounce of fear in its prey's heart. Eric raised both hands and tried to push its arms away with all his might. He struggled, kicked, and scratched, but the Night Lord's arms were as rigid as giant, unmoving iron rods. His voice began to rumble.

(Warning: This scene might be slightly unusual: a normal Night Lord in this situation might just be looking for a slave or armor accessory. But this was a Night Lord whose body had become mutated and worshipped the god Slaanesh, and thus might act slightly lewdly and abnormally, or even carelessly and irrationally.)

"Don't... don't do this..." A hoarse voice escaped his lips. His eyes blurred, tears streaming from his breath. He saw its other hand reach for his chest, about to rip off his shirt.

"I'll see... what's inside this toy," the Night Lord said with a low, perverse laugh. With his other hand, he placed the head he was holding on the hook, and used that hand to grab onto Eric's thick brown shirt.

Quack! With just a little force, Eric's thick shirt was easily torn off. Eric began to realize what was about to happen. He struggled even harder. He knew he might be getting raped. He didn't want to go through this. Today was supposed to be a good holiday! He laughed as he pulled off all of his shirt and scanned Eric's upper body, which was barely covered except for the cloth wrapped around his chest. Eric, who was barely breathing, blushed with fear and embarrassment.

"What a blessing! I wasted my time down here. Jackpot! I have a new sex slave. Or an offering to the god Slaanesh," he said lustfully, releasing his grip to give Eric some air.

 

"Cough, you son of a bitch, don't!" Eric, who had been breathing, coughed and desperately pleaded. The creature simply tilted its head and mocked him, its other hand gripping his chest. Eric, now filled with shame, didn't know what to do anymore. He used his free, uninjured left arm and left hand to uselessly pound the creature's helmet.

"555 What? I can't hear you, and it hurts so much~" it said as it ran a large, slimy, pinkish-red tentacle growing from under its arm down Eric's body. Eric gritted his teeth at the disgusting contact. The soft, warm, sticky, slimy tentacle made him want to vomit. It began to squeeze the hand holding Eric's neck harder, making only a gurgling sound. It chuckled softly before forcing the tentacle along the waistband of Eric's thick trousers, where it slipped into his pants.

"Ouch... Uh-huh!!! No, don't do that!!!" Eric tried to plead, both embarrassed and afraid, as he realized the tentacle was about to reach his private parts. He tried to use his still-functioning left arm to grab the tentacle, or try to pull it, or pry it out, but he couldn't resist. It was a futile action. Tears were streaming down his face unconsciously. He didn't want to be in a woman's body, and he didn't want to be raped by some unknown being. It felt like he was being trampled, and something about him was gone. But before the tentacle touched him, he felt like he was being trampled, and something about him was gone. But before the tentacle touched him, he didn't notice that Castra had gathered her courage to slowly reach out and grab Raoul's dropped pistol. She aimed it at the Night Lord, clinging onto him, trying not to hit him. She didn't hold it in for long before pulling the trigger.

A long, orange beam of light blazed through the Night Lord's chest from the side. The giant's body twitched like it was being hammered. A screeching sound of burning metal was heard, followed by the smell of melted metal. He turned slowly, his red lenses flickering slightly, and his body slowly slumped. Then, with a loud crash, he fell to the ground.

 

Eric fell to the ground as well, coughing up a mouthful of blood. He gasped for air, gasping for air, greedily breathing. He felt the cold, somewhat foul-smelling air rush back into his lungs. The tentacles that had gripped his body and the tentacles in his pants writhed. Eric quickly pulled them out of his pants. He looked around, seeing the Night Lord's body, holes in his side, and the edges of his armor glowing with heat.

Eric sighed in relief. His private area was barely safe from the tentacles, but his waist and chest were no longer safe.

Behind him stood Castra, her small hands shaking so hard he could barely hold the gun. Smoke billowed from the strange-looking pistol (Eric didn't recognize the Inferno pistol) she raised to fire. It bore the symbol of the Church. Her eyes were wide, tears streaming down her cheeks, but she stood there motionless.

(Writer: Yes, Raul had an Inferno pistol but refused to use it. It was definitely illegally obtained.)

Silence...

The only sound was the sobs of the girl still holding the gun. Eric tried to crawl toward her. He reached out a trembling hand and gently held hers. He likely had broken ribs, internal bruising, a broken right arm, and a severely sore neck. Eric hoped he hadn't suffered any neck or spinal injuries.

"You... you did so well, Castra. You're so good... so good," he said hoarsely. His sore throat prevented him from speaking loudly.

"It... it won't wake up, will it..." She shook her head, tears still streaming down her face. Eric stared at the large, armored figure that hadn't moved.

He didn't know what it was, didn't know if it was dead, so he took the pistol from her hand and shot it several more times, until it was now a Swiss cheese.

"No... It's dead. We have to get out of here before our friends come..." he said, trying to force himself to stand.
Behind him was the shadows of the alley, and the smell of burnt flesh and metal emanating from the Night Lord's body slowly cooling. When he saw Raoul's body, he forgot what he'd said and felt a surge of anger.

Eric limped forward and lunged at the injured Raoul, who was struggling to get up. The impact knocked Raoul back to the ground, having barely fallen back against the wall.

"You want to run?!" Eric shouted, his eyes wide with fear, anger, and pain all at once. He stomped on Raoul's chest, choking him. "Gulp!" Raoul tried to speak, but his voice was louder than any response. He used his unbroken left hand to grab Raoul by the collar of his shirt.

"You have everything you need and you're acting like Doraemon. You have a gun that can shoot it, but you didn't shoot it and ran! Did you see what happened to me!? Did you see how it grabbed me!? I almost got raped by that mustache!!!!" Eric said. His voice trailed off, interrupted by a gasp. He pointed at Castra, who was standing beside him, sobbing in terror and horror at the events that had just happened and his sudden escalation.

Eric gasped, his body still shaking from both fear and adrenaline. He used his broken right arm to cover his chest, which had been bruised and bruised by a kick or something when the Night Lord or whatever had attacked him at blinding speed. His other hand was still clutching Raoul's collar. Raoul looked at him with a pained expression.

"If you had raised that gun in the first place... if you had dared to shoot, he wouldn't have even touched me!!" Eric's voice began to tremble. He closed his eyes tightly for a moment, feeling cold sweat trickling down the back of his neck. Being treated like this made him feel so awful and humiliated he didn't know what to say.

The images in his head reverberated like a nightmare he couldn't wake from.
The iron hand choking him, suffocating him. The tentacles crawled along his body until they reached the waistband of his pants and slipped inside. Its low laugh and lustful tone made him feel like a sex slave and its plaything.

Eric felt terrified. He felt terrible as it strangled him and ripped his shirt off. It left him naked and indescribably humiliated. The mutated tentacles made him swell with disgust, almost making him want to vomit. He almost cried as they slithered into his pants. Eric gritted his teeth until blood seeped from his lips.

"You let me... become prey... because you were afraid... you coward." Eric's voice was cold and filled with contempt, causing Raoul to freeze. Eric slammed the other man against the wall again. Raoul nearly collapsed to the ground. But before he could say anything else, a small sob came from behind him.

"I... I didn't think—" Raul tried to defend himself.

Thud! Eric's foot slammed into Raul's stomach.

"Don't say you didn't think about it... You were trying to escape, weren't you!? You didn't even hesitate to raise your own gun to shoot. You thought I was being lifted off the ground with one hand and strangled, and I didn't see it?" Eric said, touching his neck, which was still sore and red from the squeezing.

Castra's sobs came faintly from behind him. "Sister Erica... Stop... He... He can't take it anymore..."
Castra's voice trembled, but managed to regain Eric's senses. He paused, gasping for air, releasing his hand from Raoul's collar before taking a step back, leaving the man lying motionless on the ground, gasping for air. Eric closed his eyes, taking deep breaths to control his emotions. Then he caught sight of Raoul's long black coat.

Without saying anything, Eric grabbed the coat from Raoul, not gently, and slipped it on. When he took it from Raoul, he noticed that he had also planned to wear some sort of protective armor. That only made him even more resentful, this guy had everything from armor-piercing weapons, night vision goggles, and other good stuff, yet he chose not to give it to him or help him unless something happened first. Why should he stop himself from killing Raul? Oh yeah, because he was still useful and needed to guide him. His clothes were torn in shreds from when the Night Lord had ripped them off, and his neck and chest still hurt. He pulled his cloak tightly around himself, then turned around and spoke in a low voice.

 

"Don't think I've forgiven you... but I still need you right now. If you want to get out of here alive... you have to get me and this kid out of here." Raoul was still panting, but nodded slightly, his expression a mixture of fear and remorse. He knew that in this situation, no matter how much they fought, they would have to work together. Castra approached, gently tugging on Erik's robe. Her body was still terrified by what had happened and Erik's tone.

"Sister... can we... leave?" Erik looked down at her, his eyes, which had been filled with anger, softening. He smiled and reached out to place a hand gently on her head.

"We will... I promise," he said calmly but resolutely, then turned to look at the Night Lord, or what Raoul called a Chaos Space Marine, lying motionless in the darkness. Erik pursed his lips before speaking to Raoul without looking back.

"Get us out of here before something like that comes back again," Erik said coldly. Raoul pulled himself up, wiping the blood from the corner of his mouth. Before he could even grab his night vision goggles and put them on in the darkness of the Lower Hive, Eric turned back to the corpse of the Chaos Space Marine lying there, transformed into Swiss cheese. His anger returned.

Eric approached the corpse and kicked it several times in the head, even stomping it with his foot. It scared him, humiliated him, and trampled on his pride. After stomping on it to his heart's content, Eric used his left hand and left arm to search for what was inside. He found a large plasma pistol on its belt, containing some energy cells, possibly from a plasma pistol. Eric didn't hesitate to take it for himself, trying to ignore Magda's teachings about the machine spirit. For him, anything that could reload, fire, and function as a gun, he didn't care as long as it worked.

"Nice balance," Eric said as he tried holding the plasma gun with one hand. Although it was too big, bulky, and rather heavy, he could still use it. He was confident that this gun was definitely more powerful than his old plasma gun, and it should be able to kill anything.

"Erica...we should be going now." "I don't know if there are any of them, and they might come at any moment," Raoul said quietly, filled with fear and anxiety.

"Shut up, Raoul!!!" Eric shouted. Afterward, he found a rag nearby and performed basic first aid. He bandaged his arm with a triangular bandage, just like he'd been trained to do. Eric wasn't sure if he was doing it right, but he felt more comfortable doing it this way. This left him severely underprepared for combat. Even without it, the situation would be the same.

Eric, with his broken right arm, broken ribs, and bruises, along with Raoul, who also had broken ribs and bruises, and a terrified Castra, continued their journey.

Eric had no idea how much worse things would get for him. From what he knew, the area he'd be walking through was a factory in Sector E.

______________________________________________

Writer: 555 This isn't the last bad thing Eric would encounter. It's just the beginning. Luckily, this Night Lord was a bit too playful and careless.

Chapter 11: Lost

Day 270, Year 986, 41st Millennium

Lower Hive

In the darkness of the Lower Hive, in the area between Sectors Z and E

Eric led the way, his left hand gripping a large plasma pistol tightly. Even though his broken right arm and cracked ribs were squeezing pain with every move, he forced himself to keep going. Everything he saw was green now, and there was little to nothing around except a few frozen corpses, which was good. Judging from his current position and Raoul's mutterings, Eric was now in the area between Sectors Z and E. This area was relatively uninhabited, which was a good thing.

Raoul's footsteps, clad in bulletproof armor and wielding his lassgun, followed him at an uneven pace, sometimes a beat slower, sometimes a little faster. Eric couldn't help but look back. He wasn't over his anger at Raoul, and Raoul seemed increasingly untrustworthy.

Castra walked in the middle, her small hands gripping the hem of Eric's cloak tightly. She hadn't said a word since the shot, only a soft sob she tried to swallow. Eric could understand her reaction, the child separated from her parents, a child who had experienced a series of violent and terrifying events.

The stale air and the smell of burning metal hadn't left Eric's nose. He raised his left hand slightly, trying to adjust the night vision to get a clearer view. The image revealed a broken steel pipe, old bloodstains on the wall, and a burned and charred body lying on the side of the road. He paused for a moment, then lowered his head and continued walking.

The pain in his neck was still there, and it reminded Eric of that terrible moment, his fear of his mustache.

Eric swallowed hard, his thoughts ceasing midway. The hand holding the gun involuntarily tightened. A chill ran down his neck, not from the air, but from the distrust that gnawed at him with every step.

Raoul followed him about five meters away. His breath was soft and steady, unnerving, like someone trying to pretend to be normal when in reality he might be staring at something in the darkness.

Eric didn't know if Raul was planning another trick or if he was trying to escape, which only made him worry that something worse was going to happen. He was injured and unprepared. If anything happened, he might not survive.

Eric didn't know the answer, and he didn't want to ask. He just knew that if Raul made the slightest mistake, he would pull the trigger without hesitation.

The three footsteps continued to alternate until they became a rhythmic rhythm with his heart. The steam from the leaking pipes reverberated clearly in the metal corridor. Raul coughed softly once, a sound like blood in his throat and something was wrong with his lungs. But Eric didn't turn around. He just spoke calmly, not looking back.

"Stop coughing. Whatever's around here will know," Eric whispered. Raul nodded slowly from the shadows. The scraping of his steel boots against the floor faded away again. Castra tightened his grip on the hem of Eric's shirt.

"Sister... are we close?" Castra asked softly.

"Just a little... I hope so," Eric replied hoarsely, his gaze still fixed on the road. He hadn't asked Raoul where he was going yet, and Raoul certainly didn't want to tell him. He knew that after what had happened, if he knew the route, he wouldn't hesitate to abandon him. Or worse, he might kill Raoul and take the money. But he wouldn't do the latter, because he wasn't that evil.

The three of them continued walking in the dense darkness, a darkness that swallowed up their footsteps, their panting, and their trust, slowly fading away. He seemed to see a light in the corridor ahead.

The flickering light from the old bulbs along the tunnel ceiling provided just enough light to see the rusted floor beneath them. The three of them stopped in a relatively safe spot, a blind spot behind a half-broken electrical control box, where they still had room to sit.

Eric let out a long sigh before collapsing slowly, leaning back against the cold steel wall. His breaths were short and choppy, with each breath he took. His left ribcage ached with every breath, and his chest ached slightly.

He removed the night vision goggles first, then slowly removed the gas mask. The breath passed through the filter softly, and a musty, rusty smell filled his nostrils.

The long, white hair that covered his face fell due to gravity. He used his left hand, the only one he could use, to brush it away from his face to the side. His face was still beautiful, though covered in soot and blood. But the beauty was so striking that it was almost a curse.

Perhaps if he were still a man, not a beautiful woman, his life would have been much easier. He wouldn't have had to be sexually assaulted by some unknown beard.

(Author: Even though Eric was a man, he might have been targeted by that gay Night Lord.)

Eric sighed before reaching for his bag. He opened it and took out a stick of corpse starch from his bag. He peeled off the shell with his teeth and took a bite. The bland taste and texture, along with the sore throat, made him want to spit it out, but Eric's body needed more energy than he had any other choice. He swallowed it with difficulty and drank some water.

The water helped him, even though it hurt when he swallowed. He leaned his head against the wall, staring blankly at the shadow of Raul sitting across the narrow alley. The man was quietly packing his wallet and equipment, looking like someone seriously injured, but forcing himself to do something he didn't want anyone to see.

What was Raul planning next? I hoped it wasn't anything bad.

The thought swirled through Eric's mind endlessly. He knew the Lower Hive wasn't a place for the gentle. It was filled with religious fanatics, assassins, drug addicts, heretics, mutants, and lustful people who didn't distinguish between the dead and the living. It was a difficult place to live, and most people were almost unreliable.

It made it worse when he had to carry a gun everywhere and kill people every time he returned home or went to work.

He raised his left hand to his chest, where his ribs ached with every breath. His body trembled slightly from the cold, pain, and weakness. He shifted slightly before leaning his head against the wall, his white hair covering half of his face. His blue eyes slowly closed in exhaustion.

Raul glanced at him briefly before lowering his head to continue what he was doing. Castra sat between them, silent, not daring to say anything.

Eric, without realizing it, had fallen asleep from exhaustion.

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Eric didn't realize he'd been asleep for hours. When he opened his eyes, he felt the same heavy weight on his lap and the same musty, rusty smell. He moved slowly, his hand searching for the night vision scope, and he found it. He brought it up to eye level.

His eyes scanned the surroundings. The still-on night vision scope revealed the same area they'd stopped in: scratched metal walls, broken control cabinets, and piles of trash resembling every nook and cranny of the Lower Hive. But missing was "Raoul" and his lassgun.

Eric looked around several times, but nothing was there.

Eric's face was now a mixture of anger, worry, and fear. He tried to prop himself up with his left arm, but the sharp pain from his cracked ribs and the heavy weight in his lap made him unable to rise.

"Raoul, you... you son of a bitch..." he cursed under his breath, his voice hoarse, filled with both anger and fear. As he looked closely at his lap, he realized what was causing the heaviness in his leg.

Castella lay on his lap. Her face was buried against his soft thigh, her soft breathing the only confirmation that he wasn't completely alone. Eric felt strange having someone laying on his thigh like this (he had never had anyone lay on his lap like this before).

Eric looked down at the girl and tightened his grip around the plasma pistol beside him. His wrist trembled slightly with anger.

Raoul might have just gone out for a bit...he'd be back soon. Hopefully.

Eric tried to think positively, but he knew the chances of Raoul abandoning him were high. The most painful truth was that, as much as he hated and distrusted Raoul, Eric knew he needed to rely on him.

Raoul was the only one who knew the secret route to the top, the only one who knew where the safe route was, the only one who knew which route wasn't infested with the Chaos Cult and Genestealer Cult that were taking over the lower Hive City, zone by zone.

The lights in the lower city were now completely blacked out. The place where Eric was now was strangely quiet, while he could hear the echoing of gunfire from other districts. It was both pleasant and unpleasant at the same time. He felt something was definitely off.

"Shit..." he cursed again quietly, trying to keep the girl from hearing.

Eric gritted his teeth. He knew his injuries were making things worse. His right arm was broken, his ribs hurt every time he breathed, and he might have bruises. And the new plasma gun he was holding... had extremely limited ammo, was heavy, and couldn't be reloaded because he didn't know how to reload it. It was a shame, because he had what he thought might be a power cell or something.

He looked up at the metal ceiling, rising darkly, as if he was slowly being swallowed by a giant hole. Thinking about his current situation made Eric extremely scared.

He didn't know where he was going.

To be honest, he'd only been here in this weird, wild future for about a month. He didn't know anything except the route to work and home, and the few places in his neighborhood. He had to accept the fact that he didn't know much about the road. He didn't even know where he was. And great, now he was lost. And he might be trapped here forever with the strange cult and mutants, or he might die of some terrible fate.

He gritted his teeth, trying not to think about it, as it might stress him out too much. He reached out his left hand to gently touch Castra's head.

The girl squirmed slightly in his lap, but she didn't wake up.

"Don't panic, Eric. You'll find a way up there like you did in the Under Hive. Now, you just have to be patient," Eric said quietly to himself. He sat still for a moment, trying to steady his breathing and calm himself. All he could think about was what Raoul had done recently: leaving him to deal with mutants alone without any help. He allowed himself to be molested, even though Raoul had helped him and tried to escape. Now, he's left Castra with him.

"Why did I have to go through this?" Eric said, his voice filled with anger, fear, and a hint of sadness. He was angry because he'd been abandoned... he was afraid because he didn't know the way or anything, that he was lost. He felt sad for his life, working so hard, and then having to go through something like this again.

Eric took a deep breath. He gently lifted Castra's head from his thigh with his left hand. Fortunately, the child hadn't woken up yet. He holstered his large pistol and tried to stand up with his left hand. He wobbled, but at least he could still get up. Eric walked out of the electrical control box, looking around. He still couldn't find any trace of Raoul. This was proof that he was alone with the other child and lost.

"If I see you again, you're dead," Eric said in a soft, yet resentful voice. If he encountered that guy again, he wouldn't hesitate to empty his magazine and then loot his belongings. He didn't want to do it, but he couldn't help it. It was unlikely he'd ever see Raoul again.

He turned back to the sleeping child and slowly walked over to sit down next to her. He lifted her head to rest on his haunches again and waited for the child to wake up. He would continue his journey then, even though he didn't know the route. He had to get out of here. In the meantime, he carefully examined Raoul's pistol to figure out how to reload it.

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When Castra woke up, Eric immediately set off, even though Castra was trailing behind him, exhausted and sleepy, looking for Raoul. Her small hands gripped the hem of his cloak tightly. Eric glanced at her for a moment before looking away again. He didn't say anything, as his voice might be loud enough for someone to hear.

His mind was unsettled. He was struggling to decide whether the path he was taking was correct, whether there were additional dangers, and what to do next.

Eric's jaw clenched so hard his teeth chattered. He gripped the plasma gun in his left hand tighter. Although his arm ached from the weight of it, the anger momentarily overcame the pain.

He finally entered a residential area. It wasn't much different from the one he'd been in, only slightly cleaner. But everything had a strange, musty smell. This area, Eric noticed, was very normal. The town seemed too quiet, with no signs of rebellion or anything. The cult's presence seemed unlike anything he'd ever seen. And most frighteningly, the area was completely uninhabited, with no trace of mutants or madmen. Something could have happened, or nothing could have happened.

Eric walked into a building that looked as quiet as the others, and when he thought back to the last time he'd checked his bag, he considered risking his life inside to find supplies. He cautiously approached, accompanied by Castra. The building was no different from many he'd seen before: dark, dilapidated, and silent. He walked through a metal door halfway off its hinges before pushing it open. Inside, a small room contained only a metal bed with dirty sheets, more furniture than his own room, and a box of stolen items. He bent down to inspect it, finding only a packet of dried food left with only a few powders and a half-full bottle of cloudy water, unsure if it was drinkable.

Eric felt strange, so he didn't even bother using the water system in the area.

After inspecting the room, he slowly moved to the next room. Upon entering, he found a mirror. He looked strangely exhausted, even though he was wearing a thick coat, long pants, boots, and a gas mask.

He didn't pay much attention, though, and continued searching. Eventually, he discovered a medicine box. Eric immediately searched it, hoping to find some useful medicine.

But there was one problem that Eric tried to ignore: he knew almost nothing about the drugs people in this dark future used.

While searching through his medicine box, he found a small bottle with a label still attached. The writing was faded and almost illegible. Luckily, he remembered its name from asking Magda about it. Painkiller-27, an industrial-grade painkiller often used in mines and labor-intensive factories, was powerful and fast-acting, but highly addictive, turning many into addicts. Eric stared at it for a moment before sighing softly and putting it back in his bag. He didn't want to use it, but it might come in handy in an emergency. Just then, a small voice called out behind him.

"Sister Erica…" He turned around. Castra was standing there staring at him, her hand clutching the empty can tightly. The girl's light-colored eyes seemed to tremble in the light of the night vision goggles.

"Raoul... Where did you go?" Castra asked, curious and slightly afraid, as if she had been holding it in for ages since she'd woken up and couldn't see Raoul.

The question was simple, but it felt like a hammer hitting Eric's chest. Eric paused for a moment, staring at the wall. He knew lying to the child would be easier and probably better than telling the truth right now. Maybe he should try to evade as much as possible and slowly tell her the truth.

"... Maybe he's on personal business or spying," Eric said softly. He wasn't sure if he could lie to her or even just comfort her a little.

"Is it business?" Castra asked curiously.

"Well, if he survives... he'll probably come back," Eric replied, turning away. He saw Castra's innocent eyes, and he felt a strange guilt.

"Raoul's capable... he knows the way. He might as well check out the road ahead," Eric tried to sound more confident, even though his mind was filled with curses and the urge to shoot the traitor in the face. The girl nodded slowly, but her expression remained unblinking.

"So... he'll come back, won't he?" Castra said, her innocent voice renewed.

"Yes... he'll definitely come back... but remember, if he doesn't come back, he might be dead," Eric replied, and he thought that was the most childish answer he could ever give.

"Yes," Castra said before asking Eric for a stick of corpse starch, which he gave without much thought. Afterward, the two continued exploring the room.

Eric cautiously entered the room, pointing his plasma pistol around. Luckily, there wasn't much in the room.

The bed was half broken, and the wardrobe was leaning against the floor. In one corner was a metal box with a crooked lid. He figured the owner of this room must have a lot of money. Eric didn't hesitate to search the closet. Inside were rags, old clothes, and... something that made him pause for a moment, and he smiled faintly.

"... Something like this is still there," Eric said, a mix of surprise and delight.

It was a well-preserved bra. Although it looked used, it had been cleaned and was cleaner than most of the things he'd found in the Lower Hive. Eric couldn't help but smile a little.

Eric felt strangely happy and content after more than a month of using a bandage instead because he needed to save money, and now at least he wouldn't have to waste time wrapping and untying the bandage anymore. He murmured as he lifted it up to examine it in the dim green light.

 

"It's my size too. Great," Eric exclaimed when he realized it fit his chest.

" Sister Erica, what happened?" a small voice said from behind him. Eric flinched slightly before turning back and smiling wryly. But Castra probably didn't notice, since he was wearing a gas mask.

"My... my personal stuff," Eric continued, a little embarrassed or slightly uneasy, but he didn't want the little girl to know.

"My personal stuff?" Castra asked curiously.

"Um... I want to use the personal stuff women use, okay?" Eric replied vaguely, slightly evasive. Castra frowned.

"Not really, but if Erica says so, I'd better not ask," Castra said as she tossed the corp starch shells into the trash can next to her.

Eric let out a soft chuckle, his laughter echoing in the silent, metallic room. It was oddly endearing.

"That's good, Castra. Turn away from me," Eric said, scratching the back of his neck. He could have just found a room and changed clothes, but he didn't dare leave the child alone in such a dark room.

"Huh?" Castra exclaimed, tilting her head slightly, as if wondering what Eric meant.

"I'm going to change. Just a sec. Don't look back, okay?" Eric said, his voice a little more serious, trying to sound careless or embarrassed. Honestly, he was quite embarrassed by this. He was already embarrassed enough being alone in his room, half-naked, but now he had to change in a room with another child facing away.

"Yes!" the girl replied obediently, turning away quickly. Eric followed her gaze and slowly removed his robe with one hand. His pale, slightly dirty skin, covered in sweat, was visible in the soft green light of the camera. His strong muscles, from hard work, were not too noticeable. Eric thought his figure looked quite good. He gently unwrapped the tightly rolled chest bandage and saw the compression marks from the excessive use of the bandage. He felt very comfortable removing it, but looking under his left breast, he felt a little uneasy because there was a purplish-green bruise. Sure, it still hurts, but it feels so good now.

"Ah...so comfortable..." Eric murmured softly, his voice brimming with satisfaction. He slipped on the new bra he'd found. It was difficult, with only one hand and one arm still working, but he didn't complain.
As he hooked it, he glanced at the girl still sitting with her back facing away, unmoving.

"Very good. Thank you for being so obedient," he said in a soft tone he wasn't used to, but he still felt a strange sense of embarrassment. Putting his robe back on, Eric took another deep breath. He felt much more comfortable now, and he turned to smile faintly.

"Okay, turn around," Eric said as he turned around. Castra turned immediately, her eyes meeting his with a curious gaze.

"Are you done changing? Is everything okay, ?" Castra asked.

"Yes, I'm done changing. Everything's fine. Let's go," Eric chuckled.
He picked up an old bandage. It was a bit musty, but it was still usable. He carefully rolled it up and put it in his bag. Eric stretched his left arm above his head and stretched slightly before he, probably holding Castra's hand, walked out of the building. The entrance and exit were no different. Before leaving, he'd randomly checked another room for supplies and, luckily, had a full supply. But as he exited, he smelled something foul, and the smell intensified. Turning to the left, the path that would lead him into the center of the area, he saw a strange green mist. The night vision camera certainly helped him see more clearly. What he saw was something... something that might have led him to why the people in this area had disappeared.

What he saw in front of him, perhaps about 100 meters away, was the body of a person, dressed in dirty, torn clothes. He looked slightly unsteady. He was limping, his shoulders uneven. And most horrifyingly, the man could hardly be called human. His skin was turning green, with numerous pustules appearing here and there. His eyes were cloudy white. His mouth was wide open, revealing rotting, deformed teeth, and numerous maggots and insects nestled inside. The man or something groaned softly before turning towards Eric and Castra. Suddenly, more figures began to emerge from the mist.

Eric quickly processed the words in his mind.

Zombies?

Chapter 12: Zombie

Summary:

"Oh, come on...cough! What are you waiting for? I understand you're angry with me for abandoning you two...but please, end this torture!" Raoul coughed slightly, his voice filled with pleading and pleading, as if he and he were suffering immensely.

 

"Please, help end this suffering."

Day 270, Year 986, Millennium 41

Lower Hive

In the darkness of the Lower Hive in Sector E

Holy shit, in this future world, besides tentacled creatures and humans modified with machines that looked like they'd come out of cyberpunk, there were also zombies!? Eric thought to himself as he tried to look for an escape route. He found that the path behind him, leading to the deeper paths in Sector E, was the only escape route right now. The remaining paths were already surrounded by these zombies, and many of them were slowly approaching. Some were smiling and laughing with a hoarse, distorted sense of happiness. Eric turned to Castra and told her to follow the plan he had quickly devised.

"Run, Castra... Follow me!" Eric said in a slightly louder voice as he pulled Castra's hand behind him and slowly led her as fast as he could. The speed wasn't much different from jogging, but his chest was aching from the heavy breathing. Castra, whose wrist was being grabbed, asked Eric in panic what was going on. Eric understood, as she didn't have a night vision device like him.

"Erica, what are you running from? I can't see anything. I can only smell a foul odor and strange noises!" Castra asked with concern. He could clearly see the worry in her face, so Eric responded with the only thought he could think of.

"There are zombies everywhere, Castra! We have to get out!" Eric said as he turned to look and saw that the area behind him was already filled with them. The smell only intensified as they gathered together. He quickly turned back and jogged back. As he ran and breathed, he felt his chest hurt more, but Eric gritted his teeth and tried not to cry out. But as he ran, Cas pulled on his shirt and asked,

"Big sister, what are zombies?" Castra asked, terrified and curious. Eric turned to her and gave her the simplest answer.

 

"That's a walking corpse. That's all I know because it's the easiest way to do it!" Eric replied, turning around to see that some zombies, faster than the others, were already approaching. Eric raised his large pistol and aimed it immediately. When he pulled the trigger, the panel on top glowed blue. A bright flash temporarily blinded Eric, whose night vision was now only white. For about two or three seconds, a ball of energy shot out at the creature. However, his arm felt a jolt from the recoil of the pistol, which made him exclaim in pain.

Vheee!! Boom!!

"Ouch!!" Eric's voice rose slightly. He felt pain in his arm and shoulder. He thought the recoil of the gun was quite strong.

The ball of blue energy exploded, destroying the zombie. Its entire upper body was gone, leaving only its lower half, burned and bubbling, with smoke emitting from it. Two or three other zombies around it were also affected, suffering severe heat damage and collapsing. Eric looked at its power with a slight satisfaction. At least it was in keeping with its size. But the point was, there were hundreds or thousands of zombies behind it, already approaching. Even though he had spare ammunition for the pistol, he needed Castra to reload it, and reloading in the dark was a terrible experience.

"Shit!" Eric cursed as he turned to shoot the approaching zombies. They could only jog along, stalling for time. It was a terrible situation. If Eric hadn't been injured, he would have picked Castra up and run. But as he turned to shoot the horde of zombies behind him, he heard Castra screaming in alarm.

"Erica, watch out!" Her voice was terrified and urgent. Eric turned immediately and saw a zombie wearing a factory worker's uniform approaching from the alley, approaching him just a few meters away. He used his foot to kick it away before striking it with his pistol, knocking it down. Some of the pus splashed onto his clothes and onto his gun. The smell made Eric flinch, but he tried to ignore it. Eric didn't want to use the pistol at close range, as he often did with pistols. He'd seen what it could do to zombies, and he wasn't afraid to use it at close range.

Eric didn't hesitate to lead Cestra forward. He couldn't see the zombies in front of him, which was definitely safer than behind him. He also tried to look to the sides for any lurking zombies. They continued this retreat until they reached an industrial area. It seemed Eric had fired about ten rounds from the plasma pistol, which wasn't a lot. The weight and recoil caused some pain in his left arm and shoulder, so he didn't dare use it too much for fear of further injury. He only used it to shoot zombies that got too close. Furthermore, the pistol was starting to heat up. He didn't notice a zombie approaching from his left side, holding a metal pipe. However, he could hear heavy breathing and a foul smell wafting closer. Eric turned back to it and pointed the pistol at it. But just as he was about to pull the trigger,

Click! Oh my god, why did I run out of bullets at this hour?

Thud!!!

 

"Aaaaah!!!" Eric screamed in pain as the pipe slammed into his back and he fell to the ground with a force that was beyond his imagination for the zombies to handle. Eric tried to get up before the zombies and the others caught up to him. Where was Casta? He didn't have time to think anymore. The zombie that had been using the pipe to hit him in the head was about to smash it down. Eric kicked the zombie's leg with his right foot so hard that its leg bone broke and pierced through the skin. The zombie fell down and tried to crawl towards Eric. The now unarmed Eric kicked the zombie's face with his leg over and over again, crushing it on his boot. He quickly picked himself up, picked up the pistol on the ground and looked for Casta. She was now several meters away, standing still in the dark, confused. Eric ran to her, took her hand and led her away. Things couldn't get any worse, there were more zombies following him. His right arm was broken, his ribs were broken, and there was a bruise on the left side of his chest. His right back was still hurting. And now, their pus and rotting blood were making him smell even worse. And it wasn't the usual stench, it was so bad he wanted to vomit all the time.

But right now, he couldn't vomit. He was wearing a gas mask.

After he had gained enough distance, he was certain they'd be around five or six minutes away. Luckily, these were slow-moving zombies, but they weren't stopping. Eric put his gun down on the ground and rummaged through his pockets, searching for a magazine or something to store ammo or power. Luckily, the corpse contained five energy cells or something that might fit the gun, and he finally found it. Eric pulled out a rectangular metal cylinder or something and handed it to Castra. He couldn't reload himself, and he couldn't use the traditional one-handed reloading method. The gun was incredibly hot. He couldn't hold it under his armpit, using just one hand to reload.

In the darkness, Castra, who could barely see anything, looked in Ariel's direction and saw the energy cells in her small hands. Before she could even look around in confusion, she replied:

"Big sister... don't be mad at me. I really don't know how to do it," she replied, her voice trembling with fear. Eric didn't hesitate to teach her, as seconds were precious. He pressed the pistol against the ground. He could clearly feel the heat through his shoe. He reached out to grab the magazine from her hand and placed it on the floor next to him. He fumbled for a button or latch before removing the old magazine and inserting the new one. Once he was done, Eric quickly removed his foot from the gun. It seemed so hot that part of his shoe sole had melted.

"AHHHHH!!!" Eric screamed in shock. Something had grabbed his shirt, nearly knocking him backwards. He managed to regain his balance and avoid falling. Out of instinct, he elbowed the zombie that had grabbed him. The zombie swayed slightly, then he used the large pistol he held to smash it in the head, killing it instantly.

 

Eric gasped in panic. His heart nearly skipped a beat when he looked behind him, and the horde of zombies was getting closer. He quickly grabbed Castra's hand and jogged with her. After running for a while, Eric heard a faint bell ringing from ahead.

... ring.... ring...

The sound wasn't loud, but it was so clear it made the hair on Eric's back stand on end. He instinctively slowed his pace, motioning for Castra to stop, then scanned the night vision camera in the direction of the sound.

Out in front of him, a dim, yellow-green glow swirled through the air like a toxic mist. Within it, he saw "something" approaching. A tall, bloated figure in a tattered robe, the color dull as if soaked in blood and pus. A rusty metal bell hung in one hand, and a staff hung from it, like a talisman, with three circles and thorns. The bell rang again...ring...
The smell of decay intensified. Even more powerful than the horde of zombies behind him.

"What the hell is this?!..." Eric muttered softly, taking a half step back. Underneath its hood, the camera captured the most hideous, disgusting face. Its skin was covered in pustules and festering sores, covered in maggots and insects. One eye was oozing out of its cheek, and its mouth was in a wide, misshapen grin, like the smile of a rotting corpse.

But what nearly took Eric's breath away was that it could "talk." A hoarse voice escaped its throat, seemingly filled with pus.

"The sick... the suffering... do not be afraid..." it said in a soft, strangely compassionate voice. Eric frowned deeply. This zombie was inviting him!?

"The grand father of decay... I will grant you the blessing of happiness... Accept the gift of eternal life... Accept it..." The sound of a bell rang out, like a distorted ritual rhythm. The sound of flesh and liquid dripping "pap...pap..." onto the floor from the hem of its shirt.
Castra immediately tightened his grip on Eric's hand.

"Don't move... Don't make a sound..." he whispered in a very soft voice. He knew what a zombie was and should know how to deal with it. But he had never encountered a zombie that could talk like this before. It might have happened in the movies he had seen, but in real life, it was definitely strange. While zombies were certainly strange, he had encountered some crazed monks in the Hive before, but he had never seen anyone, or anything dead, bloated, and swollen, and speaking like he was preaching in church. It was strange. The person slowly raised his head, as if looking directly at them.

"I know... you're hurting... I can smell your wounds and despair..." He spoke in a softer voice, like a grandfather comforting a child and inviting them for a snack. Of course, Eric thought he'd have to make a snack later.

Eric felt even more scared. He wasn't sure what it could do, and he didn't want to risk it. When he turned around, he saw the horde of zombies approaching, adding to the tension and tension.

"Come to me... I will purify you with my father's gift... Accept the blessing of my benevolent grandfather... he said with an unwavering light and a wide-armed veil. "Heh...hahaha... You will no longer fear death..." he said, a soft chuckle rising from his throat, filled with pus and insects and maggots. Eric turned again to find that the zombies were surely coming for him in about 50 meters. In just a few seconds, Eric quickly quipped (think, analyze, and distinguish). He chose between the zombie horde behind him and the zombie priest in front. He soon made his decision. Eric raised his pistol and aimed it at the zombie priest immediately.

"Die, you rascal!!!!" Eric shouted loudly and pulled the trigger. The mask he wore made his voice a little softer and muffled.

Wheeeee!!!!! Boom!!!

 

The distinctive charging sound of the plasma pistol rang out again before a white-blue energy ball shot out rapidly, temporarily brightening the area. The recoil made Eric's arm ache and tremble, but after firing the pistol for over ten times, he had gotten used to it.

THUD!!!

A loud noise occurred as the ball of energy collided with its body, and the result was slightly unexpected. The priest wasn't missing his upper body like the other zombies, but instead had a large hole in his body. He fell to the ground instantly, dead. It was a bit too easy to kill, considering how unusual it was. But that was a good thing. Seeing this, Eric didn't hesitate to lead Castra past the corpse, running forward, straight to the center of Sector E, where the elevator might be, occasionally looking back. These zombies weren't stopping after him!

And Eric continued his escape, with the horde of zombies following him. Suddenly, he saw a group of people step out of the shadows and attack the zombies. They were armed men, definitely not mutants, given his experience in distinguishing them. They were fighting zombies now. Eric smiled slightly, even though he was a little scared. He was afraid that these people would force him or do him harm, until someone said:

"For knowledge!!! And for the architect of destiny!!!" One of the people he saw had a third eye and an eight-pointed star symbol, a symbol Eric had seen on the psychopaths in his area.

Eric's smile vanished immediately. He knew how dangerous these people were. Eric quietly led Castra on, hoping no one would notice them. He quickly led Castra into an alley and sighed in relief. At least he was less worried about zombies now, but there were other things to worry about.

"Erica, Raoul, he...he..." Castra said in a voice that sounded both heartbroken and pitiful, and he felt pity for what she had seen. If it was Raoul, Eric frowned and immediately burst into anger at what he had done to him.

"Please, Erica... kill me. Please... end this torture!" A familiar voice rang out. Eric couldn't help but remember who it was. He gripped his pistol tighter and turned in the direction of the voice. And when he saw Raoul's condition, Eric felt pity instead of anger or immediate resentment. Raoul, who was very close to Castra, was now leaning against the wall, exhausted. His face looked unwell, his skin turning a pale green, and pustules were beginning to form on his body. He also smelled like a zombie, perhaps because of the smell clinging to his clothes.

"Oh, come on...cough! What are you waiting for? I understand you're angry with me for abandoning you two...but please, end this torture!" Raoul coughed slightly, his voice filled with pleading and pleading, as if he and he were suffering immensely.

 

"Please, help end this suffering."

Chapter 13: 13

Summary:

"Stop it already..." Eric said, holding her hand to stop him. He bit back the pain. Eric tried to take a deep breath, but every time he took a deep breath, the pain shot through his chest.

"...It's okay... I'm just... tired..." he said softly, forcing a smile.

Day 270, Year 986, Millennium 41

Lower Hive

Sector E

Eric stared at Raoul for a long moment, long enough for the anger and resentment in his heart to slowly be replaced by pity. Raoul's breaths were soft "Hiss... Hiss..." every time he tried to speak. His body trembled as if it might collapse at any moment. The pustules on his body throbbed like tiny creatures wriggling inside. Eric couldn't believe that the person sitting in front of him was the selfish guide who had left them to die in this district.

"... Damn it, Raoul... Why did you become like this?" Eric muttered under his breath, his voice muffled through his mask. Honestly, Raoul probably didn't deserve to be hated so much. Raoul chuckled softly, blood and pus trickling from his throat.

"Ha... Ha... It's a coincidence, Erica... It's unfortunate that I got a gift from Grandfather Nergle... But... that gift hurt too much to bear. *Cough cough*" He coughed so hard that dark green blood gushed from his mouth.

Eric approached. He stood in front of the rotting body, one hand clutching his plasma pistol tightly. Castra hid behind him. She bit her lip and turned away. She knew exactly what Eric was going to do. Raoul looked up at Eric through a curtain of blood and tears.

"Just... let it end quickly... I don't want to become one of them... As a thank you... If you still want to go up... go to the alley with the drugstore, with the picture of a sexy model on the side... there's a staircase at the end," he said in a pained voice. Eric met his gaze. One of Raoul's eyes had turned a dull yellow, but the other still held a human spark. At least before he died, Raoul had chosen to give directions. Perhaps he had been too biased. Eric took a deep breath and spoke softly, his tone calmer than he had expected.

"... You're selfish, Raoul... but no one deserves to die like this... but thank you," Eric said calmly. He backed away slightly before slowly raising the gun, the muzzle pointed at Raoul's forehead. For a moment, their eyes met. No more words, no apologies, no explanations.

There was only understanding, no words needed.

Boom!!!

The plasma pistol rang out, accompanied by a bright blue-white light. His head instantly evaporated. Raoul's body twitched briefly before slowly stilling. Then everything went quiet, only the sound of metal hitting the ground softly. Eric lowered the gun. He remained there for several seconds.

"... Rest in peace, you son of a bitch," he said softly. He reached out and removed Raoul's bag. He took some money, some light armor, another night vision device, and, most importantly, his own lassgun. Eric holstered the plasma pistol, slung it over his lassgun, and, with the help of Castra, he slipped the light armor over his cloak. It was a little loose, but it was enough. After putting on the armor, Eric gave Castra the night vision device, and he slipped Raoul's on instead, at least to give her a chance to escape and provide some protection for Eric.

After that, they continued their journey...in Eric's mind at this moment. He figured that judging by the direction Raoul was heading, he'd definitely be heading into an alley. Eric didn't hesitate to lead Castra inside. He held the lassgun in one hand, using his sling as a support, which prevented him from aiming normally since the lassgun was at his waist level.

He continued walking into the dark into the alley. He encountered a few zombies inside, but Eric was able to easily take them down with the lassgun. Although his aim wasn't particularly convenient, at least the zombies were killed with just one shot. In no time, Eric reached the other side of the street. Once he exited the alley, he saw the pharmacy Raoul had mentioned. If he remembered correctly, he'd only walked about 500 meters. Eric looked around and, seeing nothing, led Castra into the alley. He thought that if Raoul hadn't abandoned them, he would have made it to the top long ago.

But as Eric walked inside, he found a fair number of zombies inside, but perhaps not too many to handle. Eric aimed his lassgun and slowly shot at the zombies one by one. Over time, he killed them all. Eric held Castra's hand, leading him through the piles of zombie corpses in the alleyway. As he walked further, he found a door. Eric carefully opened it, kicking it open with his foot with all his might until it slid open.

He discovered a spiral staircase. Eric quickly climbed it with Castra.
However, the spiral staircase was narrower and steeper than Eric had expected. It was made of rusted, old iron. The sound of his shoes hitting the ground echoed with a soft "crack... crack..." sound, as if it hadn't been used or maintained in decades. When he looked up, he sighed again. It felt just like the stairs he'd climbed up from under the hive. The stairs were very high, but at least they weren't monkey bars where he had to use both hands to climb. Eric held the lassgun in his left hand, while his broken right hand was tightly bound to his body, immobile. He gritted his teeth every time he had to exert himself to lift himself up. But he still didn't stop moving, and Castra stayed in front of him to prevent anything from attacking her from behind. The sound of his breathing coming through his mask became faster and heavier.

Castra, walking ahead, could hear her soft footsteps and her panting breaths. She must have been tired, but she didn't dare complain. It seemed like almost an hour had passed and they hadn't reached the end yet.

"Erica... How much longer do we have to walk?" Castra asked, her voice shaking slightly, a mixture of exhaustion, fear, and hope. Eric breathed heavily before answering.

"...I don't know...but I think...it's close." His voice trailed off. He was panting heavily now, and his chest still ached, but he could endure it. The musty, dusty smell from the lower floors still lingered in the air. But as they ascended, the smell gradually faded, becoming something similar, though much less intense. The air began to improve, though to Eric, it was still not pleasant. He could smell something burning and concrete.

After climbing several hundred more steps, Eric began to see a faint light coming from above, which delighted him greatly. His heart beat unconsciously faster, replaced by exhaustion and excitement. Eric now thought there was nothing dangerous, so he slung his lasergun over his back and reached out to touch the railing on the wall he hadn't touched since he started climbing the stairs, hoping he could speed up.

"...We're almost there... Castra. See that..." Eric said happily, pointing at the light. The girl looked up, and she smiled tiredly.

Eric smiled faintly behind his mask. The two continued walking, step by step, until they reached the top of the stairs, where they appeared to be a large vent blocked by a metal grating. Eric used all his remaining strength to push it open. The hinges creaked, and suddenly, light from outside flooded his face. The air upstairs was better. Not much better than downstairs, but definitely better. Although it was now filled with the smell of concrete, corpses, and burning things, it seemed the upstairs was also affected. Nevertheless, he had done what he had wanted to do for a long time: leave the lower level and go upstairs.

"...We... are up here, Castra..." Eric said happily, before removing his and Castra's night vision goggles. He stepped out slowly and cautiously, taking Castra's hand. He looked around. The place still looked very much like the lower hive, with its high metal ceilings and artificial light bulbs. But the light here was brighter than the lower hive. He saw tall buildings half-exploded, streets littered with debris, and thin smoke rising from the remains of damaged and burning armored vehicles. Eric imagined it wouldn't be much different from the lower hive, only cleaner, judging by the layout of the housing and some of the items. There seemed to be more factories, and the area seemed deserted. Castra looked around, his eyes widening in surprise.

"Erica... is this... the upper?" Castra asked, his voice full of curiosity and surprise mixed with disappointment. Eric nodded slightly before answering the girl.

"Um, yes... the upper... the place we're trying to reach... don't make that face. It's definitely better than the lower if it's not in this state," Eric replied, trying to imagine what the upper hive would look like if it weren't in this mess. It would definitely be better than the lower hive.

Eric thought about finding a place to hide. He didn't know what the upper hive would hold in this situation. But before he could take another step, his legs suddenly weakened. The pain from his broken ribs returned, stronger than ever. His broken right arm was also growing numb. He staggered forward and fell to the ground.

"Erica!" Castra screamed. She rushed to support her sister, but it wasn't until Eric hit the ground that she finished her sentence. Castra shook her head, tears welling in her eyes. She flipped Eric onto his back and removed his gas mask, shaking him, which only made the pain worse.

"Stop it already..." Eric said, holding her hand to stop him. He bit back the pain. Eric tried to take a deep breath, but every time he took a deep breath, the pain shot through his chest.

"...It's okay... I'm just... tired..." he said softly, forcing a smile.

"But—!"

"I'm... not okay... I just need... a little rest... I'll be up soon..." Eric said, his voice shaking. He lay sprawled on the metal floor, gasping for air, staring at the ceiling and the light above.

"...Castra, find a place to stay." We can get up now, and you should rest too…” he murmured softly. Castra sat down beside him. She held his hand tightly without saying anything. Eric just needed to relax more. With his current injuries, he might not make it to the medic or something. Or worse, he might get infected like Raoul. Eric hoped it wasn't the latter.

And damn, he felt cold now.

 

______________________________________________

 

Smoke still hung over the ruined buildings. Some fires were still barely extinguished, their orange glow reflecting off the shards of broken glass that littered the streets. This was just another district of Hive City, home to a relatively populated and industrial area. Now, it was all ruins and deserted. Most people had probably been taken by xenos, heretics, or evacuated.

A pair of footsteps could be heard faintly walking down the deserted streets. Sister Celianne walked cautiously, a bolter clutched to her chest, the other carrying a partially torn medicae bag. Beside her stood a young man in a PDF suit, some of his armor having been burned to the core. His name was Vann, and he held his lassgun wearily.

They were the only two survivors of the numerous attacks, attacks by heretics (Chaos Cultist and Night Lord), xenos (Drukhari), and mutants (Genesteler). At that moment, she hadn't even had a chance to put on her armor. Many of her siblings had been killed by heretics and xenos. Some were captured, brutally murdered, and tortured, even hung for public display and terror. Before their deaths, they were skinned, tortured, and desecrated. She could only watch with pity and despair, and all she could do was pray that their souls would be with the Emperor.

"It's quiet... It's like there's no one left."
Vann's voice trembled slightly. He scanned the path, filled with wreckage, broken Gothic buildings, and dried blood.

Celianne didn't answer immediately. She looked up at the dark sky, thick with smoke, making it almost impossible to see the stars. Then she spoke calmly:
"When it's quiet like this, sometimes... I can hear your voice more clearly."

"The voice of... the Emperor?" Vann asked.

"Yes," she replied. "But sometimes I'm afraid... what I'm hearing might not be your voice, but the echo of a wavering faith." She paused, looking at the broken statue of the Imperial Saint, cut by some living creature's claws. The Genestealer's claw-like marks were beside the wound, and there were burn marks resembling those of a chaos warp flame.

"I saw them with my own eyes, sister. Dark Eldar ripping people alive, cultists casting spells in the temple, and warriors in blue-black armor laughing among the corpses... It was so terrifying. I don't understand why there are so many enemies at once... Why the Emperor allowed this to happen..." Vann's voice trembled. He took a deep breath. Celianne finally turned to look at him. Her eyes were tired but not hopeless. She didn't see the young man in the way some extremists might see him as a heretic and question the Emperor. She saw him as just an ordinary, unfortunate young man.

"Because he's not a god who gives us what we want. He's a tester of our hearts, to see if we still believe... even when the whole world has fallen."
She bent down to touch the ground near the fresh blood and said softly. "Judging by the color... someone survived this way for less than an hour. We might not be the only ones left." Vann nodded. He looked back at her and asked hesitantly.

"Sister... do you still think there are people at St. Lucia Church?" Vann asked hesitantly. Celianne continued forward without stopping.

"I believe he will not abandon that place easily... and as long as the church stands, the faith will not be destroyed."
She lifted Rosarius up and kissed him gently. A faint golden light reflected on her soot-covered face.

"We will get there, soldier. And if there are any wounded or innocent people, I will heal them... no matter what color their blood is."

The sound of footsteps echoed through the deserted streets again.
They passed the corpses of Imperial soldiers, enemies, and something indistinguishable. Overhead, the distant sound of iron chains creaked like the laughter of a nightmare. But suddenly, she smelled something.

The smell of old blood mixed with the rotting odor of corpses filled the air. She thought she was getting used to it. The same smell on every Imperial battlefield. But this smell... was a little different. There was a sour, steely lingering scent on the tip of her nose, like a rotting body not too far away.

"Stop, Sister, this smell... "This isn't normal. It's more potent than normal corpses... Maybe it's an infection or a cultis," Vann's voice whispered softly behind her. She heard the safety release of his lasgun.

Celianne slowed her steps, cautiously following the source of the smell. The street was lit only by the light of a fire burning scrap metal by the side of the road. The light was enough to reveal the shadow of something. She moved the bolter into a firing position and subconsciously reached out to touch Rosarius' neck.

"I see it," she whispered. On the ground, against the open vents, were two figures.
One lay motionless. The other, a small girl, sat beside her, her hands trembling as she stared at the woman lying there.

 

The woman had a pale face and long, unwashed, white hair that was poorly maintained. She wore a black cloak, black trousers, and boots, as well as light bulletproof vests. She had a clear injury to her right arm, judging by the makeshift first aid kit. There were bloodstains on her shirt, and the smell became more pronounced as the wind blew.

The smell of disease... the smell of flesh touched by Nergle's blessing. Celianne heard Vann take a deep breath.

"Sister... They might be infected, or worse, they might be Chaos or Genestealers... We should leave them alone, or show them mercy," Vann said with concern. She stared at him quietly. The light reflected on his face, revealing the fear he was trying to swallow. He wasn't wrong to be afraid. Fear is normal for those who are still alive.

But for Celianne... fear was no excuse for turning away from someone who might still be breathing.

"Look at that child. She's shaking... but she's not running away. And that woman isn't unconscious. She still has a chance," Celianne said softly, her eyes never leaving the scene.

She saw the girl holding the hand of the sleeping woman, and she heard her comforting the child.
That wasn't the behavior of a cultist or a mutant. They were just two civilians in need of help.

"They might still be alive, and if there's really a Nurgle infection... His Majesty will be the judge, not us," she continued.

"But Sister! Would you risk them? If they rise up and attack us—" Vann looked up, his voice growing harsh.

"If I let the wounded die before my eyes, without intervening or offering them any mercy, how can I be a hospitalist, Private?" Celianne said in a calm but resolute tone. He fell silent. She knew he didn't have an answer.

She turned to look at the two figures again, then tightened her grip on the medicae bag.

"And watch my back, Private," Celianne said softly, starting to walk away from the rubble. The moment they saw her, they both became terrified and violent. The woman raised one arm, her lassgun pointing towards her. Before she could ask,

"Who are you? Tell me your purpose... or I'll shoot you," the woman asked in a weak, wary voice. Celianne tried to appear as friendly as possible before saying,

"Calm down. I'm Sister Celianne of the Ecclesiarchy... I'm here to help you, not harm you," she said in a gentle but reassuring tone. Suddenly, she noticed the woman relax and lower her gun before answering,

"Okay, sister," she said in a slightly weak voice. The girl nearby didn't seem to say anything, just a tired expression on her face. Celianne approached closer and knelt beside the woman, with Vann following closely behind cautiously. The rotting smell of blood on the woman's clothes was becoming more noticeable, but she tried to ignore it.

Celianne removed her armor and black cloak and threw them away. The woman was extremely embarrassed, so she didn't want to offend anyone. She simply lifted her undershirt to examine her for any signs of infection or blemishes that might be a sign of someone infected with a Nurgle disease. However, she found nothing, which was a good thing.

This woman's condition was relatively unremarkable. She only suffered internal bruising, broken ribs, a fractured upper right arm, and a blood infection. With her medical experience, she should recover soon without adequate treatment. She rummaged through her bag, pulled out a needle filled with antibiotic medication, and injected it into her upper arm. After everything was done, she thought she could continue on her way, but leaving her to recover until she could walk on her own would be a waste of time. So she made a decision.

______________________________________________

 

Eric felt a slight ache again, the cold metal from the needle he'd just inserted. It wasn't too painful, but his phobia of needles seemed to be acting up, but he still didn't dare show it.

It seemed like his lucky day. He made it upstairs, and a beautiful nun helped him. Even though he had to strip off his clothes for a checkup, it was incredibly embarrassing and embarrassing, as another soldier was watching from a distance.

The sound of a soldier's light footsteps approached. Then he saw Sister Celianne stand up to her full height, her body reflecting off the streetlights, giving off a faint aura. I don't know if it was the cold air or the fact that she was so close, but I felt my face start to heat up again.

"We're heading to a church, and I want you to come with me, but you can't walk right now," she said calmly, looking at Eric from head to toe as if assessing his condition. "If you leave me here, you're not going to make it," Eric chuckled dryly, even though his chest still ached.

"Don't worry... I've been through worse... You just need to rest—" Eric said, trying to show that he was self-sufficient. But before he could finish, Eric felt his body lift off the ground so quickly that the world spun around him.

"Hey, wait! Wh-what are you—!?" Eric's voice trailed off in shock—he was now in Sister Celianne's arms, fully in princess pose. Her arms were firmly under Eric's knees and back, carrying him so easily that he felt like he weighed nothing.

"You need to rest, and I can't leave you here," she replied briefly, more like an order than an explanation.

"But..." Eric tried to struggle, but he could barely move. The muscles on his side were stinging, causing him to gasp. "This, you don't have to be carried like this..."

"Quiet! If you fall again, I'm not sure I can give you first aid in time." Her voice wasn't harsh, but it was steady enough to silence me immediately.

Eric let out a long sigh, blushing even more. He tried to look away, but his gaze caught on her silver hair, which reflected the light. It was a stark contrast to the surroundings: the ruined city, the nuns carrying him like bouquets at a wedding... His back, waist, and left arm were still touching her abdomen. Even though the robe was covering her, Eric could clearly feel the muscles, which made him imagine something lewd.

"No..." Eric muttered under his breath. "This is so embarrassing..." He tried to tell himself that he couldn't think like that. Even though this was a bleak future, she was still a nun. Behind him, Vann suddenly spoke with an uncomfortable tone.

 

"Sister! That's too risky—we don't even know if they've been infected—!" Vann said loudly, his voice strained. Celianne didn't even turn around. She spoke calmly as she stepped forward.

"I've checked them—they're just civilians in need of help."

"But—!"

"That's an order," Sister's voice was cold, and even Vann was silent.

Eric, in her arms, could only swallow. His heart beat faster, both from embarrassment and from a strange, unfamiliar feeling in his body. It wasn't fear, but... a strange, uneasy feeling that was beginning to build.

Castra hurriedly followed behind, her hands clutching Eric's bag. Behind her was Eric's gun. Her eyes were still filled with worry, but when she saw me in Sister Celianne's arms, she seemed to feel a little relieved.

"Sister Erica... are you okay? Your face is starting to turn red. Are you okay?" she asked with concern. Eric smiled at her.

"Um... I just got carried away, that's all." It's no big deal…” Eric said with a slightly shy tone. Celianne glanced at me briefly, as if trying to hold back a smile.

 

"Don't talk too much. You should keep your voice down for when you have to pray to thank the Emperor," Celianne said softly.

He chuckled softly and unconsciously leaned his head against her shoulder. In the nun's arms, which were strangely strong and warm, Eric felt something strange, and then... he thought to himself,

Maybe when things calmed down, he'd go to church more often.

___________________________________________

Pov eric

(Even though he was in a woman's body, some of his behavior and personality had changed slightly, but his mind was still that of a man.)

Writer: Alright, finally, we've reached the part where Eric was twice as lucky. Even though the Upper Hive he was in and the surrounding area was deserted and there were almost no survivors after being attacked by the Night Lord, Drukhari, Chaos Cult, and Geenstealer Cult.

Chapter 14: 14

Day 271, Year 986, 41st Millennium

Upper Hive

Amidst the Ruins of a Desolated Zone

Eric's Perspective

Eric truly never imagined that after waking up in the Lower Hive, surviving and living and working hard in the Lower Hive for months, having been lost in a crazy future filled with crime, drugs, psychopaths, mutants, and aliens, he never thought he'd be... being carried like a princess by a beautiful nun.

Eric couldn't quite figure out how he felt. Between being utterly embarrassed, or so comfortable he wanted to fall asleep right there. Sister Celianne's muscular arms held him steady, warm, soft... but filled with power. He hadn't expected her to be so strong and steady. Her abs and monastic robes gave him a strange sense of security, and he had to take a deep breath to keep from blushing even more.

After spending about a full month in the Lower Hive, at the end of the month, he'd had a terrible experience with women. He'd been searched and fined by the police, and Raoul had forced him to do a job. Encountering a chaos cult, a mutant cult, an alien (a fully formed Geenstealer), nearly being raped by a blue armored monster with tentacles (a Night Lord), and encountering a zombie (a Poxwalker). Eric never imagined the end of this crazy month would be... being carried by a nun, walking slowly and gently like this...

"Ouch... Eric, don't be so excited... You're a nun, remember..." Eric muttered to himself quietly.

Eric felt a slight chill, but the warmth from Celianne's belly and arms masked it so much that I was practically falling asleep. He wasn't sure if the drowsiness was due to the medication. Eric turned to avoid her seeing me blushing like a tomato, and he caught sight of Castra walking beside him.

She was carrying his bag and gun, a large, heavy bag for a child. Water, food, tools, and even extra ammunition. A small child like her wouldn't be able to carry it... but she carried it with the same determined expression.

"Castra... Are you tired? "If you can't handle it, tell me. I'll go," Eric called to Castra. She turned to him immediately before shaking her head rapidly.

"I-I'm not tired! Sister Erica... Uh... Let's rest. I can walk," Caskra said in a slightly weary voice. Her face was completely swollen, but she still managed to smile. I felt both fondness and guilt for having this child carry his luggage for her. But he thought that he had protected her so much throughout the journey in the Lower Hive, and she wanted to repay him, even if it was something as small as carrying her bag.

"Well... Thanks," Eric said, smiling at her. He tried not to look too pale. Castra smiled back. Although her lips were shaking with exhaustion, her eyes visibly brightened.

"Sister Erica... Don't push yourself too hard. If something happens, what will I do?" she said in a gentle, concerned voice.

"You'll be fine soon. You can get out of there now... and you still want to do many things..." Eric said with a soft laugh.

About two or three hours passed.

Celianne continued to hold Eric firmly in her arms, her arms stronger than anyone of her stature should have.
But her touch was soft and cautious, as if she was afraid of further hurting him. This made Eric feel a little embarrassed, even more so. Sister Celianne had carried him for so long, and while she was incredibly strong, she shouldn't have held him for so long. Nor should he feel comfortable being held by her.

On the way, after a long silence, she spoke for the first time.

"What's your name?" Sister Celianne asked, turning to look at Eric. Eric tried to avoid eye contact with her for a moment before gathering the courage to answer.

"Erica de la Cruz," Eric replied, his voice slightly shy. Honestly, he had never been asked his name by a beautiful woman, and this was the first time.

"Can I ask you something?" Celianne's voice was soft, but oddly serious, the tone of someone accustomed to speaking to injured people. Eric turned slightly toward her. Her face was closer than he expected, and when he looked into her gray eyes, she looked so calm that Eric didn't know where to look. I cleared my throat slightly before answering.

"What's wrong, sister?" Eric tried to speak in a calm, even tone, but it was clear he was embarrassed. Celianne took a deep breath before continuing.

"Which district of Hive City are you from? And that rotting blood on your clothes...was it from a clash with someone?" Celianne asked, her tone changing, now calm and direct. Eric immediately answered honestly. She had been carrying him for a long time and even provided first aid, so why couldn't he answer that question?

"Castra and I are in the lower hive, sister. I live in District Z. As for the little girl, I'm not sure which district she lives in because she got separated from her parents and I accidentally met her. That district...has been taken over by mutants. But Castra and I managed to escape and travel to District E, which is full of walking corpses. I returned to Cassana and survived the walking corpses and finally found my way back," Eric explained, his tone equally direct, but he tried to avoid mentioning Raoul. He didn't know why he thought this way or why he acted this way. But in another thought, even if he recounted the whole thing, it wouldn't make much difference. At least Raoul died with his memories. But while explaining, he recalled his memories again.

 

The image of the armored monster groping him with its tentacles made Eric feel sick and tremble slightly, but he pushed the thought and feeling aside.

"...We both tried to find a way to escape upstairs, but the main elevator was already occupied by heretics and mutants...so we tried another way...and finally found a secret staircase...and we made it up." Eric finished his sentence with what seemed like perfection.
Sister Celianne, hearing Eric's story, paused for a moment, as if evaluating every word he said.
Then she nodded slightly.

"I understand," Sister Celianne said, her tone softening, clearer than before. Not only out of sympathy...but as if she accepted my words without question.

Perhaps Sister knew what he was going through and wasn't so alarmed, but also understood, Eric thought.

Then Sister Celianne held him a little tighter, as if to tell him through her body language that he was now under her care.

(Writer: Eric's imagination)

Eric blushed and tried to look away.
She turned to look at Castra walking beside him.
She was gritting her teeth and panting slightly. When she saw him looking at her, she quickly smiled, but it was a forced and tired smile. Eric asked softly.

"Castra... are you okay? If you're tired, you can tell me."
Eric asked.

"I'm okay! I'm okay. I can walk... Don't worry, Erica!" Castra spoke in a confident voice, but the edge of her sentence trembled slightly. Sister Celianne glanced at the child gently, then turned back to walk without saying anything. I saw the corner of her mouth lift slightly. That smile made Eric feel strangely happy.

Eric let out a slow breath, and before he knew it, a strange warmth and safety welled up in his chest. But now that she had helped him enough, Eric gathered his courage and spoke.

"Sister, I have something to tell you," Eric said in a slightly louder voice. Sister Celianne turned to Eric before asking.

"Is there something you want to say? Are you hurt anywhere?" she asked, counting the soft, concerned words. It made Eric want to get down and walk on his own, not letting her carry him anymore.

"I feel better now...and I should be able to walk on my own." "I don't want you to tire yourself out carrying me. I want to walk by yourself, sister," Eric said in a softer voice, sounding a little considerate. Sister Celianne shook her head slightly before replying:

"I don't think you can walk by yourself right now... What if you do and get hurt? You'll just be a burden to me... If you're worried about me or if you're too tired... don't worry, I'll find a place to stay soon." Sister Celianne said in a soft, gentle voice, her face slightly stern. Eric didn't think she was so intimidating, so he replied immediately.

"Yes, sister," Eric replied in a slightly softer, obedient tone. He didn't want to walk by himself now, if he knew she would be so aggressive.

 

..... .._____________________________________

Vann's POV

Vann walked at the very back of the small procession of three, his lasgun gripping his knuckles so tightly that his knuckles were white. A sense of paranoia lingered like the smell of burning smoke that had seeped into his armor from every battle he'd had. He tried not to sigh too deeply, but his gaze never left the "woman" Sister Celianne was holding in a princess position in front of him.

The more he looked… the more uneasy he felt.

It wasn't normal at all.

Even after Sister had removed the woman's stinking blood-stained robe, the stench had faded to the point of being almost undetectable. But the unusual feeling… was still there.

"A woman from the lower hive?"
He smirked slightly at the thought, a place no one had seen. A land full of barbarians, manual laborers, gangsters, and all sorts of other things.

But then again, would someone from that class… have the pale, smooth skin of someone untouched by work or dust? And with the graceful features and blue eyes of aristocrats… Plus, her body didn't look malnourished or abnormal. The lower ones, if they weren't dirty and dark, were likely emaciated and malnourished...

But this young woman wasn't. Her body looked fairly strong, even with her injuries. Even beyond the soot and dust, her face was unusually beautiful. Too beautiful.

For someone to claim to have escaped from the underworld, it was strange, but not impossible.

Vann didn't like the inexplicable. It might seem very unorthodox, and unorthodox leads to death.

He frowned even deeper.

And he felt himself dislike it even more when he saw her cheeks flushed and her face resting against Sister Celianne's shoulder.

Not a slump of exhaustion, but a slump of... tenseness, a flush of embarrassment, a swoon of shame.

Vann glanced back, afraid he'd looked the wrong way. But she was still blushing, and she shifted like someone afraid to get too close or too far away at the same time.

The woman from the lower hive...embarrassed by being held by Sister? Could she be a lesbian? Or maybe she was thinking something strange? It all seemed suspicious.

He gritted his teeth, his thoughts swirling in circles.
Yes… That little girl seemed sincere, but some cultists had “kept” children to lure people to their deaths time and time again. He glanced behind him, looking back the way they had come, unsure if anyone was following them.

Every moment of silence made his heart beat loud enough to be heard through his helmet. He tilted his head to look at the two men in front of him again.

Celianne walked calmly, even though she was carrying a gun, a medical bag, and was carrying the woman. Meanwhile, that child… Castra… followed them intently, carrying a bag nearly half his body.

Vann didn't like to think this way, but he couldn't help but wonder:

Had the child been tricked? Had the white-haired woman been bait? Had she been hiding something behind her injuries? He tightened his grip on the gun again, his breath hard, sharp, and utterly wary.

Because beneath that unusually pale beauty,
under the obvious embarrassment of her shoulder,
under the weak utterance of "Erica,"
there was something Vann, a frontline soldier who had seen real battle, could feel in his spine.

Something...wasn't right.

He followed the three with a tense stoicism, not forgetting to look back every now and then, both for fear of mutants or heretics showing up and for... the white-haired woman doing something "unusual" like he always feared seeing.

But he couldn't deny that she was incredibly enviable.

 

______________________________________________

Writer: Eric now has one more enemy. LOL. Curiosity is the most normal thing in this universe.

Chapter 15: 15

Summary:

"What are you doing? What if they find out we're here? They might just walk by. Don't be so quick,"

Day 272, Year 986, 41st Millennium

Upper Hive

Eric's POV

At first, even though he didn't want her to carry him anymore because she had carried him for so long... he honestly admitted that it was very comfortable. Meanwhile, Eric was thinking about what he would do next. There was a war up there, just like down there. He didn't know when things would return to normal, and what he would do if they did.

But as for what he was going to do, he probably already knew, didn't he? Like finding a job, a place to stay, continuing his life, and doing everything he could to make himself more comfortable.

But the problem was, when things would calm down and return to normal. Eric thought with great care and attention as he was being carried.

Until...

Huh...

Eric moved his head slightly from Celianne's shoulder.

He felt like he was being stared at. Not just any stare, but something like a gangster or organ trafficker in the lower hive.

He was being stared at...for sure.

Eric slowly turned his head slightly to look over Celianne's shoulder, and he saw Vann walking less than ten meters behind him. Even with the lenses of his glasses covered, he could feel the man's gaze constantly assessing Eric's threat.

He was being stared at like a psychopath or some freak. It didn't comfort him in the slightest.
His heavy footsteps were steady, but it wasn't the sound of his footsteps that gave Eric goosebumps. It was the look of pure distrust. Eric quickly turned back around, even though the people below him weren't looking at him with that look.

"Ouch...damn," he muttered softly, his voice muffled over Celianne's shoulder. Celianne glanced down slightly.

"Are you okay, Erica?" sister Celianne asked in a gentle tone. Eric let out a dry laugh, not wanting to worry her.

"Oh, no... nothing, sister. I just feel like Vann's staring at me weirdly," he said, but the truth was he was incredibly afraid the man would think he was some kind of mutant or cultist.
And the fact that he was now in the body of a woman with pale skin, blue eyes, and long, white hair that reached down to the middle of her back didn't make things any less normal.
Celianne simply smiled faintly and rubbed the back of Eric's hand comfortingly.

"Don't be afraid or angry with him... He's just someone who's been through something terrible, and he might be suspicious," Sister Celianne explained. Eric immediately thought to himself, "While it makes sense, he shouldn't be like this. It makes him feel unsafe. Besides, he knows that feeling all too well from surviving up here. The daily struggles on the way home, fighting four-armed aliens, battling hordes of zombies in the dark, and the disgusting, terrifying, and humiliating feeling of having tentacles shoved down his pants. It must have given him PTSD. He glanced back again. Vann was still staring, and he wasn't hiding it. Normally, he would have shot someone in the face with a pistol, but he was a soldier, not some pervert he'd run into on his way home like every other day. He couldn't do that.

He wasn't afraid of Vann, and he could have shot him dead with the gun if he still had it in his hand. But when he turned back, he felt a strange fear in his eyes.

Eric quickly buried his face back into Celianne's shoulder, his white hair covering both of his cheeks.
He didn't hide it because he was embarrassed, but because he didn't want to meet her gaze for a second.

In his mind, he muttered softly:

Okay, Erica… calm down… You're being held by a nun… and in a woman's body… and the soldiers were looking at you with the intention of slaughtering you… like you were some kind of psychopath or mutant. Oh, crap!

On the other side, Castra was walking with his bag. She turned to look at him and smiled tiredly. Eric smiled back. He considered asking his sister to let him walk on his own again, but the slightest movement… his chest ached so hard he couldn't breathe. Eric immediately gave up on walking and tried to get used to Vann's back-stabbing gaze… even though it wasn't quite right.

_____________________________________________

 

Vann's POV

Vann followed the three of them, his pace heavy and orderly, typical of a soldier.
But in his mind… there wasn't any order at all.

He stared silently at Sister Celianne's back and the white-haired woman in her arms.

And when the young woman glanced at him, she hurriedly tucked her face back into Sister Celianne's shoulder, almost ducking.

He saw everything, and it made his brow furrow even deeper. Erica... the woman from the lower hive he'd met less than an hour ago.
But her expression was unlike any civilian he'd ever helped.

She was too sensitive, too cautious, and too easily embarrassed. Vann took a deep breath behind his air filter. The putrid smell he'd had when he'd first met her hadn't completely dissipated, but it had diminished considerably. He knew at least she wasn't "rotting from the inside" like the Nurgle-infected.

...But it wasn't safe. What if she was a Nurgle plague carrier, and could spread the disease if they got together with others?

(Writer: Even though she was overly cautious, Vann had a reason. Something like this had happened before, and it was possible.)

He adjusted the sling of his lasgun before looking at the white-haired figure now silent in Sister Celianne's arms. Her hair covered her face.

She was afraid of him.

It felt like she was ready to draw her gun and shoot him at any moment.

Even though he hadn't done anything but stare. He knew he was staring too hard, but what could he do? A civilian from the lower hive... too clean, too beautiful, and not at all like someone struggling down there.

 

And when she blushed when Sister Celianne first picked her up, yes, he saw that too. It was the look of someone injured, or someone who had just survived a horde of supernatural enemies. It was the look of someone… strange. And Vann didn't like the "strangeness" in times of war at all.

He frowned, still trying not to glare as hard as he used to, because Erica was clearly uncomfortable when he met her gaze.

What was she…? Was she really just a civilian, hiding something? Was she one of the mutants? Or some infiltrating heretic?

He took another breath, his gaze still not leaving her body. Though deep down, he was beginning to feel that maybe… she really was just a civilian who had been through something unbearable. Her fearful expression wasn't like a liar, but like a wounded animal, ready to flee whenever he moved. And that… made his suspicion gradually lessen, but not disappear.

He slowed his pace a little, putting more distance between himself and the young woman, hoping it wouldn't alarm her any further.

But his eyes… kept glancing at her.
He kept an eye on the mysterious woman's breathing, posture, and every little movement. He muttered her name softly, hoping she was just a civilian… because if she wasn't… Sister would be devastated.

Or maybe not.

He tightened his grip on the lassgun, his eyes still staring straight ahead, occasionally glancing back. He felt less suspicious than before, but still not at all distrustful.

 

______________________________________________

 

It didn't take long for them to arrive at a building in better condition than the others. The walls were riddled with bullet holes, some of the glass shattered, but the walls were sturdy. And most importantly, there were no signs of zombies or fresh blood. Celianne stopped and looked back at Eric in her arms.
Her voice softened slightly.

"This place is safe enough for a break… Erica, rest assured." Eric almost sighed loudly, not just because he was tired, but because he was starting to feel incredibly embarrassed having been carried by her for so long.

As Sister Celianne slowly sank down onto the smooth concrete floor, she carefully, slowly, and gently lifted him out of her arms,
like she was putting away a fragile precious object.

Her hands cupped his back as he was placed down, her thumbs brushing across his shoulders, deliberately avoiding the broken ribs.

And Eric could feel it.

She tried not to hurt him at all. His heart was beating faster and faster, his face growing hotter.

Not from poison or fever…but from extreme embarrassment.

The muscular nun had carried him for about four hours without a single complaint, and she had even laid him down as if he were the most fragile thing in the universe.

"T-T... Thank you, sister," Eric said softly, a little muffled, still nervous. Celianne smiled at him gently, the kind of smile that made Eric want to roll into a ball and run away.

"It's okay, Erica. You're hurt more than you thought. I won't let you walk on your own now."

Ouch...
She spoke as if he were a chick with a broken leg. Castra immediately put down Eric's bag and sat down beside him.

" Erica... does it hurt?" she asked worriedly. Eric smiled softly, gently stroking her head.

"It's okay... I'm better now," he replied, feeling better now. Vann, who had been standing two steps away, was staring at the scene with an unreadable expression. He no longer stared as hard as before, but the wariness in his eyes hadn't completely disappeared. He turned to face the entrance of the building.

"I'll check around first. You two... rest," Vann said in a calm tone. Celianne She nodded at him and then turned back to look at Eric.
Her gaze was steady, gentle, and caring.

Eric sighed softly.
Now he realized…

He was more than happy to be placed so carefully, and that she wasn't angry with him, no matter how much of a burden he'd been. He leaned against the wall, took a deep breath (despite the dust), and thought to himself, "Maybe I should try standing up." As luck would have it, Vann came out shortly, making a hand gesture indicating safety. Eric, Sister Celianne, and Castra went inside, eventually ending up in a room, where Eric was gently placed. Sister continued to walk outside, checking for any danger, despite Vann's assurances that there was no danger. Eric considered trying to stand up, but luck seemed to be on her side.

"Erica, can you try standing up so I can see if you're feeling better?" Sister said as she approached Eric. Eric slowly stretched up. His legs were still shaky, but he could walk, though he had to lean against the wall a little at first.

"Can you walk on your own, sister?" he asked again. Eric nodded slightly and said,

"Yes, sister. I can walk on my own now," Eric replied happily. At least he could walk on his own, and he could even hold his weapon for protection. He didn't have to be carried anymore. It wasn't that he didn't want to be carried, but he felt a bit embarrassed being carried for so long. But now he walked over to Castra, who was sitting nearby. He sat down on the cold concrete floor next to Castra, who was chewing on corp starch.

He slowly opened his bag, which Castra had carried the whole way. The contents were still intact, albeit with some traces of the poxwalker's dried blood.

He picked up a stick of corp starch and used his mouth to tear off the paper wrapper. The familiar corp starch floated to his nose. He bit it with a face that seemed to accept his fate.

"Hmm... the same old taste... crappy," he muttered softly, chewing. The taste wasn't that bad, it just lacked flavor and the texture was rough. Castra, who was sitting next to him, shook his head slightly, trying to appear resolute.

"At least now we can rest and eat safely, Erica..." Castra said softly. Eric laughed a little. It was a small laugh because his ribs were still sore, but he smiled at her anyway.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm not complaining... I just thought that if we made it upstairs and had to keep eating this dough, I'd be a little sad," he replied. Castra smiled faintly, tiredly, and Eric began to inspect his bag.
It contained:
a magazine, a lassgun,
a chest bandage,
money,
a pocket knife,
Corpse starch,
water,
soap and shampoo (given by Raoul),
and a plasma pistol, now neatly holstered.
As he packed, he paused to take a bite of the Corp starch.

But his eyes occasionally glanced at Celianne.
She was prying open an old wooden crate to make a seat. Her red coat swayed in the wind. She rearranged her medical equipment with such a serious and calm demeanor that Eric couldn't help but stare...for a moment. He quickly returned his gaze to his bag, his cheeks flushing involuntarily.

…Stop looking, Eric. That's a nun! A nun! You can't do that! It's a sin! He shouted to himself, biting the corp starch in his hand. Meanwhile, he caught sight of Vann.

The man was leaning against a pillar, facing the door. He still held the lasgun, but the barrel was pointed comfortably upwards. Unlike before, when he'd been aiming at every shadow like he was fighting. His gaze returned to Eric briefly. It wasn't the wary look he'd had before, but rather as if he were checking... to make sure he was okay. Still, Eric could feel the faint gaze, but it wasn't as uncomfortable as before. He took a deep breath,then turned to complain to Castra.

"It's a little better... At least I don't feel like I'm going to get shot now," he whispered. Castra whispered back softly.

"I think she's fine, Erica... and maybe I'm just imagining things," Castra replied innocently. Eric thought she was just a kid and wouldn't know anything. However, the atmosphere was calmer than Eric had experienced all month in the Lower Hive, because before and after work, gangs were always shooting at each other.

He took a sip of his water bottle and leaned quietly against the wall.
He looked at Celianne, who was checking the equipment, at Vann, who was guarding the entrance, and at Castra, who had her head resting on his arm, exhausted... and she was asleep. He just had a good idea. At least upstairs, everything should be better than down here. Maybe the water system around here still works. Eric put his things in his bag and gently pushed Castra's head up with his left hand before gently placing her back on the floor without waking her up. He then got up immediately.

"Where are we going?" Sister Celianne, who was packing her medical bag, asked. Eric replied indirectly:

"I just wanted to explore this building, Sister. I wanted to check to see if there were any remaining shirts, because I don't think wearing one would be very polite or appropriate," Eric explained, pointing to his undershirt. In fact, he thought wearing an undershirt was extremely inappropriate in this situation. It offered little to no protection. If he had a thicker shirt, he could still survive injuries or scratches. Worse still, he felt embarrassed wearing such a shirt.

"Your injuries aren't fully healed yet. Be careful," Sister Celianne warned, nodding.

"Yes, Sister, I'll be careful," Eric replied before walking out of the room.

The building was so quiet he could hear his shoes tapping against the floor. The walls were covered in soot and bullet holes, indicating a battle had taken place there, but nothing too serious. Eric also found a corpse that was beginning to decompose. He frowned slightly before using his foot to check for any living creatures. He entered a room that was a mess, as if someone had ransacked it, but he didn't pay much attention to it except to check for any hidden creatures. Fortunately, there weren't any.

Eric went to open the first cabinet. The smell of dust hit him right in the face.

"Ahem... Oh my god, what's this closet? A dust closet?"
He swept his hand through the shelves, finding scraps of paper and old clothes that stank so bad that Eric thought they stank worse than his and the zombies' shoes.

The next closet contained only old work clothes, almost completely covered in soot.

One was torn down the back like it had been cut by a knife.

The other was so hard it felt like it was crunching.

"Please, aren't there any decent clothes upstairs?"

He muttered to himself quietly. But then... as he turned into the room at the very end of the first floor, he paused. Eric quickly turned the door handle. It was stuck for a moment before it clicked open easily. The sight inside made him smile without a hint of feigned guilt.

It was a functioning bathroom!

The sink was half broken, but the faucet didn't seem broken.
The old spray-style shower had a plumbing fixture that looked like it was still working. Eric excitedly placed his hand on the faucet and twisted it gently.

Glitch... Glitch...

Whoosh—

Brown water poured out at first, then slowly turned clear.

"Oh... God, I love the top floor..." he murmured with such delight that he forgot himself. Even though he was still wary that it might not be drinkable, just "working" was the most precious thing he had ever had. He didn't have to worry about water usage like he did downstairs (where the water bill was insanely high). He could use as much water as he wanted now!

He didn't hesitate to wash his face a little, and the water had turned black from the soot and dust.

"Holy shit... Has my face always been this dirty?"

His first thought was that he wanted to shower right away, and he wanted to change into something nicer. He checked the side cabinet. And this time, luck was truly on his side.

He opened a metal cabinet and found two or three long-sleeved shirts hanging there. Thick fabrics, though not very comfortable, were still wearable. And most importantly, they weren't torn or stained with Poxwalker blood. There was also a towel and a comb.

"Jackpot…" Eric said cheerfully with a wide smile.

It was the right size.
Dark gray.

And most importantly,

it wasn't the thin undershirt that he feared would rip through every time he lifted his arm. He took it gently and shook it off a bit, afraid there might be something inside. It wasn't like he'd never return it, like he'd found a cockroach or something similar inside.

Eric sighed in relief.
His mind began to make serious plans for a shower.

A quick shower,
change clothes,
comb your hair,
and maybe…thank Sister Celianne for saving him.

Just thinking about "thank you" made his face turn a little red, but he shook his head to dispel the embarrassment.

"Okay, Erica…get your bearings. You're just taking a shower, not confessing your love to anyone," he told himself before walking out of the bathroom and going to his room to get soap and shampoo.

Eric walked back into the bathroom with the only bar of soap he had left, the one Raoul had given him when he was still "pretending to be an arms dealer and a trusted guide."

He let out a deep sigh, like he'd been releasing the air he'd been holding in his chest for months. Just the thought of actually taking a shower—a real shower, not just a wet towel—made him overjoyed.

The bathroom door slammed shut, and the noise in the building outside instantly quieted, leaving only his breathing and the sound of the water running from the faucet.

He placed the soap on the unbroken edge of the tub and slowly removed the clothes soiled by his travels for days. His broken right arm made every movement emit a soft cry of pain. But he still smiled from ear to ear. He really wanted to soak, but he preferred using the nozzle mounted on the wall. He didn't want to fall asleep in the tub. Why didn't the building owner or the designer install a shower?

 

He twisted the faucet, the water spraying erratically, sometimes hard, sometimes jerking, but… it was warmer than he'd expected. When it touched his skin, goosebumps rose from his neck to his spine.

"Ugh… wow… amazing…"

Eric closed his eyes, letting the water flow through his white, knotted hair down his face, until the dust that had accumulated over the past few days trickled down to the floor.

It felt like oil seeped into his bones, as if the fatigue of a month was slowly being washed away.

He grabbed the soap with his left hand, since his right was useless.

He slowly, greedily, and deliberately scrubbed his arms, shoulders, neck, chest, legs, waist, buttocks, and slightly muscular abdomen. The faint scent of the soap Raoul had given him made him feel both incredibly missed and incredibly relieved. He didn't know whether to thank him or curse him, but right now… just using it was enough. He wished his soul a peaceful rest.

Eric looked down at his right arm, which was wrapped in a bandage. The bandage was slightly wet, and he'd change it later.

Eric chuckled softly, happily, even though no one could hear him. The echoing sound in the bathroom doubled in volume. He rubbed his left hand over his face, neck, and then clumsily washed his hair. Now he wondered what it was like here before the war. It wouldn't be like the Lower Hive, where every second was filled with tension and the stench of rotting blood mixed with rust. And even if there were factories, he'd probably get a decent job.

For a moment, Eric leaned against the bathroom wall, letting the water run over his chest... and couldn't help but let out a long, relieved sigh.

"I wish it were like this every day..." Eric muttered to himself.

Smiling broadly like someone just accepted into the university he wanted to attend, he used the shampoo to wash his white hair and rinse it off.

The water ran through his white hair, which was now soft and smooth again. The skin, once sticky from sweat and dust, was now clean and the air was more noticeable on his skin.

 

He missed home, the old bathroom in his apartment. The simple, finished bathroom had a water heater and a water cooler. But in the harsh future he'd woken up in, it was nice to shower like this.

Eric turned off the water before grabbing a towel and clumsily drying his body and hair. Honestly, he felt like he really wanted to use a hair dryer right now, knowing how difficult it was to dry wet hair. But then, after drying himself, he put his clothes back on and walked out, relaxed and in a good mood. Maybe if young Castra was awake, he should give her a bath, because he felt so dirty right now. But that was only when she was awake, or if Sister and Vann were still staying there and had plenty of time.

______________________________________________

Vann stared blankly at the scene, but his mind was filled with endless questions.

Erica, the pale woman from downstairs he'd met five hours earlier. Back then, she was covered in the rotting blood of the Infected, and her scent was so strong he almost thought she was a Cultist, or at least someone who had been exposed to Nergle. But now...

She walked out of the room looking like a different person, complete with new clothes.

Her previously messy and slightly greasy white hair now hung naturally, strangely shiny. Her pale, sooty skin was smooth after being washed off, making him want to take a second look. Her face was sharp yet gentle. Her large, sparkling blue eyes were like those of a noblewoman who had undergone daily grooming. Even the way she walked out so casually seemed so natural that it was hard to believe that just a few hours ago she could barely walk, and now she was clearly in a good mood.

 

Vann paused for a moment. It wasn't the shock of a charmed man, but shock mixed with intense suspicion.

He thought it made more sense now, in its absurdity. She didn't look like someone from the lower classes.
If she were to be put in a noble's banquet, he was almost certain no one would even notice she wasn't one of them. Hell...maybe they'd even be courted.

It made him feel even more... distrustful.

Celianne looked up from organizing her equipment and saw Erica walking out, smiling warmly like a nun.

Castra, sitting next to her, smiled back, relieved that her sister(?) looked much better.

But Vann's gaze didn't waver when Erica walked by. He asked immediately, his voice calm and polite, but there was something about her.

"There must be a working restroom, right?" Erica paused to look at him briefly, the good mood evident on her face.

"Um, yes, it's fine... the water's clean, too," she replied in a stern tone, smiling...a bright smile.

Vann nodded slowly, but his gaze remained fixed on her. It wasn't a disrespectful stare, but a threat-assessing stare, the kind a soldier who'd fought many battles would automatically engage in.

One word kept popping into his head:

Strange… She was truly strange.

Not because she was beautiful, not because she looked remarkably better, but because everything about her… didn't fit the reality of the Lower Hive.

She had no scars, her skin was unblemished, her figure better than someone who had to fight for her life every day. She didn't seem afraid even when stared at, and she even seemed too safe. That's why she'd managed to make it up here. Yes, if she could make it up there, she must be quite skilled. She wasn't some innocent girl or civilian, but she was a fighter and armed.

Vann adjusted the lasgun strap on his shoulder,
as he watched her walk back to sit beside Castra with a happy expression.

He took a deep breath and thought to himself:

Even if she wasn't a heretic, even if she was just a civilian… he'd still have to keep an eye on her.

His hand unconsciously tightened its grip on the gun.

Not because he wanted to hurt her, but because he'd make sure that if this strange woman turned into a threat, He'd stop her before it was too late.

He glanced briefly at Celianne and Castra.
Both of them clearly trusted Erica, but he wouldn't be so quick to judge. But some priests who had set someone on fire weren't them. They were soldiers. His job was to follow orders and protect.

No matter how beautiful she was... or how seemingly harmless she was, Vann stared at Erica silently,
and silently thought to himself, "He'll keep an eye on her every move until he finds out the truth." Suddenly, a shout came from outside, which sent goosebumps through his veins and sent him into a panic. Everyone in the room flinched.

"Blood for the blood god!!!!! Skull for skull throne!!!!"

Vann raised his gun, ready to fire. The others did the same. He slowly walked to the window and slowly peeked out. He saw an Arbiter surrounded by heretics 200 meters away from the building. This Arbiter had fought bravely, killing dozens of heretics before being ganged up on.

Vann prayed that the Judge's soul would be with the Emperor. Suddenly, one of the heretics turned toward the building, and then something terrible happened. They started walking towards him, and he didn't hesitate to aim his lasergun at the largest of the heretics. But just as he pulled the trigger, he was pulled back.

"What are you doing? What if they find out we're here? They might just walk by. Don't be so quick," Erica said, looking at her gun.
Vann breathed heavily before regaining her composure, and the three of them (excluding the sleeping Castra) planned their next move.

Chapter 16

Day 272, Year 986, 41st Millennium

Upper Hive

Eric's POV

The sounds of the heretics below were like a raging herd. Footsteps, laughter, and insane growls filled him with fear. He held his breath and prayed silently, "...

Please, just let them pass... please...

But then, one of them stopped. He turned toward the building, as if it had been drawn by a lucky draw. He sensed something was wrong. He pointed up,

and his voice cracked, like his throat was full of rust.

"...There's... up there..."

Shit was going crazy. Before he could think any further, the entire herd had turned.

"SKULLS FOR THE SKULL THRONE!!!!"

The sound was so loud it felt like the walls were shaking, and he let out a scream, completely unfiltered.

"F_ck! No, no, no, don't!" The herd of heretics charged toward the building. They ran so fast, it seemed as if the sight of blood had made them even more frantic. Their weapons ranged from bloodstained axes to rusted chains. Some had claws, while others had faces made of scrap metal instead of skin. It made him feel even more disgusted and scared. He feared them more than the zombies (poxwalkers).

"Shit! They've seen us!" Vann cursed immediately.
Celianne didn't wait for anyone to regain her composure. She grabbed a bolter (which looked like a grenade launcher with a magazine, in Eric's mind) and commanded with the firm voice of a nun who had been through a hundred battles.

"Everyone! Move to the back of the building now!" Sister shouted. Castra jolted awake from the shout.

"Erica! What's going on?" Castra, who had just woken up, asked sleepily.

"We have to get out!" Eric said, using his left hand to sling his bag and pull out his lassgun, adjusting the sling so it could be fired easily with one hand. Hearing Eric's words, Castra was shocked and immediately stood up.

"Hurry up, Erica!" Vann's voice boomed, and Eric shouted back.

"I know! I'm going—!" he said loudly as he led Castra out of the room. A loud "Bang, bang, bang!" came from downstairs. They began climbing, breaking, and slamming the door in a way that made him want to vomit.

Eric peeked down briefly and saw it.

A cultist stood in the doorway, covered in blood and wearing a metal skull mask, wielding a large axe capable of easily splitting him in half. Without waiting for him to think, he charged at him with such speed that Eric could not help but scream in surprise.

"Aaaaahhhhhhhhhhh!!! This idiot!" he said, using his lassgun to shoot the creature, knocking it to the ground.

Finally, he reunited with Sister Celianne and Vann, who were waiting in the back building. Suddenly, a heretic appeared. And several more appeared and ran this way.

"Erica, run!" Celianne shouted. He didn't need to be told again. Everyone rushed towards the back door simultaneously, with Vann firing his lasgun to stall for time as he slowly retreated. A loud "Pew!" echoed throughout the building.

He shouted to Eric as he ran.

"Are you okay?!" Vann asked in a flat tone.

"I'm okay! I'm just—!" Eric replied, trying to sound as normal as possible. Running so fast or anything like that was making his chest hurt like hell, where his ribs were broken. But before he could finish,

Smack!

A cultist axe was thrown, barely missing Eric's head. It pierced the wall, shattering a deep dent in the stone. Eric gasped, unable to think of anything except...

"Aaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh!!" “Fuck! I hate this damn place so much!!” He shouted in shock, kicking a heretic who had emerged from around the corner. He missed and was about to fall to the ground, then shot him in the head with his gun. Celianne grabbed my arm and pulled me along. She shielded me and Castra, not even caring that she had no armor. The screams of the fanatics grew louder. The sound of chains, axes dragging on the ground, and crazed religious shouts grew louder.

“Kill that Emperor-worshipper!” one of the heretics shouted before he saw his sister raise a grenade-like gun and shoot him dead.

 

Bang!

The sound was loud and the resonance clearly shook Sister's shoulders. Eric tried to ignore why she'd fired the gun. Judging by its caliber and magazine size, it must have had enormous recoil. How could she have fired it? Or perhaps her toned muscles would explain it.

The four of them finally managed to escape the back door.
Vann jumped out last, closing the door and blocking it with scrap metal. He breathed heavily, looking at everyone.

"Get to that alley!" Vann shouted loudly. Eric grabbed Castra's arm and led her. Celianne ran ahead of Vann, guarding the back. They ran deeper into the narrow alley, pursued by a horde of Khorne followers frantically.

The Khorne followers' footsteps followed like boulders rolling over metal. They shouted incessantly, like a raging storm.

Eric gasped. He let go of Castra and motioned for her to be near Sister Celianne, his left hand gripping the gun. The laser gun he was carrying was tight, and his broken right arm hung at his side. But it still "stings" every time I moved violently. When would he finally get a break from all this? Couldn't he just rest and recover?

"Erica! Watch out to the left!" Vann shouted from behind. He was stopping and shooting the heretics who got too close. He caught a glimpse of one of them approaching. Eric gritted his teeth, raised the gun with his left arm, trembling from the weight and stress, and pulled the trigger without aiming.

Pew! Pew! Pew!

The laser beam from his gun had almost completely pierced the heretic.

"Ouch... Why does it hurt so much now..." He nearly cried out as the pain in his ribs rose. Vann stayed close to the group, fearing he'd get lost or even killed. The four of them started running.

"Don't push too hard! Just a little more! We're almost out of the alley!" Celianne shouted, turning to me with a worried expression, but her legs kept running. Eric didn't know how many meters "a little more" Sister Celianne said, but it felt like over a kilometer. Castra ran beside Eric, her small hands gripping my bag tightly. She was panting, her shoulders shaking, but she didn't let go of the bag for a second. The four of them ran out of the narrow alley and into a slightly wider street. I was about to twist to fire another shot, but then a voice called out ahead.

"Stop! Imperials! Drop your weapons and get to safety now!" The voice came from another direction. Enic almost tripped, not in shock, but out of fear of the sight. The others reacted similarly.

Several PDF soldiers in armor similar to Vann's emerged from the corner of the building ahead. They stood in formation, armed with armor and lasguns. They initially aimed their guns at Eric's men, but they seemed to falter slightly when they saw Sister Celianne.

"Sister, we're from Saint Lucia! Get behind the lines!" one of them shouted again.
Celianne flinched for a moment, but then saw the Ecclesiarchy insignia on the unit leader's sleeve. She let out a breath, and the heretics trailing behind her were within sight. The PDF soldiers immediately formed a firing line. They fired in unison, effectively intercepting the heretics.

"They're friendly with us! Go!" Sister Celiane shouted. Eric didn't wait for another word. He and Castra ran into the PDF line, practically rolling. The PDF's lasgun fired back and forth behind him in a series of more orderly bursts than I'd ever fired a gun in my entire month.

"Hah! So tired…" Eric grumbled as he gasped. Vann followed, breathing heavily as well. But it didn't take long for him to get up and help the PDFs fight. Castra, by now, seemed exhausted.

Sister Celianne looked back at the PDF line, then back at Eric. She looked at him and said in the same warm voice she'd used when she'd carried him earlier.

"You did great, Erica… Did you hear that? Great." He wanted to say "yes," cutely, but he was too tired to speak. The PDF soldier's flashlight was shining directly at me. I closed my eyes before I heard a man speak.

"Sister, which church are you from?" a PDF soldier asked Sister Celianne. She was silent for a moment before answering.

"I'm from the church, in District 15. There are no survivors there. We're under attack by heretics and mutants," Sister Celianne replied, half-explaining. The PDF soldier nodded before walking out to reinforce the defenses and line of fire. In no time, all the heretics were dead or some had escaped.

Sister Celianne then spoke with their leader, though Eric wasn't entirely sure what they were talking about. Soon, the PDF soldiers took them to a hidden location where a truck was being stored. They then traveled back to the church or some sort of defense line.
.
.

 

.

.
After about an hour or two of driving,

with Castra leaning against something beside him, crammed with other soldiers, they passed through a fortified barrier built from rubble and guarded by a handful of PDF soldiers. Finally, he began to see the details of his destination. It was a magnificent Gothic cathedral, primarily black and gold in color. The surrounding area was lined with various gun turrets and defensive barriers, which looked incredibly solid. He felt a slight sense of relief.

Soon, he was ordered to get out of the vehicle and head to the back of the station for immediate screening to ensure they were safe and allowed to remain. The PDF officers led the four of them to the back of the church, into a hallway at the back of the church that had been converted into a survivor screening area.

The intermittent flickering of the lumen lamps made everything seem both safe and terrifying at the same time.

The worst part was the three Arbiters standing behind a metal table, fully armored in black, with helmets and face shields, and the sound of metal hitting the floor as they moved… It all made the atmosphere tense and difficult to breathe. He knew what they were like from just one encounter. They had to come straight. No respect, and even more terrifying. They were called in for questioning and screening, one by one. Celianne was questioned first, passing easily. Castra passed.
Vann passed like a soldier accustomed to it. Afterward, they entered another room. Only… he was left. Eric swallowed dryly when his name was called.

“Next… Erica de la Cruz.” He took only a few steps forward, but each step felt like he was passing through an execution ground. He tried to smile politely, but his face felt as hard as uncured cement. He knew what these police were like from just one encounter.

One of the Arbites looked down at the data on the datapad.
Another looked at him from head to toe, as if he were being scanned. Another stood with his arms crossed, looking like a steel wall.

“Erica de la Cruz… A civilian from the Lower Hive, huh?” the Arbites sitting behind the desk asked him in an indifferent tone.

“Y-yes… Uh, yes,” Eric replied, his voice so soft he could barely hear it. The tense feeling returned, like when an illegal weapon was found in a search. It was like being stared at by a strange gaze in the darkness.

Another Arbites asked, his voice so heavy it shook the air around him.

"Do you have chest pains, baldness, scalp scales, discolored skin, or dreaming or hearing whispers?" he asked. Eric immediately frowned at the question. What kind of woman is bald?

"No, I'm fine... just bruises... broken ribs... broken arm, I guess." Eric tried to speak confidently and without any nervousness. He tried to avoid eye contact, but he knew they were watching his every breath.

"So, what's the situation in the lower hive?" the Arbites asked, his tone demanding an answer.
Eric was quiet for a moment, gathering his thoughts. The situation down there was chaotic and terrible in his mind.

"It was terrible... I was a normal civilian living in Sector Z, and when I woke up about two days ago, everything was in chaos. There were crazy, psychotic people fighting everywhere... bald mutants... and non-humans... I made it out of there with that girl and another smuggler. And then we arrived at Sector E, which was full of walking dead and that smuggler was not spared, and finally, this kid and I were able to make it out,” Eric explained, as best he could understand the situation and summarize it. The Arbites nodded slightly before jotting down something.

Until the Arbites holding the datapad put it down and spoke calmly, a voice that nearly stopped Eric's blood for a second.

"Civilian De La Cruz, you must undergo a thorough physical examination to confirm that you are not a Chaos Cultist or any of those mutants," the officer continued to speak in a calm tone. But for Eric,

the world seemed to freeze for a moment.

He gasped, speechless for nearly three full seconds. His mind was screaming, "Oh, no! Not now! Not this body! Not like this!"

He had just showered for the first time in months. He was still embarrassed when he saw himself in the mirror. And he needed an Arbites to give him such a thorough examination!? He was already embarrassed enough to strip off his shirt while alone!

"Um...wait... a thorough... examination... how thorough?" Eric stumbled, unsure. The three Arbites turned to look at him at the same time, as if the doors to the execution grounds were waiting for them. One of them responded calmly, his voice devoid of emotion, making Eric's skin tremble.

"Everything's detailed, civilian." All three looked up at the same time, as if Eric had just said the stupidest thing in his life, and Arbites had given him the shortest, most brutal answer.

Ouch...

Eric almost wanted to disappear right there, knowing he'd have to remove his shirt... or maybe... his underwear, and have three people who looked like iron walls stare at him, unblinking, inspecting every inch of his body... He felt it was a bit excessive... a bit of a violation of his privacy. But he didn't dare object, for he might be suspected, punished, or even shot.

"Yes... I understand."

Eric nearly stopped breathing. Oh, no way...

He just felt safe... oh my god!
His shoulders tensed, trying to compose himself, even though his mind was screaming:

No, Eric, you can't be inspected like this.

 

______________________________________________

Writer: Done. Eric barely escaped. This time, he would truly feel the imperial power of man, having lived in a place where the Church and Arbites had little access. And now in the church there must be priests with arbites, and you might even meet some normal machanicus.

Chapter 17: Inquisitor

Day 272, Year 986, 41st Millennium

Hive Karthion

Upper Hive

Refugee camp area near St. Lucia Church

Eric walked out of the examination room at a slightly slower pace than usual. Not because of the pain from his broken arm or ribs, but because his head was still spinning from embarrassment. Those three had really been thorough in their examinations. He had to strip completely naked. Standing in front of three naked men was a terrible feeling, but at least he was being examined like a commodity, not a human being. It made him feel a little better, but it still felt bad.

"Ouch... I hate to remember. Damn it..." His voice was soft, but he could still hear it clearly. However, more good news was rushing back to his mind.

Eric sighed slightly as the metal door closed behind him. Click. The sound was too loud to hear, like the end of the emotional torture he'd just been through, but it also reinforced the message, "It's already happened, and there's no going back."

He took a deep breath, trying to compose himself. But his face was still red with embarrassment. At least… it was over. He was cleared. Not a cultist, not a mutant, not anything strange.

“The subject is cleared. No signs of contamination. You can continue living here as a citizen,” Arbites said briefly but clearly before letting him out.

Good news, very good news.

He now had a shelter hundreds of times safer than the crumbling building on the side of the road. This church was fortified, with guards on duty, a system for closing the doors, a handful of survivors gathered around, and most importantly…

He was allowed to stay legally. No evictions, though there might be suspicion. No more guns pointed at his face. He would receive proper treatment, real treatment, not a careless bandage or a different clean cloth than the bandage.

“After this, you must see a medica. Understand?” Arbites, holding the file, told him calmly before leaving the room. Eric understood the word medica to mean doctor, because he wasn't sure if the similar word he knew and the one the future generation chose were sometimes lengthened to make it sound strangely aesthetic.

He almost cried with relief. For the past two days, he had been gritting his teeth and enduring the pain. He raised the gun with his left arm and tried to breathe through the pain in his ribs. Now… at least he'd get some rest, maybe get some food that wasn't corp starch, get some clean water, have a bed to sleep in, and someone to properly care for his wound.

He was much better, so much better he wanted to smile… but his face was still red.

Eric walked out into the main hall of the church. Sister Celianne was praying before a gold statue of the person known as the Emperor. She looked up with a gentle smile. Castra waved at Vann, glancing at her briefly as if to ask, "Did you pass?" but said nothing.
Eric smiled back… tensely.

"How were the results?" Celianne asked with concern.
Eric raised his left hand to scratch the back of his neck, trying not to make too much eye contact. He answered honestly that he passed.

"I did… pass. They said I was safe, uncontaminated… It's just… um…" he replied, pausing, blushing and nervous again.

"Then... why is your face so red?" Castra asked, frowning curiously.

"No... nothing!" Eric flinched. Celianne smiled, knowing more than she could tell. Vann glanced at him, as if he could tell what he was thinking.

"Have you ever been physically examined by the Arbites?" Vann asked, his tone slightly amused. Eric was silent for a moment before frowning and answering.

"... yes..." Eric replied, his voice almost faint.

"Hahaha, judging by your expression, you must be very reserved. Embarrassed, of course. But it's okay, you'll get used to it. That's just how they are," Vann said with a chuckle. Eric wanted to change the subject as quickly as humanly possible, but even though he was embarrassed enough to want to run away, he had to get used to it.

He was safe now, at least... safer than this morning,
and a million times safer than in the Lower Hive.

He looked up at the flickering candlelight above the altar.

He took a deep breath and thought to himself, "I'm so sorry."

Thank God… thank you so much, even if it means a lifetime of embarrassment.

"Now, if you have to report to the priest, stay with me for now," Sister Celianne said before walking away. She must have something really important to do, Eric thought to himself. But suddenly Vann stood up and said the same thing again.

"I have to report to headquarters. You two stay with me for now," Vann said before walking away. Eric rolled his eyes slightly.

Great, now it's just him and Castra. He doesn't know anything about the bureaucracy or the systems above. He's also unfamiliar with the place and the area. He'll have to improvise.

Eric and Castra walked to the makeshift infirmary, asking around. Inside the makeshift infirmary outside the church, a space separated by old curtains and the strong, stinging smell of disinfectant, Eric felt like he had stopped "running for his life" for the first time in months.

Even though the atmosphere wasn't warm or comfortable,
it was "safe enough to sit and take a deep breath."
And for him, right now…that was enough. A middle-aged female camp doctor in a drab gown, covered in patches and stains of chemicals and blood, carefully examined his right arm. He sat down and looked at the strangely modern, terrifying medical equipment, but it had bloodstains on it. The doctor approached him and asked,

"Does it hurt?" She asked calmly, her hand gently grasping his wrist. Eric answered honestly, his feelings genuine.

"Um... it hurts a little, but I'm okay," Eric replied, unconsciously turning his head away. He wasn't used to having someone hold his broken arm.

 

"A little? Two ribs, a fractured arm, a bruise on the lower left chest... If you say 'it hurts a little,' that means you're quite enduring." The doctor raised an eyebrow slightly before pulling out a box of medicine. It was quite unusual.

"...I'm used to it. I used to—er, no... I just had to survive for so long. I'm used to it." Eric chuckled dryly, smiling slightly at the compliment. He didn't think about what he was saying, and the doctor didn't question him further. She just continued with her work.

The sound of bandages being pulled off, the soft clang of metal tools, and the breathing of refugees from behind the curtains filled the air from time to time.

Everything was quiet, but it was never truly quiet. Behind all those sounds...the echoes of the city shattering.

—— Bang... Bang... Bang ——

The distant sound of artillery fire echoed through the stone walls of the church. Eric involuntarily flinched, his left hand gripping the hem of his shirt a little tighter.

"Don't worry. The PDF patrol is still holding the perimeter. Everyone here is safe... Now, lift your shirt," the doctor glanced at him. He pulled out a syringe and told him to lift his shirt.

"Yes... just a little used to it," Eric smiled faintly. But in truth... his heart was beating very fast. The sound of gunfire in the city reminded him of the time he had to flee from the ground floor to this one. The sight of the needle made his heart beat even faster, but he obediently complied.

He breathed harder, his ribs stinging.

"Breathe slowly... like that. You'll get used to the sound." The doctor paused, looked down at him for a moment, and then removed the needle.

It was easy for someone who had been upstairs all along... but for him, these sounds weren't just sounds. They were images, memories, a deep, ingrained fear that was hard to remove. He nodded faintly.

"Yes, I'll try..." Eric said, looking across the room. The refugees were sitting quietly together. Some were bandaged, others were holding their children tightly. They all shared the same look: tired, exhausted, and paranoid.

Eric felt a pang in his chest as he looked at the scene. He wasn't alone in his fear. Everyone here had been affected by the war, and he had been injected with something that was good for his broken right arm.

"It's all right. Get plenty of rest. Don't use your right arm." The doctor put a healing agent in, and it should be fine in about a week or two.” The doctor put a cast on him before applying the final bandage and letting go. Eric was amazed and curious at what the doctor had said. Medicine that could break a bone in one to two weeks? It was hard to believe, but it was possible.

“Yes, thank you.” Eric bowed his head slightly. Perhaps this future world would have something truly modern, not something that looked like something straight out of the Steam Age.

As he was about to stand up, another gunshot rang out not far away, this time slightly louder.

—— Bang! Bang! Bang! ——
Followed by the sound of metal clashing from somewhere.
Eric paused for a breath, then slowly turned his head in the direction of the sound.

Yes…he was safe now. He was receiving treatment. He was under care, and every sound that came through reminded him…he was now in a state of war.

This calm might not last long.

He let out a long, slow breath, trying to calm his innermost emotions. Castra was still waiting outside the room. Eric took Castra's hand, leading them to find shelter around the church. Of course, he was demanding and sensitive about his privacy.

The safe zone surrounding the church was dimly lit by dimly lit lights that had been dimmed to conserve energy. The whispers of refugees mixed with the faint sound of gunfire from outside. But for Eric, it was still much better than in the Lower Hive.

He was leading Castra, a small, thin, and frightened girl, but she had been bright since the day they met in the lower hell. They were now walking around, looking for a place to rest. The girl was still squeezing his hand tightly, as if afraid that if she let go, she would disappear.

"Are we safe, Erica?" Castra asked, her voice a little uncertain.

"Don't worry. Once we're safe, we just need to find shelter," Eric said softly and gently. Castra didn't say anything, just nodded slightly.

But soon, a cry rang out, like someone who had just discovered a treasure in a shattered world.

"Castra!?" "Castra!!"

Eric paused, and so did Castra. The girl turned at the sound of the voice, her eyes widening with joy like he hadn't seen in days.

"...Mom? Dad?" Before he could say anything, Castra ran straight ahead, and the sight before him froze him in place. I wonder if her parents could have escaped as well. But what was PDF doing down there? Never mind, thinking about it gave me a headache.

 

A man and woman in slightly battered but still functional PDF armor embraced the girl with trembling arms. The woman cried so loudly that many turned to look before they lost interest and went about their own activities. The man's knees nearly buckled as he held his child tightly, as if afraid she would disappear before their very eyes.

"...our child...Castra." Eric stood there, staring blankly at the scene. His heart felt a gentle squeeze. For the first time in days, he felt something truly warm in this crazy world.

When he came to his senses, the couple turned to him.
Castra's father stepped forward, slowly walking before standing in front of Eric and making to kneel, but Eric quickly raised his hand to stop him.

"Wait! Don't do that!"

The man's smile wavered, his eyes still bloodshot.

"You saved our child...we can't repay you enough." Castra's mother bowed her head deeply, her voice trembling so much she could barely speak.

"If it weren't for you...she wouldn't have survived."

Eric's heart was pounding, not out of fear. But because he was both shy and warm, he smiled.

"It's nothing... in fact, I'm even happier... to see you two again," he said with confidence. Castra turned to look at him, tears still on her cheeks. But for the first time... the girl smiled brightly at him.

"Thank you, Miss Erica," her mother said.

Eric's heart skipped a beat in a strange way.

He smiled back and gently patted the girl's head.

"Take care of yourself, Castra. I hope we meet again," he said goodbye, and he felt a few tears welling up in his eyes.

"Yes, I wish you the best of luck. May the Emperor protect you, and I hope we meet again," she said brightly.

Finally... he no longer had to be the emergency guardian of this child, and his shoulders felt lighter than ever before.

And then he watched her walk away with her parents. Eric sighed in relief before he continued looking for a place to stay. This would be a great ending.

Right now, though.

He felt a little sad sometimes, but if possible, he wanted to see her again in the future. And this made him think:

What would happen to his parents now?

But it was no use thinking about it. There was no way back. It was true that he was stuck in a future he knew almost nothing about, and he had to survive… The most important thing right now was that he was alive.

Eric continued looking for a place to stay. The air outside the church was filled with the smell of gasoline, smoke, and the rhythmic sound of metal, like an industrial factory mixed with some strange religious ritual he'd never seen before.

Eric walked slowly, his left arm supporting his right arm, which was loosely held in a cast. When he reached the open space…

He had to stop and stare for several seconds.

The Tech-Priests were all bowing around a tank, chanting in an incomprehensible language, a mix of people chanting and the murmur of machinery.

"Oh… that… is crazy…" Eric muttered, his breath catching a little. That tank looked like something… designed by someone who had drunk six bottles of alcohol and hadn't slept in three days.

It was about 4 meters tall, about 3 meters wide, and about 6 meters long. Its hull was an ancient design… like a British Mark V tank from World War I. It had a large gun turret mounted on top, and a large laser cannon mounted on the front. The Tech-Priest pressed his metal hand against the hull like he was hugging a puppy.

“What the… is this?” He used words instead of the curse he really wanted to say. As far as he could see, the Tech-Priest was…sprinkling oil like holy water, striking the tank's armor three times like a ritual, and chanting, “Omnissiah, pless the machine spirit,” over and over.

Eric stood there, bewildered. He had been in a woman's body for about a month, fighting strange creatures, escaping four-armed aliens, encountering bald religious fanatics, and walking corpses.

But watching the Tech-Priests pray for the tank might have made him realize… okay, this is a bit strange, but considering all he'd been through, it might actually be normal.

Eric tried to ignore it and continued looking for a place to stay, or he could ask the clerk if there was one. Sometimes he wondered what his life would be like if the war ended and he survived.

Eric thought that there might be more opportunities here than down here. He might even apply for a higher position and live a comfortable life. But he hoped it would be that way.

And he hoped it wouldn't get any worse, because things were starting to get better.

 

_____________________________________________

Hive Karthion

Hive Spire

The command hall on the top floor of Hive Karthion shook slightly with the impact of the battle below. The power generators worked hard, creating a low, continuous hum. The war table in the center of the room projected a holographic map of the entire Hive. The occupied zones glowed red, while the Imperial defenses were a dark blue, scarcely in number.

Lord Valen Korvax, a black-haired man dressed in expensive attire, leaned against the war table, one hand gripping a metal-tipped staff and the other pressing data on the screen. His expression was composed, as if he were calculating the outcome of a thousand wars at once. He was deeply frustrated that, while he had only wanted to expand his family's power by sending forces down to the lower hive, he had been disturbed by the heretics and mutants. Furthermore, a fairly large-scale war was taking place, causing widespread repercussions.

Around him stood a skilled PDF officer, a Hive security commander, and experienced fighters from the upper ranks, all with grim expressions.

“…Sector D-17 has fallen, my lord. There's no signal from the last patrol,”
one of the officers reported, his expression grave.

“Which cult?” Valen frowned.

“Chaos, but the attack pattern is different… twice as strong.”

“And the mutants?” Valen asked calmly.

“They're still infiltrating Sectors 3 and 4. They're not attacking directly, but are infiltrating in small groups, disrupting our supply lines. We're just holding the front line now, and that's a blessing,” another battalion commander replied almost immediately.

Valen nodded slightly, unperturbed. He knew the Hive's fate was steadily deteriorating, but he needed to demonstrate leadership determination, not fear. The 3D map gradually shifted, the red zone gradually expanding like an uncontrollable wound.

"We'll lose this Hive if we don't do something tonight," one of the senior PDFs said, his voice trembling.

"I know. We need to disconnect the Cultists and reset our defenses. If we can keep the Upper Hive, we still have a chance—" Valen replied shortly but firmly.

Suddenly... the heavy iron door to the war room creaked... creaking! Everyone turned, some even raising their guns automatically.

A man entered, a long, jet-black robe bearing the Inquisition symbol on his shoulder. His hair was short and sleek. His eyes held the coldness of someone who had ordered the burning of entire colonies without blinking. On his chest was the "I" symbol and the small circle of the Xenos Order.

The entire room fell silent.
A silence heavy enough to make anyone with a weak heart sit on the floor. Lord Valen was the only one standing tall and dignified. He tilted his head slightly in greeting. But he didn't bow his head high enough to avoid doing so.

"Your Majesty... Inquisitor, I thought the Ordo Xenos would respond to our request for help... but I didn't expect it to be this soon," Valen said politely but cautiously. The Inquisitor approached unhurriedly, his metal boots clicking against the ground. "Clang...clang...clang." Every step was a reminder that the Hive's fate was no longer in their hands. He stopped in front of a 3D map, scanning the red area like cancer, and spoke in a calm, yet sharp, knife-like voice.

"Your Hive is threatened by two of the most terrible threats the Empire has ever known: Chaos... and the Tyranid geenstealer." He glanced at Valen, and the room felt its temperature drop by a degree.

"This is not a war your forces can win by force," Inquisitor Korvin Hale continued. Many had stiff necks, as if cursed, some clenching their fists so hard they shook. And many were wondering what the Tyranids were.

“So… from now on, Hive Karthion will be under Inquisition control until all threats are eliminated,” Inquisitor Korvin continued, his voice heavy enough to shatter hopes in a single sentence.

Everyone fell silent. That was the official declaration of the coup. Valen didn't argue with him, just sighed softly.

“If that's what the Empire wants… then I will comply,” Valen said, more composed than anyone else in the room.
Inquisitor Korvin Hale nodded slightly before taking control and doing his job.

“Good. First, give me command of all forces, and let me handle it myself.”

______________________________________________

Writer: This is a really heartwarming episode… right now.

Chapter 18: Kill team

Day 272, Year 986, 41st Millennium

Lower Hive

In the refugee camp area near the Church of Saint Lucia

This must be his first night here.

Eric was beginning to feel uninhabitable here, starting with the shared women's showers (Writer: This might be a good thing for some, but for Eric, he'd rather skip the shower than shower in the same room as everyone else). He was also informed that he was staying in Room 27-B. As night fell, he quickly went, and upon seeing the state of his room, he was speechless.

Room 27-B, which was supposed to be a "square metal box that could fit one person," had three bunk beds. The only light was a pale yellow light that flickered rhythmically, as if it could go out at any moment. His room in the lower hive was even more spacious and comfortable.

(Writer: Imagine how bad it must have been for Eric to say that the room in the lower hive was more comfortable.)

Eric, in his resting clothes, received Wearing a loose-fitting t-shirt and plain cloth pants, he climbed up to the third bunk and sat with his knees bent on the narrow, three-tiered metal bed, his hands clasped in his chest. While comfortable, the outfit was a bit too revealing for someone as shy as him. He sighed heavily, for the tenth time that day, before propping his left elbow on his knee and resting his chin on his arm.

"Damn it… Why does it have to be like this…" Eric muttered. The images in his mind were of the gazes of the people in the shelter. Soldiers, survivors, and even some clerks staring at him intently. Not the wary gaze of Vann, but the kind of gaze... that kind of gaze.

The gaze he least wanted to see.

"Should I keep wearing my gas mask?" he muttered softly, covering his face with his hands.
He wasn't unaware that he looked good.
After just washing his hair, his skin was clean and clear, his white hair smooth and reflective, his eyes blue and striking from every angle.
But when someone looked at him like that…

His back tingled, his heart pounding, not from embarrassment
but from fear.

"Ouch... I shouldn't have left the bathroom with my hair that fragrant. Is it my fault?" he murmured sarcastically to himself.
He shifted, trying to sit more comfortably, but the bed had never heard the word "comfortable" in his life. His head lightly hit the wall. He clutched his head and sighed again.

Just...just because it's like this doesn't mean I'm okay with being stared at..." he muttered again, his voice softer, laced with worry that no one saw him. He wanted to go back to wearing that gas mask. It hid everything so well, hid his identity, his expression, his fear, the beauty he never wanted.

"Ha...if anyone found out I used to be a man, the whole church would laugh. Or they'd call me crazy and get me arrested for being a heretic." He chuckled darkly, but the laughter quickly stopped. He hugged himself loosely, his gaze vacantly staring at the metal ceiling.

"...when will this all end?" He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to regain his composure, like he had done in the Lower Hive, dodging crazies in the dark, fighting something inhuman. He survived then, so he should survive too. But maybe this makes sense, because this is just a temporary refugee camp, or maybe permanently. He'll find a new room once the war is over.

Anyway, if anyone dares to cross the line, there's still his left hand that's a good shooter," Eric smiled faintly, a warm, yet fierce smile he rarely sees on him. He then slumped onto the metal bed, the thin blanket covering his chest. The silence was unsettling, but tolerable. Eric had only one thought: maybe he wouldn't have to face that kind of gaze again tomorrow... at least.

But before he could close his eyes, the door opened and a man walked in and lay down on the bed. He tried to ignore it until...

Snoring... snoring... snoring came from the bed below.

Ah~... ah~ mmm~ and a moan of passion came from the wall next to him.

"Shit!" Eric muttered under his breath, covering his ears and trying to force himself back to sleep.

 

____________________________________________

Day 172, Year 986, 41st Millennium

Hive Karthion

Hive Spire

Secret Command Room of the Ruler and the Inquisition
The low hum of the power generators in the walls mixed with the flickering of data on the holographic panels floating in mid-air. The blue light illuminated Inquisitor Korvin Hale's face, making it appear even colder and ruthless.

Korvin leaned against the holographic table displaying the battle plan in three dimensions. He scrolled through the reports floor by floor with his fingertips—his expression steady, but his eyes were sharp, as if weighing the fate of the entire Hive.

First Report: Sector D-17. The PDF forces were being forced back. The enemy numbers had increased disproportionately. The attacks were significantly more aggressive and heavy. And if that were the case, it wouldn't be good. Korvin frowned slightly.

"Chaos... but with a movement structure that wasn't ordinary Chaos."

He changed the report.

Second Report: Sector E-14. The red lines on the map were slowly expanding around the church used as a refugee center like a closed cage. Small red circles—representing the mutant infected—increased in number.

"I think I overestimated their abilities..." His voice was soft, but heavy, like it was hitting the floor.

"Inquisitor... Is the situation worse than we estimated?" A senior PDF officer stood guard, his face worried. He asked cautiously.
Korvin didn't look back.

"If the normal human defenses collapse... the Hive will collapse, and a key strategic point is a church near the second front line." He spoke simply. He brought up the 3D map again. The red area flickered faster and faster, like a demon's heart beating, causing the Hive walls to tremble. He stood silent for a moment, as if weighing an order that would change the fate of the entire city.

Finally, he spoke the words that instantly froze the atmosphere in the room.

"I will send a Deathwatch Kill Team to the church, but we must wait and see."

_____________________________________________

 

Day 279, Year 986, Millennium 41, approximately
1 week later

Eric sat in a corner, somewhat quieter than the others. He ate a gray corpse starch bar emotionlessly. After his fourth bite, he sighed softly, like someone trying to come to terms with something he shouldn't have, but had to because there was no other choice. This place was very strict, with a curfew and other things, and the food was no different, even with a strange taste. He thought staying in his room would be much more comfortable, but he had to endure it because at least there was free food, medical care, and security. But for now, at least he had solved the snoring problem (by kicking the man out of the room).

"At least this place... is better than downstairs. Better in some ways," he muttered to himself sarcastically. Footsteps approached and stopped beside him. Vann slumped down on the crate beside him, uncovering his own corpse starch packet and staring blankly at the side, the kind of person who doesn't know how to relax even while resting.

"This area is still open, huh?" Vann asked Eric. Eric was a little curious. Vann was a PDF, but why wasn't he fighting or fighting anyone else and just hanging around in a refugee camp? He didn't ask.

"Um... have a seat," Eric replied, swallowing the last bite reluctantly. Vann chewed his food for a moment before asking in a calm voice, more like a routine conversation than genuine interest.

"How's life here...?" Vann asked calmly.
Eric caught Vann's eye for a moment. When he'd first met Vann about a week ago, he'd thought the man looked incredibly intimidating, but he was actually friendlier than he'd thought. He looked back down at the food stick in his hand and sighed, "Okay, if you want to know, go ahead and listen."

"Good...pretty good," he replied slowly, his tone calm, but reluctantly. He felt worse than in the Lower Hive, just in a different way. While it was safe, there was very little privacy and strict rules.

"Much safer than downstairs...but also very strict. Full of rules...and my room." "It's so cramped... Actually, the room I have in the lower hive is bigger than this," Eric said with a slight frown, remembering his own rather spacious room, which was quite spacious compared to this one.

"Your room in the lower hive... is bigger than the one in the refugee camp? You must have a lot of money," Vann raised her eyebrows slightly, as if in disbelief.

"No... I don't have that much money. It's just that there's no rent. I just pay for water and electricity. It's not luxurious, but it's still 'mine'. This place feels a bit too much like a military camp... but that's okay. At least it's safe," Eric replied in a softer voice, as if afraid. Arbites heard and shrugged slightly. He put down the corpse-starch. Vann nodded in understanding, and the two continued to chat.

"So you didn't go out fighting?" Eric asked. Vann paused for a moment before answering.

"The Inquisitor took over the negative forces. He told them to conserve manpower, and I'm lucky I didn't have to go out fighting," Vann replied. Eric looked at him curiously. Things were getting weirder now. What was the role or position of Inquisitor? And it sounded a lot like a witch hunter.

"What's an Inquisitor? Don't be mad. I've been living in the Lower Hive all my life and I don't know much about it," Eric asked curiously. Vann swallowed before explaining to himself.

"Oh... Inquisitors are the Empire's secret police. They have such power that they can command anyone from a common farmer to a planetary governor... or maybe it depends on the position. Their job is to destroy any threat they perceive as a threat to the Empire. That's all I know," Vann explained. Eric carefully considered the information. If someone with that level of authority really did hold a lot of power, he hoped he wouldn't make any stupid decisions.

"And lately... I've been hearing the cannon fire from the front lines being unusually loud," Eric said, uneasy. He was actually very afraid of the enemy's invasion. He'd only encountered minor skirmishes so far, but if they encountered this much, he wouldn't survive.

"I've heard that the mutant attacks are unusually strong lately, but... well... they're holding back now," Alf said with a renewed sense of relief, despite a hint of concern.

"I'm starting to worry a little... like this, we might lose and our defenses might be broken," Eric said with some unease. Prolonged destruction would devastate both sides' forces, unless they had good supplies, logistics, and support. But if they fought this fiercely and the enemy captured as much territory as they did, their logistics would be about even.

 

"Shh... Don't say anything ominous. Do you want to be burned so badly? It's a good thing those mother colors aren't here yet," Vann warned him, looking even more frightened. Eric nodded in agreement before picking up a bottle of water and taking a sip.

"Okay... Good luck then."

______________________________________________

 

Day 280, Year 986, 41st Millennium

The refugee camp area near the Church of St. Lucia

The next day

The area around the converted church was still filled with chatter and the suffocating atmosphere of a refugee camp. But this morning… it felt a little quieter. Eric now walked out of his room, looking haggard, like he'd just woken up, but dressed more neatly. He wore a plain black suit, well-fitting black trousers, and boots that were a bit too big, but still comfortable. His long, white hair was tied back loosely, like someone who didn't want to waste time. He secretly hoped that today he would get back the confiscated guns. Both the plasma rifle and the lassgun… at least they would make him feel safer and more powerful.

"Okay… get the guns… just walk… nothing—" Eric muttered to himself, his voice tired and slightly unsure, perhaps because of his fear of being stared at. Before he could finish, a shadow of someone politely blocked his way.

"Uh… excuse me!" The young man in uniform The PDF spoke with a trembling voice, as if he was trying to keep his nerves at bay.

Eric paused, his heart beating slightly, like someone who was instinctively paranoid. He turned to see a young man, around 18 or 19 years old, with a flushed face, as if he had just run in. Eric was suspicious and ready to fight inside, but on the surface, he tried to smile politely, but he was nervous.

"Yes... what's up?" Eric spoke in a soft tone, but it was clear he was also very cautious. The man almost flinched from the word "Yes." He seemed unfamiliar with beautiful women to begin with. His face flushed even more when he saw Eric.

"I... I... I... I... want to know your name!" the young man said with a trembling voice, as if he was losing control.

Eric blinked
once
twice.

Eric knew what this guy was trying to do. He felt this was a sensitive matter, and he had to decide whether to give his name or refuse. But the man seemed perfectly normal, so he decided to tell him, even though his reaction was a little amused. But he understood that kind of thing well, having been a man himself. The man stood there, nervously wringing his hands, swallowing, sweating, almost screaming, "Help! I like you!" He came out straight. Once he had made up his mind, Eric took a deep breath and replied with his standard Lower Hive smile.

"Erica... Erica de la Cruz," Eric replied in a soft, gentle tone, trying not to embarrass the man any further. That sentence made the man stiffen for a second, before his face flushed even brighter. He felt a slight twinge of affection.

"T-thank you! Thank you so much, Miss Erica!" the man said excitedly, almost high-pitched. When he finished, he hurried back to his group of PDF soldiers nearby. They turned to the man.

"Really!? You actually talked to her? And you even got her name!?" one of the man's friends asked in disbelief.

"Wow, you're so brave!" The other said with a laugh.

"Are you smiling?" another asked slyly.

"Holy shit, you're Erica de la Cruz? What a pretty name! It suits you!" Some of the friends gave him a thumbs-up.

One friend patted his head, another laughed loudly. Everyone smiled as if they'd just witnessed their friend conquer a secret mission. Eric stood there, stunned, blinking before he muttered, exasperated.

"... Damn it…" He brushed his long hair aside, sighed, and continued walking. Because he understood.
He had been a man before. He knew what it was like to stand there, plucking up the courage to ask a pretty woman's name. He knew what it felt like to be teased by his friends. He knew the joy of walking back to the group. It was a once-familiar feeling. Even though he was now in a body where he was "asked for her name," he wasn't fazed. He wasn't gay.

Finally, he reached the refugee center's weapons storage area, a converted church confessional. It was now filled with crates of weapons, warning signs, and tense PDF workers.
The harsh white light made everything look as pale as a military hospital room. Eric stood in front of the counter, his still usable left hand unconsciously gripping the hem of his long black shirt tightly.

 

"Excuse me... I'm here to ask for... my weapon back. The lassgun..." Eric said in a soft, yet distinctly tense voice. He felt the officers around here were very strict, and he was afraid he'd said the wrong thing.
The stern-faced officer, seated behind a metal desk, eyed him from top to bottom, assessing him. Not in a perverted way, but in a way that made him feel like a document, not a person. He flipped through the dirty datasheets for a moment.

"The lassgun, registration number KX-44-98, the one confiscated from you when you arrived at the camp, civilian?" the officer replied in a calm, eerily emotionless voice.
Eric nodded, his hand gripping his shirt a little tighter with a slight tenseness.

"Yes... that's the gun," Eric replied. The officer frowned slightly, looking over the document again.

"Sorry, civilian. You can't own a weapon.
According to refugee camp rules, all civilians are prohibited from using any firearms, even for self-defense, unless under direct command of the PDF or Arbites," the officer replied in a firm, resolute tone. Eric felt a lump in his throat. He hadn't expected much, but the gun was his weapon of self-defense. It's part of his emotional security.

"But... I've been using it all my life in the Lower Hive," Eric explained quietly. He hoped the officer would give him his gun back. The original officer turned and looked at him directly, his gaze serious.

"And by the way, this gun is registered to a civilian." He paused for a split second before continuing, his tone both sincere and stern.
"It's not yours."

Eric blinked slightly, but it was all true. He had only an assault rifle at first; he'd just retrieved it from the body of a soldier. The PDF officer seemed to sense his disappointment and added another sentence.

"We're recording this for your safety and the safety of the others, civilians. We're not punishing you here... We're trying to control the situation," the officer explained calmly.

"Yes... I understand," Eric replied softly, his voice so calm it seemed to disappear halfway. He smiled faintly, the kind of smile someone could only manage, and bowed his head slightly politely before retreating from the counter as he walked back out. He let out a long sigh and reached out to touch his right arm. The strange relief in his hand made him feel uneasy. It was the same feeling as being in the lower hive and the lights went out, but when he walked outside he had to blink several times when he saw a tank or a carrier that looked like a black M113 moving down the road. That day there was a symbol of something with a skull in the middle and suddenly it dropped down. The people in the surrounding area looked on with excitement and some looked on with tension.

 

(Deathwatch Rhino)

And when the rear doors and side doors opened, they revealed tall figures clad in black armor. Each of them stood about 2.3 meters tall. And on their right sides, they were silver with Roman letters or some other lettering. And on their left shoulders, they had a unique symbol. Some resembled bulls, some had shark symbols on their armor, some had wolves on their shoulders, and some had a blood droplet in the middle of a circular saw, and another had a bleeding heart amidst a checkerboard pattern. But above all, they all resembled the blue armored, mustachioed monsters he'd seen before. And remembering the memories of being groped by monsters similar to these, using their tentacles to molest him, he began to worry. Would they do something like that monster?

Oh no, he thought about it again. And the memories of that moment flooded his mind, making him sweat and tremble slightly, and he tried to look away. He remembered the intense fear he felt now, being strangled with one hand so he could lift him up, and the terrifying, terrifying words their mouths uttered. Words that made him feel like nothing more than an object or a toy... and that tentacle that had burrowed into his pants and almost invaded his personal space, if Castra hadn't rescued him in time...

Agh! No, no, Eric, you shouldn't be thinking about that embarrassing thing. Eric started to find his way out, then regained his composure and turned away, while many people in the area fell to their knees in surprise, including some officers who were talking to them. Maybe these black armored men weren't the same as the blue armored men with the skull and bat wings symbol. Maybe I'm just overthinking it. They might be good.

I hope they're good. Eric tried to think as positively as possible right now.

______________________________________________

Writer: Okay, now that we have Space Marines to help fight, that would be great... if it weren't for them...

Here are some of the Space Marines Eric saw.

Chapter 19: plan

Summary:

"Don't you see?... Don't be so ignorant, Bishop. Actually, we could win without space marines. But does anyone listen to me? No one... This planet is a major industrial planet. We produce guns, tanks, and armored vehicles. Where did all that go?... The governor of this planet is afraid of not being able to pay taxes in time and won't let us use those supplies to fight the heretics and mutants. If we used that tax, we would have won long ago,"

Day 280, Year 986, 41st Millennium

Upper Hive

In the refugee camp area near St. Lucia Church

Eric sat alone in the most isolated corner of the camp. He had a strangely stressed expression on his face. He frowned slightly and pursed his lips into a straight line.

He needed something to relieve his stress. He was beginning to feel like the top wasn't any better than the bottom, just safer. He untied his hair and took out a comb from his pocket to comb it a bit. Although it didn't relieve his stress much, it did help him relax. He didn't know if he had PTSD, because he'd almost been raped by that weird, bearded creature. Plus, there were guys wearing similar armor that appeared, which was making him extremely scared and stressed. What would he do if he were one of them? He had no weapons. In the meantime, he had to think about what he would do next. Should he endure it or find a way out?

But finding a way out here was no different than suicide, because it was relatively safe, with free food and water, as well as medical care. And if he escaped, it would be like making Sister Celianne and Vann's help meaningless. And outside, it was a war zone. He could die miserably, or he could be branded a heretic and shot. Why was it so hard to choose?

Eric sighed slightly, thinking about what he had in his pocket. He had only a few things, really. There were only a few things: the check he'd gotten from Raoul's corpse, some basic necessities like soap and shampoo, and a bandage he'd probably have time to wash. He had nothing else. His gun had been confiscated, including that big plasma pistol. Honestly, not having a gun made him feel completely naked and unsafe. He could barely defend himself in close combat. What if something happened?

He'd have to struggle for his life if it really happened.

Don't worry about it now. You just have to endure it. It'll get better. Eric told himself, taking a deep breath before using his remaining left hand to clumsily tie his hair back and pocketing the comb. Or maybe he should sign up for a PDF. It might seem dangerous, but maybe he'd feel safer.

This kind of thinking was completely unthinkable. But if he applied to be a PDF, he might get his gun back, and if he performed well, he might get a promotion and live a more comfortable life.

But this kind of work was too risky and stressful.

He had his own goals. His goal was to survive and find a way to improve his life. He didn't want to die prematurely, with his life remaining unchanged. Eric looked at his right arm, which was in a cast. The doctor said it should be removed in about a week. That was good. Eric thought for a moment. Maybe applying to be a PDF would be a good idea. And then he decided that if he recovered, he would apply to be a PDF.
After all, he still had some shooting skills, especially with a pistol.

 

And if they don't recruit, then they won't pass the criteria, or is there a shortage of manpower? No, this is a giant slum, so there should be enough people. Plus, it's an industrial factory, and he'd heard that they were producing weapons there, so there should be enough.

Never mind.

Right now, he had to help out a little at the camp to make himself feel less useless, and wait until the bathroom was least crowded. But before he could get up, Vann appeared again, and Eric was scared and worried he might be being stalked.

This kind of thing was terrible, even though he was in male form. Now, he was in female form, which was even worse.

"What are you stressed about? We should be happy now. The Space Marines are here to help us!" Vann said, his voice filled with encouragement, hope, and excitement. Eric didn't know what a Space Marine was, but he guessed they were those big, black, heavily armored soldiers. At least he had a name for them. Space Marines, that arrogant name.

"What's a Space Marine, anyway? I've never heard of them before," Eric asked curiously. After all, being knowledgeable about things was a great thing in a future world he knew little about, except for the things he encountered frequently. Vann's face grew excited and frantic, like a religious figure about to spread his faith. It truly surprised him, but he didn't say anything.

"I don't know much, actually. But what I do know is that they're the Emperor's angels. They're genetically engineered and enhanced warriors with superhuman strength and speed. They'll come to our aid in our darkest hour...and they're just legends. Besides, I've seen them up close now!!!!" Vann said in a voice that now sounded like a real fanboy. He had the air of a fan of his favorite singer.

"Thanks for the information," Eric replied. Okay, in this future, there are engineered soldiers. Wow...okay, that makes a lot of sense. He wouldn't care much if they weren't interfering with him.

"So, any good news?" Eric took a chance and asked Vann, hoping he'd get some good news. The civilians were barely getting any news, which was both a terrible and a great way to control the crowd. Vann was quiet for a moment before answering.

"Good news? The good news is that we have six Space Marines who will help us." The bad news is, the heretics are attacking harder now...really harder, in my opinion. If this continues, our defenses will be defeated in no time," Vann said, sighing slightly. Eric felt even more depressed when he heard that. But whatever, if it gets out, he'll be ready to flee. Eric looked at Vann and said,

"Thanks for the information, but next time, you don't have to worry about it," Eric said, his voice tired.

"Haha...you'll get used to it," Vann chuckled before walking away. Eric didn't understand how Vann could laugh at this kind of thing, but whatever...maybe praying and pleading with the gods the locals worship, like the Emperor of Mankind, might help him...but he didn't know how to pray in that language.

He should go see Sister Celianne.

 

Three hours later

 

Okay, it seems that Sister Celianne isn't available. She's tending to an injured soldier. Eric is doing what he loves most, even though he doesn't get the chance to do it often: taking a relaxing shower.

Eric stopped outside the shower room, his eyes fixed on the metal door. He took a deep breath, trying to muster up his courage. He wasn't sure if everyone had left by now, or else he wouldn't be able to shower.

"Oh, Eric... just go take a shower. There's nobody here," he muttered to himself, using his usual casual language. But as he stepped inside, his footsteps felt like they were locked in place.

Heavy footsteps came from the side. A group of women in PDF uniforms, but their upper garments were gone, leaving only their tight, sweaty tank tops that revealed their toned abs and slightly muscular arms. The torn clothes and arm bandages told the story of hard work and struggle. They walked in groups of three. The vanguard averted their gaze, not entirely unfriendly, but with a playful glint in their lips.

"Oh, look! That fresh-faced rookie must be from upstairs," one of them said, chuckling hoarsely. Her braids swayed in time with the others' words. She chuckled and approached. Eric felt himself shrink, despite his appearance suggesting the opposite. His hands clenched tightly into the hem of his shirt, feeling nothing but a strange heat rising from his chest. He didn't want to cause trouble, and the whole thing about him looking like aristocrat was ridiculous. Even though he knew vaguely that most middle-class people disliked aristocrats, did he look like a noble or a young lady? He was just pretty.

He wanted to say something, to let them know he wasn't aristocrat, not from the upper class they hated, but the words stuck in his throat.

"What's your name?" one woman asked. Eric responded immediately.

"Hello, I'm Erica, and I'm not from the upper class," Eric replied in a soft voice.

"Erica? What a sweet name," the other pretended to tilt her head and scan her from head to toe, undisguised. Eric frowned, trying to regain some of his confidence, the adaptability he'd had all his life. 'Sure, just keep quiet.' It'll pass.' But inside, he felt a strange tremor as his gaze landed on his neck and arms, reflecting the toned muscles and cuts from overuse.
Why was he feeling embarrassed again? Why did it always have to be like this? But he was still Eric, even in a woman's body.

 

"Thank you," he said softly, trying to keep his tone even and unassuming, so as not to attract attention. It was harder than he thought, so much so that he had to bite the corner of his lip, which hurt slightly. The women chuckled softly, but didn't use force. They just got in his way, teasing him, tripping him up, but doing nothing serious.

"Okay, okay, how can I let you pass so easily?" One of them sneered, reaching out to playfully touch a lock of Eric's white hair. The touch made Eric stiffen. He felt like he was being watched by a whole class of eyes.

His mind wandered to the Arbites warning. If something happened, the Enforcers might come and arrest everyone indiscriminately. Yes, that was his biggest fear.
Finally, Eric took a deep breath, lowered his head slightly, and tried to find some space between them.

"Excuse me... I'm just taking a shower, really." His voice tried to remain calm, not wavering. He tried to be sarcastic to himself. "That's good, Eric. Just try to keep quiet... don't draw attention."

The women stared at him for a moment, then one of them moved to give way with a half-smile, teasing but not truly hurtful. They let him pass. Eric hurried past as quickly as he could. He ran his fingers to his neck and stared at the vague reflection in the metal. Blue eyes, white hair, a faint smile he'd never intended to have on his face.

At least now, they weren't bothering him anymore. Eric walked to the shared bathroom, which had a shower mounted on the ceiling. He went to a corner and turned the water on slightly.

Eric was thoroughly enjoying this moment. The shower made him feel so good, so good. But after a while, he noticed someone walking in. His heart was beating so fast he almost lost sight of himself. He wanted to scream every second, yank the door open and run away from the laughter and stares. But this was a shared bathroom, and he had no choice but to endure it.

The three women he'd met in front of the bathroom entered unhurriedly, as if it were a routine. They removed the armbands, untied the waist rope, and slid under the spray, ignoring Eric, who was practically melting in the steam. One giggled in amusement at his awkwardness, while the other offered a hand to wipe his shoulder, looking at him with more affection than anything else.

He was practically bleeding... Ohhh!!!! What the hell! He'd never seen anyone naked before... He had to keep his composure, Eric told himself... He'd be moved... Uh... Okay, he'd admit it. He liked those muscles and chest, as well as those buttocks and thighs. And all three of their bodies... looked quite strong, indicating they were soldiers, which was... mouth-watering. But he wouldn't show it. It was so embarrassing. Eric even turned away so others wouldn't see his embarrassment.

"You're so embarrassed," one of them said in a deep voice, teasingly but without a hint of serious teasing. Eric gritted his teeth, forcing a smile that didn't quite sink in. He wanted to explain, "I didn't choose to be here. I didn't mean to embarrass anyone," but those words were swallowed hard. He could only keep his voice as low as possible.

"H... Can you give me a moment?" His voice was soft and even, as if he was trying to keep everything as smooth as possible.

They laughed again, but it wasn't an aggressive laugh. They were teasing rather than teasing. Every move they made revealed that life in the Lower Hive required a certain toughness and coldness. But even with such a little teasing, they had a soft side, a part Eric hadn't expected to see.

"Don't be so embarrassed," one of them said in a slightly playful tone. Eric blushed and quickly denied it.

"No!" Eric denied it in a flustered, embarrassed tone.

After a while, they showered as usual, acting as if nothing had happened. Meanwhile, Eric was almost screaming inwardly with embarrassment. He tried to hold back his blush. He hurriedly scrubbed the soap even faster, and he wanted to get out of there.

Eric tried to concentrate on showering as fast as he could with one arm, but the warm water running down his back didn't help calm him down at all. Instead, his heart was beating so hard it felt like it was going to burst out. And when one of the PDFs, three women stopped behind him, Eric almost flinched and slipped.

"Let me help you. Your arm's broken, isn't it?" a tall woman's deep voice said in a soothing tone, before her hand gently touched Eric's back. He felt a slight pressure on his back.

Eric froze, his heart pounding so hard he almost "got a nosebleed." Of course, he didn't actually have a nosebleed, but he couldn't help but feel nervous. 'Ouch...damn it! I didn't ask for this... I'm going to faint...' he muttered to himself, blushing so hard he could feel the heat spreading to his ears. The other two women beside him chuckled softly, sounding like they were watching a small kitten acting scared of the rain.

 

It wasn't a malicious joke, but rather a hint of amusement at his awkwardness, which he tried to avoid looking at them.

"Look at you... you're so embarrassed you're frozen," one woman said teasingly, a hint of laughter at the end, as if teasing a close friend.

"That's so cute. Is it always like this or just sometimes?" The other's voice was gentle and amused, emphasizing the word in a friendly tone.

"I... I... just... never shower with anyone," Eric said tensely, his voice shaking slightly. Polite and clearly shy, every word he'd ever spoken seemed to melt away in the steam of the room, but the PDF who was rubbing her back was unexpectedly kind.

"Don't be so tense. You're not the first we've helped, Erica. And around here, public showers are common. You should get used to it." The woman carefully soaped his back, her tone friendly and firm, like advice from someone who'd been through it all. She didn't touch him in an awkward way, but just being so close made Eric feel his shyness rise to the ceiling.

"Oh... if I were a guy, I'd definitely be jealous." He gritted his teeth and narrowed his eyes slightly, trying to compose himself as the other two giggled.

"Don't press too hard." "You'll go into shock before lunch," the other said, his voice slightly sarcastic, but with a playful, reasonable edge, like those soldiers who tease their friends when they're worried.

"You don't really have to help," Eric blurted out. His tone was dark and fearful, but he was trying to protect his small pride.

"I can see you're having a hard time," the other, who was washing his hair, said in a rough, friendly tone. His words were direct but not harsh, and his sympathy was clear.

"Broken arm and standing alone in the shower seems a bit too harsh." Although her words sounded harsh and military, there was a hint of gentleness underneath.
And Eric could feel it...and blushed even more.
Finally, the woman stopped rubbing his back and would go get his shampoo bottle every day before washing his hair.

 

"Okay, we won't hurt you. Just calm down and relax," she said softly. Eric sighed softly in relief, but the three of them still looked at him like they were watching a young girl on her first day of school. He had to admit that having someone else wash his hair felt amazing.

"Okay... at least I made it through another round... but if this happens again, I'll really have to dive into the ground and escape," he sarcastically muttered to himself. He then finished showering as fast as a human could without slipping and hitting his head. Meanwhile, he plucked up the courage to chat with them, getting to know them better.

.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.

 

It seemed like even after he finished showering, they'd still be able to talk to him. Okay, when they actually talked, Eric found them very friendly. But he hoped it wouldn't be like Raoul, because he still hadn't learned his lesson.

"Just stand there. I'll tie this for you," Rosa, one of the three female PDF soldiers, reached out to fasten Eric's belt on his pants, since he couldn't do it right now.

Eric blushed slightly, but tried not to look too nervous. "Okay... Eric, hold on. It's just changing clothes. Even though he thought about it, his ears still felt hot.

"Sorry... I can do it myself," Eric muttered softly.

"Oh, it's okay. Your left arm isn't very useful. It'd be hard to dress yourself," Maria laughed, patting him lightly on the back.

"We always help our friends, especially the injured," she added with a smile.

"Well... thanks," Eric sighed resignedly. They helped him straighten his shirt, tied his now-white hair into a sloppy ponytail, and fastened his bra back. Eric felt more like he was in the cheerleading locker room than in the harshly trained military unit of the Hive world.

As they got dressed, they chatted.

"Erica, you look so pale. What area of Mid Hive have you been in?" Maria asked curiously, tilting her head to examine his skin tone.

"...upper Hive? "I'm... not from the Upper Hive," Eric answered honestly, but the three girls turned to look at him in unison.

"Oh? Where are you?" Rosa asked. Eric pursed his lips slightly, but answered honestly, because lying wouldn't help and he expected a reaction like that to be scorned by those from below.

"... I'm from the Lower Hive," Eric replied. The room fell silent for a moment before the three looked at each other and laughed softly, not with disdain but with a mix of surprise and amusement.

"Really? But you don't look like someone from below," Maria said, her voice slightly puzzled.

"Yes, you're fairer than me!" Rosa said in a higher tone.

"And you speak so... politely," Livia simply smiled friendly and shrugged.

"Well... I try to look unthreatening. I'd get kicked out easily. "Oh," Eric replied with an awkward smile.
The three girls laughed again.

"Oh, no way. Or are we the people around here not going to take anything easy except for the Arbites?"

"Except for the suspects and the drunks."

"And the gangs that were set up in this area to cause trouble..."

Eric chuckled softly. Okay, once he got to know them, they were incredibly friendly.

"So how did you get up here?" Rosa asked again.

"...It's a long story." Eric raised a good, usable hand to gently cover his face.

"Oh...well, you're lucky you made it out alive. Otherwise, you'd be dragged into the slave trade or some gang down there."

Eric's face immediately fell.
"Thank you for your concern."

"It's nothing," Maria shrugged. "Will you stay with us for now?"

Eric nodded, but he still felt a hint of trepidation in his heart.
I hope everything stays this safe...

Once everything was settled, Rosa stepped back and stood to admire the results.

 

"Done! Erica... You look so much prettier," Sora said proudly, basking in the hairstyle she'd given Eric. Eric smiled awkwardly, but genuinely.

"Thank you, Rosa. Now... tell me about your story," Eric plucked up the courage to ask the three of them. They all chuckled before finding a seat and getting to know each other better.

And then, Eric realized how good it felt to gossip about someone he didn't like, along with others who shared the same sentiments. And the people who were being gossiped about were none other than those three arbiters.

 

_____________________________________________________

A narrow door creaked open on its old hinges. Eric pushed it open cautiously. The musty smell of damp cloth and damp metal overlapped with the scent of old, worn soap. The room was small and cramped. The triple bunk bed was against the wall, the railing slightly bent. The top bunk was a thin mattress, and it seemed his other roommates hadn't returned, or perhaps even disappeared.

His right arm was in a cast, requiring careful thought for every move. Eric slowly stretched his left arm to grasp the railing, stretched his foot up the step, and tried to pull himself up slowly. Cold sweat formed his forehead, from the extra effort he had to put in and no one else would help him.

"Uh... sigh!" he sighed to himself, staring blankly at the flickering ceiling. The tug on his left shoulder caused a slight sting, but he didn't complain. This wasn't the time to be too conspicuous.

Using only one arm, he climbed to the top bunk. Eric nearly fell when the metal railing shook. He gripped the edge of the bed tightly, his left hand trembling slightly, but he finally found a suitable angle to pull himself into the thin, narrow mattress. He collapsed powerlessly, face down on the old pillow. His other hand gripped the cast as if to prevent it from moving.

His chest pressed against the mattress, making him feel a little suffocated, but never mind.

"Okay, I know this position isn't comfortable for my chest," he muttered in the same sarcastic tone. But no one could hear him except the stained walls and the dripping water. Lying on his stomach made his breathing heavier and his chest pressed down, making it uncomfortable. But he was too tired and lazy to change positions.

He couldn't stay in this position forever. Eric rolled over and lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling, thinking about what he'd encountered today. He'd encountered a modified soldier in armor he wasn't sure if he was the same guy, and three female friends who were willing to shower together and chat with him. It was a wonderful relief. He should have made more friends, but the current battle situation was worrying. He had to be prepared for any situation. Anyway, he was happy today, so he went to bed early, hoping for a better tomorrow.

______________________________________________

 

Vann walked along the path with the steady demeanor of a regular soldier, but his mind was still on the conversation he'd had with "Erica" a few minutes earlier. The white-haired woman from the Under Hive he'd first met when he'd traveled to the church with Sister Celianne. He hadn't initially trusted her, but as time went on, he'd become less suspicious of her and treated her better.

Yes, he'd softened his demeanor, smiled,
spoke kindly, and encouraged her like a younger sibling he needed to take care of.
But deep down, he still didn't fully trust her.

He walked past the piles of weapons crates.
His hand unconsciously tightened its grip on the gun sling.

No one from down below would survive without "something" on them...

Erica...a woman so shy she could barely look anyone in the eye, spoke politely and acted considerately. He could tell she wasn't comfortable with her own body. It was very strange, very strange, for someone down there, living under such barbarism, to be ashamed of her own body even though she wasn't dressed in anything out of place.

Yet, every time he looked into those blue eyes, he saw something that didn't quite match her image.

A deep suspicion, a heightened sense of caution, a quietness that seemed more thoughtful than it spoke. He had seen that look before. It was the look of someone who had survived something terrible, but it had also left emotional scars.

He passed a few soldiers discussing the Western Front, their voices becoming the background of his increasingly heavier thoughts.

She didn't seem like a bad person, but the people from there...no one could be trusted easily, no matter how cute, shy, or polite they appeared.

What surprised him was her demeanor, like someone who had just been thrown into an unknown world.

She was both scared and stressed, but she tried not to seem troubled.

But sometimes it seemed like...the demeanor of someone who had been comfortable in a comfortable place, quietly trying to "adjust" to her new surroundings.

Vann took a deep breath and looked down the corridor leading to the camp's main headquarters. Part of him wanted to believe she was just another unfortunate girl, but another immediately objected. He had never seen such kindness in this world before.

He thought back to the first time he'd seen her. The rotten blood and dust. The things on her body, the injuries, the gun, and the rather enviable fact that she was being carried by Sister Celianne.

He didn't say it out loud, but his heart was clearer than anything else. The loudspeaker called for all officers in the area to report for reinforcements.
Vann hurried up, but before he could push open the door to headquarters, he glanced back in the direction he'd separated from Erika a moment earlier. His expression wasn't one of displeasure, but of a deep, worried look he didn't want to admit.

He would keep his eyes on her...until he was certain of her identity or whether she was a heretic. When he arrived in a room with high-ranking officers, some of whom were bishops and high-ranking church priests, his attire was strikingly different from the others. Judging by the position of his attire, or even his appearance, he should have been a mere officer, not one who would join in such a high-ranking officer's plot. But it was just a uniform that allowed him to disguise himself, and he survived the assassination attempt. He narrowly escaped, until he met Sister Celianne and was able to travel safely here. It's also easier to wash and remove than his previous uniform, which is quite extravagant, opulent, and expensive enough to make ordinary people comfortable for a lifetime.

"Everyone's finally here, huh? The situation is dire now. What should we do?" A senior officer opened the meeting. Vann just glanced at the report. The report on their force's efficiency was pdf. It showed how well they had resisted the mutant and heretical forces so far. It was truly pitiful. And didn't the other nobles even think about using their accumulated weapons? He couldn't help but think that if those stingy people had given them all their supplies, the war would have ended long ago. He took a deep breath to suppress his anger.

"Why should we be afraid of them? We already have Space Marines. They're the Emperor's angels. We're sure to win!" A high-ranking officer said, suddenly furious. He was furious at their stupidity. He knew which clans and houses they belonged to, and he wasn't that afraid.

"Don't be stupid...they're the Emperor's angels, but they can die." "... Don't you see? They're flesh and blood just like you. Don't think like that. Use your time to think about more useful things," Vann snapped. He was well-educated, he knew what was what, what the limits of each were, and now he had to explain to these idiots what they should do. But it seemed there was another idiot.

"You dare insult the Emperor's angel? ... You're a complete heretic!!!" Bishop shouted angrily, pointing a finger at his face. This made Vann lose his patience a little.

"Don't you see?... Don't be so ignorant, Bishop. Actually, we could win without space marines. But does anyone listen to me? No one... This planet is a major industrial planet. We produce guns, tanks, and armored vehicles. Where did all that go?... The governor of this planet is afraid of not being able to pay taxes in time and won't let us use those supplies to fight the heretics and mutants. If we used that tax, we would have won long ago," Vann replied, his emotions slightly growing. The entire room fell silent.

 

"Thank you for your opinion, General Vann Korvax, but I don't think Lord Valen Korvax would agree with that idea," one of the officers said. Hearing him called by his full name and surname made him slightly angry. He had long since cut off all ties with that damn family.

"Don't ever call me by that last name again. I have no connection to that damn family. If you don't stop, or if you don't remember, and keep doing this, I'll cut out your tongue and make you a servitor!!! And I won't listen to that damn brother," Vann said loudly. The room immediately fell silent before he sat back down, his expression calm, and immediately resumed the meeting.

"I think we've wasted enough time on nonsense... Let's get back to it. Fuck the governor of the planet. I'm ordering the tanks collected for tax purposes. Bring them all. We can produce them and send them back later. The safety of the workers is our priority."

Chapter 20

Summary:

He thought with a soft chuckle in his mind. But before he could even make it through the narrow turn, the wall covered in rust and scrapes…

Thump!

Eric felt his face hit something hard and fairly large. The impact wasn't very loud, but it was strong enough to knock him back a step.

 

"Ouch!" Eric cried out in shock rather than pain. He quickly looked up to see what he had bumped into, and the sight made him turn even paler with shock, worry, and fear.

Day 285, Year 986, 41st Millennium

Hive Karthion

Hive Spire

In the tense atmosphere, prominent commanders lined up around a table: a white-haired, high-necked archbishop, a few ostentatious noblemen in elegant robes, several PDF colonels, and the one who instantly calmed the room when he stepped in: Inquisitor Korvin Hale. He announced his name in two syllables softly, but with weight. Everyone tilted their heads.

Vann stood at the side of the table, his hands and feet shoulder-width apart, his pace steady. Although his face bore the mark of fatigue, his gaze was sharp. One look revealed he was ready to speak to everyone about the problems at hand, even though he knew there would be strong opposition from the ignorant.

"Be clear, General Vann Korvax. What are you proposing? Don't waste my time." Korvin Hale nodded, signaling the meeting to begin.

Vann opened the holographic map, though he wasn't particularly pleased to be addressed by his last name. He stepped back slightly and pointed to the main elevator shaft, a path leading from the lower hive, now occupied by the ignorant. The geenstealer and chaos cultis had already been destroyed. This elevator could serve as a supply route for the enemy, and it was the main supply route.

"Gentlemen, the enemy's main supply route isn't just the roads or the ground. It's these elevators. The mutants and rebels use these routes to push supplies up from the lower hive, in a way that our response is slow and bloody." His voice was calm but forceful. He pointed to the warehouses that would be used to pay taxes to the administrarium. The tanks, armored vehicles, and armored vehicles were stored as 'Imperial property', which the central administrarium, or administrarrum, would be distributed to key fronts for the Imperial Guard.

"I propose temporarily seizing these tanks and armored vehicles, sending them to the front and attacking them to capture or destroy the main elevators. If we cut off this supply line and control the elevators, we will gain a short- to medium-term advantage, and the opportunity to disrupt the enemy's supply would be sufficient to turn the tide," Vann explained calmly. The room fell silent. Papers clattered against the table occasionally. Vann's brother, Valen Korvax, the man he despised most in his family—a ruthless, overly decisive, family-interested brother—stood across the table, his face innocent but his eyes cold. When his last name was pronounced, he raised an eyebrow in displeasure.

"And this would be the embezzlement of Imperial tax funds," Valen said calmly. "If the Central finds out, our party could be considered traitors. The nobles throughout the Upper Hive will decide, and the consequences will be the Empire's punishment. Do you really want to risk that?" Vann didn't immediately respond, but his eyes seemed to glow with flames.

"I don't want to discuss the tax now," he replied directly but politely. "If we wait for the Central to decide, we'll surely lose before the order arrives. The Central sent the order even later than the rebels sent their forces. We can't wait," Vann replied, recognizing the painful truth. He knew the Empire's bureaucracy was incredibly slow. He didn't know if his assistance would be considered.

"Aren't you afraid that this kind of seizure would raise suspicion from the Inquisition or other clerical councils?" The bishop in the room lowered his head, seeking words with a monkish demeanor. It was as if the room was empty of inquisitors. The noise grew louder and more chaotic, but then Inquisitor Korvin Hale gathered the silence. He stepped to the center of the table, his dark gaze falling on my face, but not harshly. It was a testy gaze.

"I heard General Vann's words," Korvin said coolly. "And I saw this map. I saw the transportation flows you pointed at. I don't consider using resources that are almost rotting away as treason, if using them will lead to victory." He paused, turning to look at everyone individually. "I'm the judge, and I agree with using these taxes to win."

"I agree with General Vann. Right now, we must preserve Hive City and defeat the rebels and mutants. If the taxes aren't enough, we can increase the workday to 20 hours," Magos Genista added, much to Vann's delight, even though he didn't necessarily agree with the idea of civilians working 20 hours a day at the factory.

Whispers and sighs filled the room. Valen's face darkened even more than usual. He stared at the Inquisitor as if defying his authority.

"Inquisitor, would you grant such a permit without any guarantees from the Central?" Valen asked, his tone more legal than moral. Korvin was silent for a moment, then answered decisively.

"I grant it, and I am personally responsible for it. If the Central disagrees, they have a way to demonstrate that later. But now is not the time." He pointed at the map. "Vann is responsible for coordinating the movement and seizing the main elevator. Unlock the designated tax treasury using the PDF. I will send Inquisition representatives to inspect the budget and the reimbursement. Make it clear that your goal is to protect the population and Hive City, not to seize private property." The room fell silent, until the din of a jet stream was heard. Then there were some approving voices, but also numerous dissenting voices. Some warlords nodded, others snorted. But ultimately, under the authority of the Inquisitor's orders, Vann was granted temporary power. Valen turned to Vann coldly. "You made this decision without consulting me. Who will be held accountable if the Central punishes you?"

 

Vann stared back with determination, his face glowing white with a blaze of conviction. "I will take responsibility. If it costs my freedom or the people's survival, I choose the people." His tone wasn't a plea for approval; it was a declaration. Korvin glanced at his brothers briefly, then turned to command.

"Propose a plan of action, identify the units to be used, and prepare for an after-action review. I will immediately submit written orders to delegate partial command authority to Lord Vann."

When the order was issued, Vann's heart beat faster, but not only with relief. It was doubled in pressure. He knew this decision meant both opportunity and risk. If he failed, not only would the lives of those on the front lines be lost, but he himself could become a target for punishment.

The room was filled with whispers of criticism. Some stomped their feet in disapproval, others exchanged glances of approval. But most importantly, Vann's eyes briefly twitched as he returned to the others. He briefly recalled the shy, white-haired woman in his memory before returning to his new duties.

"I will begin organizing immediately," Vann said calmly, and began writing down the details of the plan. The meeting shifted from debate to planning, but the tension remained. ...and it continues to exist.

 

_______________________________________________

 

Day 287, Year 986, 41st Millennium

Upper Hive

Refugee camp area near St. Lucia Church

Rosa, Maria, and Livia's room

The noise outside the refugee camp had died down, with only distant announcements from the staff's loudspeaker and the occasional footsteps walking through the narrow corridors remaining. The three girls' small room, PDF, was cleaner, warmer, and more lively than the others, judging by the neatly folded pile of clothes in one corner and the array of helmets, armor, and guns hung on the wall.

And now, Eric sat cross-legged on their lowest bunk. He wore only a pale gray tank top and shorts, clothes he "didn't dare" to wear only when he was with them, because they were the few people he could trust. Although he was a little shy at first, he must have grown more courageous and had long since stopped being shy when he started showering with them frequently, which was a huge win.

Eric was truly, truly happy now, since he'd woken up in this dark future. Still, he'd get the same corpse starch, and the rules were stricter. At least he had more friends and wasn't lonely.

Livia sat behind him, intently arranging and braiding Eric's white hair. The soft ends brushed through her fingers as she braided it into a single braid.

"Stop moving, Erica. It'll all fall out," Livia murmured kindly.

"I didn't move...the table just shook," Eric muttered, though he was actually fidgeting a little. He wasn't used to having someone play with his hair for so long, though he was getting used to it.

Maria sat on the floor, kicking her legs, playing with her pocket knife rhythmically. Beside her, Rosa lay face down, reading an old paper. Eric recognized it as a literary work. It was probably quite expensive, and he might consider borrowing it. He needed some entertainment, too.

Eric glanced at the book and sighed softly.

It had been about a month and a half since he'd woken up in the Under Hive and made it up here. Even though life has gotten a little better, he still feels it's bad. At least he's met new friends and new things. And this dark future holds many more amazements for him. But he hopes he doesn't encounter too many wonders if they're bad. But if they're good and useful, he'll want to try them out or experience them at least once.

"What's wrong, Erica? You're looking worried again. You're overthinking things," Maria asked, still focused on the book. Eric wondered what it was about and how entertaining it would be.

"Well... the frontline situation. I hear the gunfire getting closer every day, and the PDF reinforcements are bringing tanks and armored vehicles," Eric replied. He honestly thought that the central government or whatever governs this place was sending so many troops, it must be a fierce and important battle, and the situation could get even worse.

It's possible. Or maybe the central government or the rulers here saw a chance for victory and increased their efforts to fight these mutants and madmen.

"Don't worry about it." Reinforcements are coming. The PDF and soldiers from other districts just arrived this morning.”
Livia reached out and straightened a lock of Eric's hair, then spoke softly.

“Seriously, you don't have to worry so much. We have Space Marines stationed at the camp right now. They're the Emperor's angels, and may they be defeated by the enemy,” Rosa replied immediately. Eric lowered his head slightly, feeling a sense of guilt. From his observations and the behavior of these so-called Space Marines, he found them to be rather indifferent and somewhat disdainful of ordinary humans. They were even quite arrogant.

He didn't like them at all.

“I know… it's just… I'm still not quite ready. I'm in a place like something straight out of a war movie, and… um…” He stopped talking because Livia had pulled his hair a little too hard.

“Ouch… take it easy,” Eric said, softly, telling Livia.

“Because you kept moving,” Livia laughed a little at Eric's behavior. Maria looked up and sighed.

"But seriously, I never thought a girl from the Lower Hive could adapt so quickly. At first, she was so tense that she felt like she was always trying to avoid everyone," Maria said, adding an observation.

"...I still want to run away when I see those Arbites," Eric said quietly. He didn't really like them either. They were so inconsiderate. Rosa snapped back immediately.

"Them? No one likes them, even the powerful ones. I'm so annoyed I want to burn their big ticket!" Rosa said in a slightly high-pitched voice.
The three girls nodded in unison, as if they'd rehearsed it. Eric let out a rehearsed laugh. It was a sincere, exhausted laugh, the kind of laugh someone tries to relax as much as possible. The feeling of laughing together felt... better than expected. He had forgotten how gossiping about someone he didn't like or hated could make him feel better. Livia tied a small ribbon into the end of his braid and patted him lightly on the head.

"All done," Livia said, a little pleased as she finished styling his braid. She seemed incredibly proud of her work. Eric touched his new hair, still a little shy, but his smile was even more genuine than when he first met them.

 

"Thank you," Eric replied softly, wondering if Rosa's story about Livia being a hairdresser was true.

"So... what's life like in the Lower Hive, Erica? I don't want to ask again. You've said it's terrible and difficult, but I really want to know the details of what you do there," Livia asked, her tone suspicious. But her question came out more sincere than the previous sarcasm.

Eric was silent for a moment, his hand holding his glass twitching slightly before he raised it to buy time. He looked at his three friends warily, then sighed and spoke as honestly as he could, because he didn't know how to explain it.

"It's... bad. Crime is common there, but it's all around. Gangs fight almost every day, before and after work. Sometimes they steal things, sometimes they just mark their territory with a shootout, causing a lot of deaths." He spoke softly but clearly. His words came out smoothly, but deep inside, he was exhausted and paranoid. Eric reached out and rubbed his arm lightly, trying to calm himself. He didn't want to think about the crazy things going on down there.

"There are crazy people... who disregard the rules. And then there are the freaks and mutants. Some are cruel, some are just lost, but they're making the area below even more dangerous. It's crazy. You wouldn't believe me. I found a walking dead body and a talking corpse before I shot it to death. I managed to get up here through a secret staircase, and was rescued by a sister and a PDF named Vann," Eric continued, thinking about everything down there: the three-armed, bald mutant (Geenstealer Cult), the perfected Geenstealer, and the insane, super-perverted Chaos Cult. Maria tilted her head, not expecting Eric to be so obvious.

"That sounds really scary," she said softly.

"I'm not someone who would easily be harmed, but my paranoia is already built into me. It makes me distrustful of others," Eric smiled wryly, a little self-deprecatingly.

"That makes me understand why you seemed so tense at first... But you made it up here," Livia nodded in understanding. Eric looked at his arm, still in a cast, and thought about his old room in the lower hive. His room was much larger than this one. It wasn't safer than here, as it was farther from the densely populated areas, and there were people he'd had to fight on the way back, but it felt like he had more space to himself.

"My room there...was much larger than this," he said casually. "Maybe because it was an old, abandoned apartment, but...it felt like he had some breathing room. Even though it was scarier in many ways."

"What was the situation like before you got out of there?" Rosa asked, tilting her head in interest. Eric gulped slightly.

"It was still the same, violent and dark... I was working in the ammunition factory like every other day...until one day, there was an uprising by mutants and heretics... Luckily, someone helped me out...even though the person who helped me was dead." He answered briefly, trying not to go into too much detail. Certain memories weighed heavily on him, particularly those of being lost and encountering hordes of zombies, including that blue, armored Space Marine with the mustache, and Raoul's tragic death. The three of them were silent for a moment.

"At least you're here safely. You're with us now. Don't keep it all to yourself," Maria said, placing her hand on his lap in a friendly manner. The words were simple but firm. Eric felt a warmth, a small sense of security surge through his chest. Even though his suspicions hadn't completely disappeared, having someone seemingly normal, understanding, and unjudging him made him feel much better.

"Thanks…" he smiled back shyly. Oh, and now he'd forgotten he had an appointment with the doctor. His right arm would finally be free.

.
.
.
.
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Eric walked slowly down the narrow corridors of the refugee camp. The smell of dust and a tinge of metal remained in the air. Everything felt a little lighter now. His right arm was free, after more than two weeks in a cast. This futuristic technology was truly amazing. As the doctors slowly unwound the bandages from his arm, he could barely contain his smile. Although his muscles were still a bit sore and tight, the feeling of "normal use" was so good that he could barely hum a little as he walked.

Good…his arm was back. He could now perform more tasks, including better self-defense. He wouldn't have to fire a lasgun one-handed anymore. He'd also be able to wash his hair and scrub his own back more easily, even though he'd much rather have someone else rub his back for him. (Author: Okay, it seems our Eric is starting to get more addicted to showering with others.) He thought with a glimmer of hope, a glimmer of hope that had resurfaced after about a month and a half of waking up in this terrible future.

Of course, "if he had a choice," he wouldn't apply for a job that required him to handle a gun or go out shooting people. He'd killed someone with a gun, but he didn't like it at all. It was pure necessity. Because if he doesn't take action, others will. And the worst part is, he might end up being the victim. He used to be just an ordinary office worker, planning projects, managing documents, meeting, keeping track of schedules, and solving impromptu problems. These things were definitely "safer" than holding a laser gun and shooting mutants. It wasn't the hard work he'd done in the factory in the lower hive, either.

And this was the upper hive, a more developed place than the lower hive, and safer too. He'd definitely have more opportunities to find work. I guess he'd have to wait until the war ended.

Thinking of this, Eric put his hand to his chin and frowned in thought as he walked. He also thought to himself that there was little to no guarantee of his abilities. Maybe there were tests. Or maybe this place was so strict... to the point where even if he had the skills, he couldn't work because he didn't have a license or certification... Maybe there was a test for his abilities. I hoped that was it.

As he walked and thought, Eric's gaze drifted to the center of the camp. The old fluorescent lights flickered rhythmically, half-lit, half-dark, as if they were going out at any moment. Eric took a deep breath. The smell of wet cloth, dampness, and old metal… it was a smell he couldn't easily get used to. He also saw dozens of Leman Russ tanks and Chimera APCs stopping at the camp to rest and resupply before heading out to the fiercely fighting front.

He was considering asking the same camp officer for advice, the one who had once told him he could work in information services if his arm healed. As he thought this, Eric looked down at his right arm and smiled again.

He thought with a soft chuckle in his mind. But before he could even make it through the narrow turn, the wall covered in rust and scrapes…

Thump!

Eric felt his face hit something hard and fairly large. The impact wasn't very loud, but it was strong enough to knock him back a step.

"Ouch!" Eric cried out in shock rather than pain. He quickly looked up to see what he had bumped into, and the sight made him turn even paler with shock, worry, and fear.

Chapter 21: Panic

Day 287, Year 986, 41st Millennium

Upper Hive

The front lines

The neon lights on the ceiling were high enough to reveal only the shadows of steel frames swaying with the vibrations of the city above. The air was humid, and the smell of metal dust mixed with the chemicals of half-destroyed factories. The battle had dragged on for hours, and everything was becoming like a never-ending nightmare.

Sergeant Roklin, a PDF soldier who had once been a regular welder, took a slow breath. He had been in this war long enough to become "accustomed" to the strange screams of mutants. At least he thought he was familiar with them, and the cannons of Leman Russ tanks scattered across the vast battlefront.

BOOM!!!

The cannons of the tanks about 30 meters away rang out again, and the targets, the mutants in armored vehicles, exploded easily.

The wall to his left echoed with a thud...thud...thud. It felt like something was climbing up from the wall below. Roklin grabbed his gun, but didn't even fully raise it. The sounds... "Too familiar." But it made his neck numb as if a cold wind had blown through it.

"...Don't tell me that again," he muttered to himself, sighing.

The other two soldiers in the shelter looked down at the detector signal in their hands. The screen flickered a faint red before vibrating gently.

Tick—tick—tick—tick tick

The pulse rate quickened for a few seconds.

"There are multiple targets approaching from right in front of us!!" shouted one of the soldiers holding the scanner. Everyone immediately sprang to life. Many quickly reloaded their weapons, while others crouched down and aimed their rifles in that direction. When he saw the target, he felt a slight relief.

It wasn't the four-armed xenos he'd fought and killed an entire unit with. It was a second-generation geenstealer, or as the PDF soldiers and most humans on this planet knew it, a mutant who possessed both xenos and human characteristics all in one, but in a hideous way. It had a face that was a mix of xenos and human, and it was truly hideous. It had only three arms, and two of its arms were human-like. On the other side were three-inch, purple-black claws. Thousands of them were charging towards his location.

"Everyone—prepare!" he shouted, his voice shaking. "They're coming! Shoot!"

Bam! Bang! Boom! Boom!

Then, beams and rounds from lasguns, automatic rifles, heavy machine guns, and tank cannons shot down the horde of mutants charging unguarded.

Laser beams, lead bullets, heavy machine gun rounds, and artillery shells tore apart the charging geenstealers. However, due to their sheer numbers, some managed to reach the front lines. A melee ensued. A soldier beside him was attacked by a humanoid who leaped and slashed his chest with his claws, leaving a gruesome gash.

Roklin, driven by instinct, aimed his laser gun at the mutant and fired several more shots. He easily felled him before he heard something behind him. Roklin quickly turned around and stabbed the muzzle of his gun into its face before slamming it into the ground and twisting it a few more times.

In no time, he had killed dozens of mutants in the chaotic defenses. The defenders seemed to be outnumbered as well. Luckily, reinforcements arrived just in time to clear the mutants from the defenses before regrouping.

Roklin noticed that the reinforcements were fully armed with tanks this time, and he couldn't help but wonder if a major attack was imminent.

 

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Day 287, Year 986, 41st Millennium

Upper Hive

In the refugee camp near the Church of Saint Lucia

Eric quickly looked up. Standing before him was a large figure in heavy armor, which dwarfed his body. He was only chest-high. The space marine was in shiny black armor adorned with a skull and the Seal of Purity. The armor's servos groaned slightly as the space marine slowly turned towards him. He raised a staff decorated with a double-headed eagle, and it glowed with energy as if lightning were circling it.

When he saw the space marine's blood-red lenses and helmet, he turned even paler with fear.

"It's just like that blue-armored space marine," Eric thought to himself as he compared the black-armored space marine's helmet to the blue-armored space marine adorned with human skin, which also had the same helmet. It was so similar that he felt scared.

Eric stood frozen, his heart pounding so hard he thought the weight in his chest would jump out. Old memories flooded back to him. Images of the blue-armored Space Marine breaking his right arm, ripping off his shirt and groping him with its mutated tentacles, mocking and enjoying his struggles... It filled him with utter fear, both terrifying and humiliating. At that moment, he felt a deep sense of fear, fear of being harmed and brutally killed. The feeling of being strangled, suffocating him as he struggled desperately... and its laughter and its sickening voice... He didn't know what he would have experienced if Castra hadn't been able to save him in time... he would have... Why was he reliving those terrible memories!

His hand automatically raised to his mouth and he breathed heavily, trying to calm himself. His other hand now gripped the hem of his shirt tightly, trying not to run away and tremble any further, trying not to fear the Space Marine in front of him. His blue eyes looked at the Space Marine in fear, but he tried not to show it, even though he was already trembling with fear.

The Space Marine slowly turned to look at Eric before speaking. His voice was deep and cool, his words weighing heavily like a church sermon. But he seemed oddly gentle.

"You look worried, civilian. What's the matter?" the space marine said in a gentle voice, turning around fully and lowering his staff. When he saw the full details of the armor, it still looked intimidating, especially the chest plate with its ribcage. Even though he could see the armor on the left side, there was a bleeding heart and a checkerboard pattern. Eric flinched when he heard this and quickly lowered his hand before answering.

"Yes! Sir... I...just...if it's just a little nervous!" Eric replied with a trembling voice. He had heard other space marines in the camp use these space marines, and some space marines with different insignias had even shot soldiers or civilians who mispronounced their ranks.

"I ask what you're worried about, civilian...don't evade my answer...or are you a heretic!" The space marine's tone suddenly changed. His words became more weighty and decisive. The gentleness was gone, and it sounded more like a threat. And when the space marine raised his staff, And the sudden change in demeanor made it seem even more terrifying. It almost made Eric cry out in terror, and the people around him started to walk away as if something terrible had happened.

"I... I'm just scared, sir," Eric continued, stuttering, trying to keep his tone as normal as possible.

"What are you scared of, civilian?... You look like a soldier who first encountered Canifax," the space marine said, tilting his head slightly and reaching for the other end of the staff. The red lenses stared at Eric as if they wanted to kill him.

 

Eric was silent for a moment, trying not to look at the Space Marine's skull-shaped helmet. He was feeling incredibly stressed and depressed right now. He was afraid to tell anyone about this, and he was also afraid of being killed for some stupid reason. He turned back gently to the Space Marine again, trying to muster up his courage and speak. But before he could open his mouth,

"You've been quiet for too long. Are you hiding something? Or are you some kind of heretic that you're so afraid of me?!" The Space Marine spoke with increasing anger as he approached Eric. Seeing this, Eric took three steps back, fearing for his safety and trying to make excuses.

"I... have nothing to hide from... you..." Eric said in a stuttering voice, clearly filled with fear. He was so scared he was about to cry... but the Space Marine seemed even more dangerous and intimidating.

"Liar... are you lying? Do you think I'm stupid?!" The Space Marine spoke in a tone as if Eric had just insulted him. Eric saw that things were getting worse and tried to turn and run, but he tripped and fell face down. He tried to get back up, though he knew he couldn't catch up. He had no way of escaping it. Considering the speed at which the Space Marines he'd encountered and could reach, he definitely couldn't escape it.

But before he could turn, he noticed a large shadow on the ground blocking the light from the lamp. As Eric turned back and used both arms to try to lift himself up, he found the Space Marine standing at his feet.

"I'll give you one last chance, civilian. Tell me! Why are you acting so scared of me and trying to run away from me?" the Space Marine said in a slightly lower voice, pointing his staff at Eric, who was trying to get up. Eric froze in fear and immediately tried to make excuses. He didn't want to die yet.

"I...I..." Eric tried to tell him everything about why he was afraid of this Space Marine. He hesitated and stuttered. It was so terrible he didn't want to talk about it, but he was so scared he couldn't do anything. But before he could even form a coherent sentence,

"Answer me now!!! Before I decide to execute you as a heretic!!!" the Space Marine shouted loudly, raising his staff. Eric, who was on the ground, flinched in shock. His fear and desire for survival instinctively raised his right hand to protect his head in extreme fear before finally speaking.

 

"I'm scared, sir! ... *sob* Th... That skull-like mask on your armor reminds me of the terrible memories I had when I was escaping from the Lower Hive!!" Eric said in a trembling voice, sobbing. His tears were starting to well up in his eyes. He was extremely scared. Wasn't it enough to experience something that caused him to panic or have PTSD? And then he was threatened or intimidated. Why did something so terrible happen? The Space Marine tilted his head slightly before slowly lowering the staff. Eric lowered his arms as well, pulling his knees up towards his body and hugging them tightly, hoping to alleviate his anxiety. But it didn't help much.

"In the dark, I found it!!! A spece marine wearing blue armor and a skull-shaped helmet with bat wings on top. Its armor that day was decorated with human bones and skin. It... it broke my arm and tried to rape me... please don't do anything to me!!" Eric vented quickly, his voice rising, trying not to sob, and even after he finished speaking, he made the guards clench their teeth to keep his mouth from trembling. But when he talked about these memories and being threatened, it made him unable to take it anymore.

 

Eric buried his face in his knees before hugging them even tighter and sobbing softly. The stress and fear, coupled with his emotions, were starting to escalate. Eric felt himself becoming increasingly distracted.
While he was sobbing, he wanted to laugh at the hilarity and his fate.

He'd been hit by a car and woke up in a dark future where he knew almost nothing, not even the language the people there spoke. The environment was dangerous and the work was demanding. Huh! In just a little over a month and a half, he'd encountered nothing but mutants, half-robots, psychopaths, aliens, and modified soldiers. Why did it have to be like this? Wasn't it hard enough to accept that he'd woken up in an unknown place and involved in a relationship with a woman? Why was he now facing something like this?

It wasn't fair...he just wanted to live a normal life...like before.

"Stay strong, civilian... You're incredibly strong, incredibly strong, to have survived this," the space marine said in a softer, more warm voice. He then slowly knelt down and gently placed his large hand on Eric's shoulder. Eric, who had been feeling fearful, anxious, and disoriented, flinched before tensing up slightly. He slowly lifted his head slightly, his pale face now covered in tears, and his eyes were slightly red. He stared into the red lenses of his helmet before trying not to be afraid. He took deep breaths to calm himself.

"Calm down... You've only been through something terrible... And pray to the Emperor. He will grant you strength, he will help you in your time of need." The space marine preached the planet's religion, the dominant religion in society, and blessed Eric. Eric blinked, confused and uncertain at the events that had occurred. Although he had been hesitant, the space marine had suddenly become surprisingly aggressive and intimidating, but now he was surprisingly gentle.

Are these guys bipolar?

But right now, he didn't dare say much, afraid of saying the wrong thing and being killed easily, especially now that the Space Marine was only a few feet away.

"You seem unstable... Get up! Come with me to the temple to pray to the Emperor. Pray and ask for His mercy and stability," the Space Marine said in a more compassionate tone. Okay, now Eric thought these Space Marines were definitely bipolar. Eric gathered his courage and decided to continue, even though he was a little shaken.

"Yes, sir," Eric replied, his voice trembling, clearly indicating his hesitation, distrust, and fear. The Space Marine slowly got up. Eric thought he had to, but his hands were shaking from what had just happened. But before he could get up, another Space Marine entered. This Space Marine, Mirin, wore armor like the others, with red lenses and black armor, and held a grenade launcher or some sort of cannon. On his left shoulder was a bloodstain symbol amidst a circular saw on a red background.

 

"Samael, why don't you just beat this heretic so I don't have to find someone to squeeze his blood out of?" the Space Marine said in a slightly displeased tone. Eric, whose fear and anxiety had lessened, began to resurface when the Space Marine approached, referring to them as heretics.

"Caesar, stop thinking like that. She's just a scared civilian, not a heretic you can break her neck and drink her blood from." The skull-masked Space Marine turned to the approaching Space Marine, pointing and shouting at him to stop him. His horror deepened slightly at the thought of the phrase, "Squeeze and drink." Are they vampires?

"Samael, you kill heretics and xenos every day, don't you? Or did you fail today?" the Space Marine named Caesar asked the skull-masked Space Marine named Samael. Whatever his name was, Eric didn't care. He wanted to escape back to his room and cry for an hour or two to calm himself.

"Am I ever wrong? Are you about to be consumed by the Red Thirst?" Samael asked Caesar with a slightly sarcastic tone.

"If you think the situation here might be a little unfavorable, it might be because of the nemesis," Caesar replied.

"You think your Chapter Flesh Tearer has a fearsome reputation? Why would I be afraid of you, you little brat?" Samael said louder.

And then the two started arguing, with Eric hugging his knees nearby. He was too scared to run away, knowing there was no escape in this camp if the Space Marines got suspicious. He might be killed or tortured, and he wouldn't survive outside.

Nevertheless, he chose to leave.

Eric began to gather his courage when the two ignored him and tried to get up and walk away calmly. But before he could,

 

"Samael... I heard you mentioned a Space Marine in the Lower Hive. I'll take her in for a little interrogation. You won't mind, will you? Maybe she knows about those guys..." Eric turned in the direction of the voice and found a Space Marine with a hood over his helmet. He was armed with a large sword and two large pistols at his waist. The symbol on his left shoulder was a white sword with wings on a green background (Writer: Dark Angel).

_What's going to happen to him?_ Eric thought to himself, his anxiety and fear rising again.

Samael immediately took a break from his argument with Caesar before turning to the Space Marine.

"Stop it, Kitorus. What you saw was just a Night Lord, and now he's dead. Don't touch or do anything to her. She's just a poor, unfortunate civilian..." Samael replied to Kitorus in a menacing tone. Virorus simply turned his head a few times before replying calmly,

"Okay, Samael, I won't bother you (for now). "Kitoras said, waving slowly before walking away. After Vitorus turned and walked away, Samael continued arguing with Caesar, while Eric sat beside him, hugging his knees in fear and anxiety.

______________________________________________

Author: Okay, Eric was a little lucky to find Lamanter in this episode.

Chapter 22: 22

Summary:

" 555+ Did I hear that right? "You can't write or read Low Gothic," Alf said, his voice laced with surprise and disbelief.

"You heard me right!" Eric replied, feeling his frustration growing.

Day 292, Year 986, 41st Millennium (5 days after the previous episode)

Upper Hive

A refugee camp near the Church of Saint Lucia

When he woke up, Eric was sleeping in his room, hugging a pillow he'd bought. Five days earlier, he'd barely survived, but Chaplain Samael had taken him to a church for two full days and nights of prayer and forced the Imperial Creed on him. Eric honestly admitted that he couldn't understand the High Gothic language, and he didn't really understand or accept the Imperial Creed. He pretended to worship the Emperor of Mankind like everyone else here, because otherwise he'd be beaten or even become food for the handsome vampire Caesar. However, he survived, completely drowsy from listening to Samael's prayers for two days and two nights.

But that meant Eric didn't worship the Emperor of Mankind as a god. He was like a heretic in their eyes, only he hadn't been caught yet.

Of course, if he were caught, he'd be shot for heresy, or maybe even worse.

As much as he hated to admit it, the Space Marines he didn't like, like Caesar and Samael, were handsome. However, he wasn't fazed by it. He seemed more afraid, because some days he'd seen Caesar and Samael drinking something that definitely wasn't wine. And they'd both had their upper front teeth growing out, just like vampires.

And once, Caesar's words had scared Eric and made him shudder.

He had even managed to escape a Space Marine with a hood and a winged sword symbol, even though he felt like he was being watched constantly at times. And he was incredibly quiet, and he was afraid he'd capture him for questioning.

It might have been nerve-wracking and scary, but the situation was much better now. The battlefield was a bit more intense, but his life was starting to improve. And luckily, Raul's check was able to be exchanged, earning him a substantial sum. And just imagine, he could now buy whatever he wanted, even if it was expensive. For example, the meat of a reptile called grox, which he considered to be similar to beef, was quite similar to beef.

However, he still had to be careful with his money. Right now, there was a mix of good and bad. The good news was that he had a decent amount of money. The bad news was that it was all gone. He was now unemployed, seemingly unemployed, even though he traded labor for food, because he was a woman and looked so skinny. Even though he was fed every day, it felt strangely uncomfortable to just sit there and eat.

Even when he approached the clerk to apply for the job he was best at—the typical corporate jobs like planning, management, and project management—there seemed to be no jobs that required those qualifications, except for a few that he might have gotten if not for his inability to read or write Low Gothic.

 

In Eric's mind, the language of low gothic was something completely unfamiliar to him. It was like a mashup of several languages, some newly created, some so specialized that he couldn't learn them in a short period of time.

Eric got up before he could even begin dressing. He combed his messy white hair a bit before pulling it back into a ponytail. He then slipped on his pants and long shirt, then slipped on his boots. That was it.

Eric climbed down the stairs and got out of bed before he could open the door and walk down the hallway to the courtyard, hoping he could help. Being in the camp without doing anything felt uncomfortable, like he was just living there.

But today, things seemed a little different.
The courtyard of the refugee camp, usually filled with the shouts of commands from supervisors and laborers unloading crates and other goods, and the faint quarrels, was now so quiet that the heavy thud of military boots could be heard. The air was suffocating, and the smell of wet metal wafted in from the battle lines below.

As he pondered what to do, Vann, in his PDF uniform, approached with a bottle of drink containing a golden-yellow liquid. Eric could immediately guess what it was. It must be some kind of alcoholic beverage he didn't recognize. But he wondered, "Can Vann drink something like that on the job?" Eric's gaze met Vann's, his blue eyes meeting Vann's yellow ones.

"Looks stressed, would you like a sip?" Vann said in a relaxed tone before handing him the drink. Eric looked at Vann's bottle with hesitation. Eric desperately wanted the alcoholic beverage because, he admits, he liked it anyway. However, he hadn't had one since coming here. He thought it was quite expensive, and the cheap ones looked like a mix of industrial chemicals. He was afraid it might contain some kind of drug, but he tried to shake off his overly suspicious thoughts before turning back to Vann.

"Thank you," Eric said softly before taking the bottle from Vann's hand. He stared at it for a few seconds before opening it and taking a small sniff. It was a drink with a rather aromatic aroma of grain and other things, probably something like wine mixed with beer and other things he didn't recognize. Eric lifted the bottle and took a few sips. He found the taste incredibly good. He hadn't felt this good in a long time. The sweet, smooth, and perfectly balanced flavor was perfect, and his throat felt a little warmer. He didn't realize he was smiling, and to everyone else, it was a very cute smile.

"Do you like it?" Vann asked in a relaxed tone. Eric flinched and immediately stopped enjoying the taste. Why had he been interrupted? But when he looked at Vann, Eric knew he had to return the entire bottle soon.

"Yes, it tastes great. Thank you." Eric thanked sincerely, handing Vann the bottle back. Vann took it before picking it up and sipping it again, emptying it right before Eric's eyes. He felt a little regretful, wanting more.

"It's okay... It's quite cheap... Just need to find a store. My arm's not hurting anymore," Vann slowly lowered the empty bottle before looking at Eric's right arm.

"Yes," Eric replied, his voice rising slightly. Vann nodded slowly before looking left and right and asking,

"You should apply to be a PDF... I saw you fighting, you must be quite skilled at shooting..." Vann invited with a friendly tone. Eric was immediately taken aback, and he tried not to meet Vann's eyes. After all, he just wanted to live a normal life and didn't want to resort to violence.

 

"No... I don't want to apply for a PDF like you right now... I'm capable... but unfortunately, I can't find any other work," Eric replied. Frankly, he really couldn't find a job, for a reason that might sound ridiculous to some.

"555 Wait?... You want to find another job now? What can someone like you from the lower hive do? Besides working in a factory or as a mercenary... But I don't mind. Talented people can be found everywhere, but they're hard to find in that class." Vann spoke loudly with a chuckle, a hint of ridicule and contempt in his tone. Eric really didn't understand why people from the upper classes always looked down on people from the lower hive, but after thinking about it, he could understand it.

"Don't laugh like that!... I'm quite skilled in mathematics and organization... I just can't write or read Low Gothic!" Eric raised his voice, embarrassed by being laughed at like that. But Vann paused for a moment before laughing even harder.

"555+ Did I hear that right? "You can't write or read Low Gothic," Alf said, his voice laced with surprise and disbelief.

"You heard me right!" Eric replied, feeling his frustration growing.

"Okay, okay. I'll try to find you some reading books to help you improve your language skills. I understand that down there it's barbaric and people don't have much time to study," Vann said with an irritated grin. Eric was so embarrassed he didn't know where to put his face.

"Stop!" Eric shouted louder, his fists clenched. But his current physical condition didn't make him look intimidating at all, but rather cute.

"No~," Vann said with a sly smile. The two began to argue, and Vann tested Eric's abilities by giving him paperwork. It was a job Eric thought would be similar to any other military officer's...it would be easy if he couldn't read. Vann then took Eric to a more suitable job.

______________________________________________

 

Eight hours later

A crackling, distorted voice from the speakers rang out.

"Those who are physically fit... prepared and experienced in combat and weaponry... gather in the central courtyard immediately."

Eric stood frozen in a corner of the camp. He was just standing there chewing on some corp starch, his heart pounding with frustration and fear. Why should we go with him? He knew immediately that the central government, or whatever, was definitely in need of more manpower right now... He'd only ever used a gun to survive. No... he grumbled to himself, unconsciously clenching the hem of his long-sleeved shirt.

Eric knew he was now physically back to normal. He had a certain level of endurance, and being in the lower hive meant he was also skilled at using guns. He was especially proficient with pistols, though they weren't particularly large. However, if he lied and added that he couldn't fight, it wouldn't make sense, as he was from the lower hive, and those from there struggled and had some skill. He already had data in the system. If he ran away or refused to recruit, he might be punished by Arbites. Besides, Vann and Sister Celianne had already seen him in combat. Even with his right arm broken, he was still capable of fighting fairly well.

"Shit… Why did it have to be like this…" Eric cursed under his breath. He adjusted his shirt, his shame only sharpening as he encountered the crowd of people, some of whom were still looking at him with the same disgusting gaze. He walked towards the assembly area, hesitating with every step, but he still walked, because walking would be worse.

In the area, people were lined up. A PDF soldier with a clipboard walked through the information one by one. Those who had handled guns before were separated from each other. The atmosphere was filled with tense, quiet despair.

"Number 47… Erika de la Cruz?" A soldier called his name. Eric jumped, his heart pounding so hard his chest hurt a little. He raised his hand awkwardly.

"Y-Yes! Stay here…" Eric replied flustered.
The soldier looked him up and down, unsure of the pale girl, looking like a young lady. He didn't dare meet her gaze. Could this person really fight?

"So, according to your information, you're from the Lower Hive, right?" the officer asked. Eric wanted to evasively say that he was from there, but he wasn't good at fighting. It didn't feel like a smooth move, and it seemed like a complete lie. Plus, the officer already had information on him.

"...Yes, but I... I don't want to fight. I just—" he replied in as soft a voice as he could. He tried to explain that even though he had fought before, it was all in self-defense. It seemed like there were too many people plotting against him, so he was defending himself every day.

"No one wants to fight, but we need someone who survived this war and can still fight. Whether they're from the Lower Hive, join the training group tomorrow, or wherever. Go join the group on the right," the officer interrupted, pointing at the group of tough guys who looked like thugs and gangsters.

Eric was stunned by what he saw. He couldn't move for a moment. His only thought was:

He has to join these guys?

Eric sighed heavily and walked towards the group. He was quite worried about what they might do to him. It looked like the car of a gangster and a thug, and the order...some of them looked at him with longing. Eric walked along with them hesitantly, hoping nothing bad would happen. With a gun in his hand, he didn't have to be so afraid. If anyone started it, he would have an excuse to use violence immediately.

Even though he was uneasy, at least no one was doing anything right now. Soon, a line formed to get his uniform. Eric slowly walked down the long line, ignoring the stares of some men. He wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible, get his uniform, and go back to his room.

 

These men seemed to be the thugs and gangsters on this floor, and most of them spoke in a rude and impolite manner, just like he was accustomed to, exactly like the lower floors.

Honestly, Eric didn't like this atmosphere at all. It felt unsafe, like he was constantly being watched. It felt like someone could do something to him at any moment. Right now, he was in the body of a beautiful woman. Although not particularly thin, compared to the men in the line, who were mostly 176 centimeters tall and over 180 centimeters tall, he was still quite intimidating.

But when he saw the man staring at him from head to toe as if he wanted to devour him, he tried to look away and not look, even tugging at the hem of his shirt. Everything was becoming suspicious and tense.

"Hurry up, you scum!" The soldier guarding the line rang out. Eric and the others flinched at the soldier's command before hurriedly walking. He felt extremely resentful of being lumped together as scum. When he reached his desk, the officer in charge asked him calmly.

"Erica de la Cruz, is she?" the officer asked in a cold, emotionless tone. Eric nodded slightly, unsure, but he tried to appear confident.

"Yes," Eric replied softly. The officer then turned to write down something on an ancient-looking piece of paper with a quill pen before handing him a pair of neatly folded pants and shirt, along with boots, a helmet, and a vest. Eric took them, though he almost dropped them.

He was now a conscript, after all, and there was no way he could change anything. Even if he had deserted, it would certainly be bad. It was bad for his future, but being in the same unit as these thugs would be even worse. He wanted to scream, but he couldn't.

The only thing that made him feel more at ease was that he had a job now... Yay! Eric sarcastically chided himself a little. Even though he was a conscript, he still had a gun. The goat gun made him safer.

But in another way, he thought, this was an opportunity for him to advance. If his call survived long enough, he'd rise through the ranks and rise in rank, perhaps gaining some level of power and a better standard of living. But considering his current situation, he wasn't sure he'd survive long enough. With that thought in mind, Eric sighed slightly, perhaps even moderately.

Eric walked out of the uniform line, trying to hold everything close to his chest to prevent it from falling out. He still felt uncomfortable from the stares and jeers of the thugs in line. But when he turned the corner and saw a familiar group, Eric felt a slight relief.

Rosa, Levia, and Maria were standing in the corner talking. Upon seeing Eric, the three of them stopped and turned around immediately.

"It seems you were unlucky to be drafted," Maria said, her voice amused but still a little sympathetic.

"Erica! Did you get your uniform?" Rosa grinned widely. The sparkling eyes warmed Eric's heart every time he saw them. Eric blushed slightly, but he answered softly and politely.

"Um... yes, I got my uniform." His tone tried to be even, but it didn't hide his embarrassment.

"Good. Well then... good luck to you," Maria laughed softly. Livia gave him a gentle look, as if evaluating her new friend like an older sister. But Eric felt a little uneasy when Maria said good luck.

_It was a bit ominous._

"Good luck with what?" Eric tried to ask, squinting suspiciously. He feared that this kind of military life would be really awful.

"Don't mind Maria... You'll get used to it in a while," Livia tried to reassure Eric, but hearing that made him even more worried, but he didn't show it.

"Wanna shower together? We're free today. I'll help you wash your hair. Same as usual, if you don't refuse, Erica." Rosa tilted her head slightly and extended her hand, inviting him. Eric gulped. He wanted to shyly decline, but the truth was, he enjoyed it when they helped him wash his hair. It felt safer than showering alone in a strange place. And who wouldn't love showering with other women?

"Oh... sure," Eric replied awkwardly but sincerely.Maria smiled slightly, and the four of them continued chatting.

 

______________________________________________

The corridor behind the PDF unit's equipment warehouse was quieter than usual. The overhead light flickered rhythmically, as if someone had purposely set it off. Vann entered a hidden corner, out of sight, through faded steel panels and the faint smell of motor oil. The rustling swirled around the area.

As soon as he stepped out of sight, the "casual" demeanor of a kind and relaxed young man vanished completely.

His shoulders straightened, his gait calmer, more composed, and even more composed.

He recalled the image of the shy young woman holding the expensive bottle of liquor just now. Her expression, as she tried to argue with him so prettily, still lingered. She seemed too innocent to be a threat to anyone, but her abilities...interesting. According to his tests, she was quite skilled in handgun handling, fairly advanced in mathematics, and management. Unfortunately, she lacked any writing skills. With training, she could become his right-hand man, and even his weapon. A powerful weapon, capable of assassination and stealing enemy secrets.

He paused for a moment, staring at the distorted reflection of his reflection on the metal wall.

But she was still an "outsider"... pulling her in now would be too risky. Before he could think any further, heavy footsteps came from behind him.

"Lord Vann Korvax!"

The voice made his eyebrows twitch slightly.
Not because he was being called by his name, but because "no one in the camp or the lower-ranking officers should know his full name."
Vann turned around calmly, like someone who knew something was up.

A young soldier approached, his expression strained. He was wearing light armor like a field aide, but his demeanor was unusually stiff, as if he had memorized a line.

"I have something important to tell you—" the young soldier said urgently, his hand slowly lowering and reaching for the low-quality assault chain sword at his waist in a split second. The sound of an engine starting up was heard.

Vann didn't move until the other man lunged at him, revving up, aiming to cut him in half.

Aaaaahh!!!

The sound of a chain sword was followed by the sound of metal clashing. "Clang!" But there was no blood, no screaming, as he raised his cybernetic arm, covered in faux leather that looked like real leather, to defend.

CRACK!!!!!!

The sound of a small, ordinary metal blade scraping against his expensive adamantium prosthetic arm emitted sparks. The impact sent Vann reeling back slightly. The blade vibrated violently before being stopped by his single hand as Vann relented. His prosthetic hand crushed the assault chainsword, rendering it unusable. Vann stared at him with a cold gaze, as if he were a machine.

"You shouldn't even know my name," he said in a low, cold voice. The soldier gritted his teeth and tried to reach for the pistol at his waist, but Vann wouldn't let him.

BANG!!!!!

A loud crash erupted. Blood and entrails splattered onto his uniform. The soldier, with a large hole in his stomach, collapsed rapidly, blood sloshing everywhere. Vann stood there motionless, his bolt pistol still smoking from the muzzle.

He stared at the fallen body with sharp eyes, brushing the entrails off his uniform with his other hand. This wasn't anything new. Assassinations and slander contests, or whatever, were common in Hive Spire and the elite. Perhaps this guy was someone his rival had sent to do something to him.

He bent down to examine the body for a split second, without touching it, without opening his uniform, just looking at the small insignia on the corner of his armor.

And he immediately concluded: it was just an assassin his rival had sent... If it were just an assassin his rival had sent... If it were just an assassination attempt, that would be great... But it wasn't... A normal assassin wouldn't have eyes like this. This was a Geenstealer.

How could it be? He said the security screening and procedures here were already strict. There was no way he could have gotten through. He must have been sneaking in.

He put his gun back in his holster, looked at his left prosthetic arm, the leather covering it now peeled off, revealing a piece of expensive adamantium metal. He turned back down the long, half-dark, half-lit corridor, and when he turned around the corner, he saw the body of a soldier who had just been killed.

This wasn't just an assassination attempt, it was a clear sign that the enemy had managed to sneak into the camp.

And he knew his name. This shows that there's a traitor among the elite, and someone has already become infected.

Thinking this through, Vann sighed slightly. Tomorrow, he had to take the elevator up to the Hive Spire and present this matter to the council. This would ensure everything was handled properly and that nothing went wrong.

_

Chapter 23: First day in frontline

Summary:

“Young men and women, you social scum… today you have the honor of joining the PDF forces to deal with the heretics and mutants who dare to invade and destroy our homes… and to eliminate and torture our loyal citizens… their existence is a sin and a heresy… and you must be the ones to cleanse this heresy and sin from this place!!! We will kill and burn them, making them aware of the wrath of humanity! Tomorrow there will be a great invasion. You will have the honor of invading to seize the main elevator, a vital supply point for the enemy.”

"Let the enemies of mankind know… let them feel the terror!

Cleanse them from Hive Karthion!

FOR THE EMPEROR!!!!”

Day 292, Year 986, 41st Millennium

Hive Karthion

Hive Spire

In a room with four walls of dull gold-plated metal, adorned with the Korvax family crest and sculpted iron aviators with outstretched wings, the room was dimmed more than it should have been, intentionally designed to make the visitor feel automatically “below” the ruler.

Vann stepped in, dressed in bloodstained pdf soldier's armor from a recent clash. He removed his helmet, revealing a face so expressionless it seemed emotionless in the presence of the person who could theoretically be considered his older brother—the brother he hated most.

At the end of the long table, Valen Korvax, clad in a black robe embellished with luxurious silver metal, stood waiting, his face as expressionless as a sculpture. Though he didn't speak, Valen's gaze instantly made the room seem smaller.

“…You are late,” Valen said, his voice flat, but the pressure was like a cold blade cutting through a skin.

“There was a minor problem at that church. I’ve taken care of it,” Vann replied in a calm tone.
Valen glanced at his younger brother's cybernetic arm, the mark of damage visible, for a fleeting moment. Before turning his attention to the information tablet on the table,

“A malfunction? Or are you telling me that the lower-ranking soldiers dared to assassinate you?… You must have been ambushed by an assassin,” Valen said indifferently, as if what had happened was perfectly normal.

“…It wasn’t human from the start… It’s a group of mutants who infiltrated,” Vann replied coldly. Just that sentence made Valen immediately acknowledge it was a serious matter. He narrowed his eyes slightly, like a hunter smelling blood.

“Genestealer… in the refugee camp that serves as a supply and logistics point to the front lines, which you oversee,” Valen said as if it were an expletive.
“What a disgrace.”

“This is something that could happen, and it’s not something to be ashamed of… If it knows my name… it means ‘someone’ on Spire has been allied with them for a long time… and there must be a mole in our minds, a mutant.” Vann spoke with considerable displeasure. Valen was silent for a moment before a faint smile appeared on his face, the kind of smile that would see the entire district executed for a minor riot. (Which his older brother had actually done, and often enough.)

“Don’t worry, I’ll handle them all, no matter which family they belong to,” Valen said with a slightly arrogant smile. Vann didn’t respond. He wasn’t into his brother’s boundless ruthlessness; he preferred a more systematic approach, aiming for the desired results.
Valen closed the data slate and turned to look his younger brother directly in the eye.

“Now… something more important. Your invasion plan for four days from now.” Valen’s voice grew heavier. He slowly walked around the table, closer until their breathing became threatening. The yellow eyes of both were at the same level.

“I warned you in the meeting… if your plan fails and you let the hybrids and heretics continue to control the main elevator…” Valen threatened, leaning closer until a cruel glint was visible in his eyes.

“If the plan fails, it will cause immense damage… we might even lose… and even if we win, our citizens who work in the factories won’t be enough to produce those resources to pay taxes to the central government.” "The central authority will send an inquisition when we don't pay our taxes in full," Valen said, his smile growing increasingly inhumane.

"We'll be investigated, and sometimes all the power we've accumulated will be seized? And you know that in the other hive cities on this planet, the situation isn't as bad as here... Everywhere else has cleared out all the heretics and mutants. Only a few remain... If your plan isn't good enough and we lose... you know the other noble families will target us." Valen spoke with a thoughtful tone. Vann didn't avert his gaze. He spoke calmly but firmly. Vann sighed wearily; his hated older brother was still a power-hungry lunatic, and he knew the situation outside. Everything else was improving.

Except here.

"I know... and I won't make the same mistake. And I don't care about those noble families," Vann said coldly. Valen stood silent for two seconds, staring at his younger brother as if assessing the potential of "the weapon he once created." Then he spoke with a voice as cold as if slitting an enemy's throat without blinking.

“Good…because if your plan fails,” Valen patted Vann’s shoulder lightly, but the pressure felt like his fingers were digging into bone.
“I won’t hesitate to use this as an excuse to propose locking down the hive city, then draining all the air, or injecting poisonous gas, or, even more creatively, raising the temperature until nothing can live there. Eliminate everyone and everything down there, and I won’t let you off.” Valen spoke in a cold and terrifying voice. Vann showed no emotion, but his heart grew even colder.

“I will win. Don’t worry,” Vann assured confidently, even though he knew he might lose. Valen smiled slightly, as if amused, but in truth, he was curious to know what would happen if he lost and his family collapsed.

It would surely make him very happy.

 

“Am I worried about you? No… I’m only worried about the family’s interests,” Valen said, his voice slightly raised. He turned his back, ordering sharply,

“Go, Vann Korvax… and don’t disappoint me again.” Valen spoke with a mocking tone.

“Do I want to have expectations of you? And more importantly, don’t call me by that name. I have no connection to this family since you made Father banish me.” Vann spoke with anger in his voice before putting on his helmet and walking out of the room. His tall figure disappeared into the shadows of the hallway.

“But you still managed to struggle… you were able to climb from the lowest position to this one… you don’t deserve to be of Korvax blood, do you, little brother?… And don’t forget that everything you have today is because of my mercy; otherwise, you would have the same fate as that sister.” Valen called after him. Vann frowned slightly. His brother was still like this? It started with the assassination of his own sister to seize the position of head of the family. And perhaps it could be said that everything he had now was because of his brother. From a nobody who struggled and started from scratch to climb to this level...

But that's not something his brother can claim as a favor.

"Go to hell, brother..." Vann turned his back and yelled at his brother before hurrying away.

 

______________________________________________

Day 295, Year 986, 41st Millennium

Karthion Hive

Upper Hive

Refugee camp area near St. Lucila's Church

Erik hugged his pillow for another two seconds before letting out a long sigh.

“Just a little more sleep,” Eric muttered to himself, hoping his murmur would change the situation. But of course, there were no miracles in the dark future he lived in.

He slowly rolled off the bed, his hand still unconsciously clutching the hem of the t-shirt he was sleeping in, the lingering shame since he had to inhabit a woman's body. The unfamiliar body made him wary of his every move, even in the empty room.

Erik climbed down from the third-tier bunk bed before looking around to see if anyone was there. Surprisingly, it was his roommates. They'd been gone for days, and no one new had moved in. While it made him uneasy, at least he'd be sleeping alone. Eric glanced at the uniform he'd placed in the corner of the room.

Eric rummaged through the pile of clothes and pulled out a pair of rather stiff, long trousers. He shook them out slightly, took off his own shorts, and slid his legs in one at a time, pulling the waistband up to his waist before fastening his belt.

Next came a thin undershirt, which he hoped would protect him from chafing caused by the long-sleeved shirts. He felt the fabric was very rough, clearly not designed for durability or comfort. He had to take off his old shirt as well and put it on, realizing he needed to remove his belt to get his water toys out before he could tuck the shirt in.

Then came the shirt. He found the fabric somewhat rough, like most shirts he was familiar with in the area, just coarser. After buttoning the last button, Eric sat down on the ground and spent a while putting on his socks and tying his shoelaces, a task he wasn't quite used to.

And finally… well… how should he describe it? It was a chest protector made of thin metal plates. He didn't know if it would protect him, but he had no choice but to wear it to increase his chances of survival.
As he put it on, the weight pressed rhythmically against his chest and back. The armor was designed for protection, not specifically to accommodate a woman's figure. Eric felt the armor pressing against his chest tighter than he expected, but he didn't let the discomfort bother him. He twisted slightly to adjust the position and tightened the side straps. Once put on, it felt a little uncomfortable.

"What a hassle," he muttered softly to himself.

The half-helmet, which looked like a typical military helmet in 2020, was lifted. He carefully placed it on his head. The metallic click of the leather straps signaled that the dressing was complete. All that remained was to check his appearance in the mirror in the corner of the room. He looked better than he thought in this outfit.

"Don't be so self-conscious," Eric said softly to himself with a small smile. He looked really cute right now. Then he realized he'd forgotten to fix his hair. Eric tidied his hair before tucking it into the helmet, making sure no long strands were sticking out. ...Sigh... Eric let out a long sigh. He said doing this was just self-consolation. Now he's likely to be heading to the front lines... He doesn't even want to imagine what will happen to his life... Just escaping the Lower Hive with the mutant enemies hunting and attacking him occasionally is already making him feel terrible, disgusted, and stressed...

But if that happens, there's going to be fierce fighting... And from what she learned from Vann, there's a major invasion tomorrow. How much danger is he facing by being on the front lines...? More risk... More stress... It's going to be awful... He knows how terrifying it is to fight enemies with firearms... It... It's not like fighting those aliens or zombies with only melee weapons... He could die at any moment.

Eric sighed softly again before grabbing his clothes and gathering them to wash... He didn't know when he'd be able to... But if he could get them back, that would be good... Maybe the new tenant would throw them away.
Eric checked everything one last time to make sure it was in order... Then he slowly looked in the mirror, gazing at his face, which looked like any other day, but today it didn't look very happy...

Perhaps he should just get used to everything and try to find small joys in these situations...or even...

Eric shook his head, trying to clear the negative thoughts from his mind. He opened the door and walked out of the room, but before he closed it, he turned back to look at it for a moment and thought...maybe he should take something with him, something he once received from someone else.

Eric walked to his bag, which contained everyday items and money. He rummaged through it and found a cult machanic amulet he had received from a tech priest who had saved his life when he was lost in the Under Hive.

Eric held the amulet in both hands, pressed it to his chest, and silently prayed for the tech priest's soul to rest in peace. Oh...and maybe there's a luggage storage service here. Who knows, if he leaves his things in the room like this, his money and other belongings might disappear.

Eric picked out what he thought were necessary, like a comb, sanitary pads, and stuffed them into his bag as much as he could fit in his pants, along with some strong painkillers (which could easily lead to addiction).

 

Eric locked the door to his room and went to where the clerk was located. Upon arriving, he asked if he could leave his belongings there. There was no such service, but after some clever bribery and sweet talk, he was allowed to. It was quite unexpected, considering the camp was supposed to be very strict, yet there were officials willing to accept bribes and kickbacks… but since his belongings were already protected, he didn't think much of it and walked to the camp's assembly point to line up and prepare to be sent to the front lines.

But upon reaching the wide assembly area, dimly lit by steam pipes and small lamps, reflecting red dust and oil stains, Eric felt like a lamb in a pack of wolves, ready to be devoured at any moment. Of course, they weren't going to devour him.

The conscripts surrounded him in a dense group. Some had dirty faces, with hastily drawn tattoos, and their demeanor was boisterous, reckless, cowardly, and vulgar. Most of those Eric saw were teenagers. Those who seemed to be around his age (Eric in this body is approximately 25 years old) were talking loudly, shouting and teasing each other, using foul language as if it were a polite way of greeting here. Some lightly punched each other on the shoulder, others shook their heads and made playful faces to elicit laughter. The atmosphere was lively, chaotic, raw, and uncompromising.

Eric tried to avoid eye contact. His face was obscured by a black face mask and glasses. He could only feel the scrutinizing gazes from the corners of their eyes. Some pairs looked suspicious, some had mocking smiles, and some stared analytically as if planning to molest him. Luckily, his mask covered him enough to protect him from being questioned too much.

“Look over there… isn’t that the woman? The one who’s been assigned to our unit…” one of the recruits said, leaning softly towards Eric.

“Yes, so what?… Just you wait, I’ll get her soon enough,” another said with a smile.

"Don't be ridiculous...look at how you guys look, you'll scare her. She's not some tough girl like the gang members from your neighborhood...She'll be mine, I'll show you." One of the more mature-looking guys chimed in with a cheerful smile.

"Why don't we share her?" another man in the group said. Then they all turned to him, bursting into laughter.

Unbeknownst to them, Eric heard everything they said. He bit his lip, restraining himself from punching or slapping them. He didn't retaliate, even though he was terrified, suspicious, distrustful, and extremely angry. He knew arguing wasn't an option. He couldn't win. Arbites might see, or things could escalate beyond repair.

His mind was preoccupied with something else...what to do if they actually did what they said...and the answers came to him easily in just two or three ways.

First, just shoot them if they threatened him. Because on the battlefield, no one cares how those guys die; a lie is enough.

Secondly, shoot to defend yourself.

Thirdly, run away. That's all. Because honestly, his close-combat skills are terrible, and he can barely imagine what would happen if he got caught.

Even though he felt uncomfortable and angry, he tried to maintain a steady stance. He slightly raised his chin, scanning his surroundings. He saw some people pushing away smaller individuals or staring mercilessly at the weaker ones, but he restrained himself. He knew that acting impulsively could affect himself and other uninvolved gunmen in the group.

“Hang in there, Eric…” he murmured sarcastically to himself, trying to encourage himself, breathing slowly to calm his apprehension. He knew that adapting might be the only way to survive, but it didn't satisfy him at all.

Until…

 

Heavy footsteps sounded as a formidable-looking officer in a stern military uniform strode into the courtyard. Everyone stopped talking and turned to look instantly, as if pulled to a crisp. The thugs who had been joking around moments before fell silent and quickly lined up in order. Their rugged figures instantly formed a straight line. Eric, too, blended in like everyone else, straightening up and adjusting his hat to completely cover his face.

The officer faced the troops, scrutinizing them for a moment before beginning his speech in a stern voice, filled with a powerful and both captivating and chilling rousing rhetoric.

“Young men and women, you social scum… today you have the honor of joining the PDF forces to deal with the heretics and mutants who dare to invade and destroy our homes… and to eliminate and torture our loyal citizens… their existence is a sin and a heresy… and you must be the ones to cleanse this heresy and sin from this place!!! We will kill and burn them, making them aware of the wrath of humanity! Tomorrow there will be a great invasion. You will have the honor of invading to seize the main elevator, a vital supply point for the enemy.”

"Let the enemies of mankind know… let them feel the terror!

Cleanse them from Hive Karthion!

FOR THE EMPEROR!!!!”

The words “For the Emperor” rang out as the final syllable. The official’s voice broke into a command, and everyone responded with roars and hoarse voices. Some shouted wildly, others grinned triumphantly. Eric felt the tremors of the crowd’s response, like waves crashing against him, almost making him lose his balance.

Eric was momentarily disoriented. He didn’t understand the frenzy around him, but he didn’t want to stand out and draw more attention. He forced his voice to join the others, even though he was confused by the deeper meaning of the words. His voice was higher pitched than the others, causing him to stumble over the final syllable, but he reluctantly shouted along. His voice blended in with the crowd, as if trying to blend in.

“For the Emperor!” The final word escaped Eric’s throat, even though he still felt uneasy about the rather left-leaning and extreme wording. Not responding might make him an easier target. Shouting along was the safest option in this situation. To prevent others from knowing that he was a heretic who didn't believe in the Emperor, the officer quickly gave the next order as his voice faded:

"Quickly grab your weapons and regroup at another open area. Troop transports and trucks will be coming to take you to the front lines...and remember, Emperor Protect!" The officer said goodbye before disappearing. Then, everything instantly became orderly, incredibly. They were all ordered to go to the armory to receive weapons.

Eric was quite happy to hear this, because finally he would have weapons to defend himself and wouldn't have to fear anyone harming him...because anyone who dared to cross his line would be shot in retaliation.

Meanwhile, several soldiers in the line were speaking with excitement, also receiving weapons and about to fight the heretics. Seeing the person in front of him get a gun increased their hopes, but when it was Eric's turn, he removed his mask and smiled like a child about to receive candy. Instead, the officer handed him two magazines for the Lassgun.

 

"Wait a minute? Why didn't I get a weapon like everyone else?" Eric asked, his voice barely audible. How could he survive on a battlefield like that without a weapon? How could he defend himself? The officer simply turned around before coldly replying:

"Go collect weapons from the corpses, soldier... Our resources are insufficient... Go now, you're wasting other people's time." The officer spoke coldly before dismissing Eric. Eric could only nod reluctantly before walking away, staring at the two lassgun magazines in his hands with a look of disappointment and emptiness.

How could he defend himself like this...? How could he survive against those guys when he had almost no weapons? Was it really that bad that they even gave him weapons?... Eric thought anxiously.

And what about his plasma pistol, which he took from the space marine's corpse?... Oh, damn.

Eric, currently in a mood he'd never been happy before, walked along the line to board the vehicle to the front lines, feeling a little dejected about his life. Even as a conscript, he only received a uniform and two Lassgun magazines, and now he had to go to the front lines...but suddenly, a familiar voice rang out.

"Hello, Erika!!!" Castra's voice rang out from beside him. Eric turned in the direction of the voice and saw her standing next to her parents. This time, she was wearing the same clothes as the other girls he knew, and she looked very happy. Eric stepped out of the line towards her and knelt down to be at her level.

"Hello to you too, Castra...What are you doing here today?" Eric asked in a soft and gentle voice. As far as he could remember, he hadn't seen her for several days...and she must be here for something.

"I came to tell you some good news," Castra said with an innocent smile. Eric thought this news must be something good about to happen in her life.

"What good news is it? I'm so curious," Eric asked, amused by the cheerful smile. But Castra's face looked a little sad.

"My family is going to a new planet, Cindralis Prime, a medium-sized industrial planet in the Segmentum Obscurus. That's all I know... Maybe we'll meet again... May the Emperor protect you, brother," Castra said, her voice trembling slightly as if she were about to cry. Eric took a deep breath... At least her family had the chance to move somewhere else, far, far away, even though he didn't know what that planet or region was.

"Then I wish you good luck, little one... May you pursue your dreams... and may you be happy in your new life~" Eric said with an icy smile, gently stroking her hand.

"If possible, I would like to see you again... Thank you, sister," Castra slowly hugged him gently.

"You too... Alright, let's go now, there's not much time." Eric, startled by the hug, hugged her back and gently patted her back. Before Eric got up and walked back to his usual spot in the line to board the troop transport,

(Author's note: It's such a heartwarming story...yes...why does it feel strangely sad?)

Inside the troop transport, it was incredibly cramped. He had to sit with other men, which made him incredibly nervous and uncomfortable. Before the cramped transport started moving, he glanced back at Castra and her parents as they walked away again.

Eric sat between two large conscripts who were joking and laughing, completely oblivious to Eric sitting between them. Eric sighed at the sight, then pulled out a Lassgun magazine and glanced at it before sighing again.

As the transport moved, everything became more chaotic. When the troop transport hit a bumpy road, his shoulder bumped against the two conscripts, making Eric feel incredibly tense. The conscripts inside the truck started talking amongst themselves as usual, but it was incredibly vulgar and chaotic, making him feel unsafe. Some of their words made Eric slightly uncomfortable. When Eric turned to his right, he saw something.

"Hey, why did the barrel of your gun hit my butt?"

"It wasn't a barrel gun."

"Huh? What did you say?"

"5555"

Loud laughter came from the conscripts standing nearby.

 

Meanwhile, taking advantage of a moment when one of the conscripts was distracted, he slowly reached out and drew a bayonet from another's scabbard, gripping it tightly. The worst part was, he was the only one in the compartment without a gun. It would be terrible if something happened. At the same time, he prayed that nothing bad would happen during this journey.

"Stop pushing!" one of the conscripts shouted.

"It's cramped!" another nearby replied.

___________________________________________________

Three hours passed.

As Eric began to relax slightly… although these men seemed rude and intimidating, none of them threatened him… suddenly, the troop transport shook violently, crashing! The metal floor inside rattled before it came to a sudden stop, as if the brakes had seized. Eric barely had time to react. The inertia caused his body to be slammed against the two men beside him with such force that he let out a gasp.

His arm ached, and he felt suffocated, unable to breathe, but he didn't complain.

"Get down now!" Eric heard an officer shout from outside. Immediately, chaos erupted. Big, burly men scrambled to climb out of the train like a pack of wild animals. Everyone tried to escape the cabin as quickly as possible, and Eric didn't dare go out with the others for fear of being pushed over and trampled. When the crowd thinned out, he quickly walked out.

But as he stepped out from the edge of the door, he landed on the rubble and concrete debris in the wrong place and at the wrong moment.

The result was:

Eric fell face down on the cold, shattered concrete. His knees and hands hit the ground hard, throbbing with pain.

"Ouch…!" Eric cried out involuntarily. The people around him didn't notice. Some laughed; others almost stepped on his feet if he hadn't moved quickly. He pushed himself up as fast as he could, breathing heavily from shock and embarrassment, his face burning under his hood.

He clutched his bayonet tightly, afraid of dropping it in the chaos, while craning his neck to look for the other soldiers running to regroup in front of a collapsed building that might provide some cover. Soon, another troop transport arrived. Two or three vehicles parked and dropped off soldiers before driving away.

 

Distant gunfire echoed intermittently. Thick smoke billowed from a nearby alley. The smell of burning walls, oil, and dust filled Eric with fear, anxiety, and pressure.

This was the front line. The Upper Hive had become a narrow concrete labyrinth, filled with mounds of rubble from collapsed buildings, the site of a clash between the PDF forces and the mutants (Eric and most of the soldiers didn't know about the Geenstealer cult).

Eric struggled to get up when a familiar voice sounded behind him. It was the officer who had ordered them to get out of the vehicle.

"Quickly get up and form a defensive line, soldiers!" The terrifying voice boomed. Eric quickly turned around to see the officer staring at him, his gaze filled with murderous intent. Eric jumped up in fear and distress, but then...

Bang!...Plop!!!

A long red beam of light from a collapsed building struck the officer in the head, instantly exploding. Blood and brain matter splattered onto Eric's face and uniform. The other soldiers, witnessing this, quickly scrambled for cover.

"Sniper!!!" "Damn it!!" Eric blurted out in fear and anxiety. The blood and brain matter made him almost vomit.

"Where's the sniper?" Another soldier turned to Eric in panic, likely the second to be shot.

Eric, trying to get up, immediately crouched down in fear, crawling towards the fallen officer and searching him. He was incredibly lucky to find a Lass pistol and two batteries on the body. With those items, Eric tried to crawl through the rubble to find a safe place as quickly as possible.

BOOM!!! The sound of artillery fire rang out, and the building where he'd seen the sniper hiding exploded with a deafening roar and collapsed. Looking in his direction, he saw a Leman Russ tank with a large, short-barreled gun approaching to reinforce its defenses, along with increasing numbers of PDF troops. Eric seized the opportunity to quickly get up and run to take cover among the rubble. Eric quickly sat down, leaning against his brother's side, before checking his pistol.

_Why does this have to happen?_ Eric thought to himself, trying to breathe deeply to calm the fear he had just felt, while simultaneously planning how to survive longer.

You have to remember... whatever, he'll try to survive as long as possible. Eric looked left and right and saw many conscripts fighting fiercely against hordes of mutants charging towards the defenses... He tried to gather his courage to stand up and fight alongside them, but Eric hesitated, seeing that in just the first five minutes of the battle, dozens had already died in his area.

"Aaaargh!!!!" A man's scream rang out.

BOOM!!!!! An explosion rang out nearby, followed by the sound of cannon fire from a similar tank.

"Ricky, help me! Where's the medic?! Where are my legs?!"

"Oh my god, what the hell is that thing!!!!" "Someone with heavy weapons, go deal with them!!!"

"Don't die yet...hold on!!!"

"I'm listening...I'll try...I'm just sleepy...."

"Don't fall asleep!!!! Wake up!!!"

"No! The doctor's been shot! Hurry, help the doctor!!!!"

"What do we do?"

"Damn it!"

The cries for help and the shouts of soldiers nearby filled the air. These sounds made Eric feel terrible, anxious, depressed, terrified, and deeply worried.

"Why does this have to happen?" Eric muttered softly as he sat there, his eyes and face filled with worry. He gripped his lass pistol and bayonet tightly, wondering what to do next. If he stayed hiding, he'd be branded a coward by the other officers and face execution. But if he fled now, he didn't know if he'd survive. While he was thinking, he didn't notice that

In the darkness, several figures were navigating through the alleyways between the buildings. Each of these figures is a member of the Deathwatch, tasked with a covert mission from Inquisitor Korvin Hale to retrieve a certain object from beneath the Hive City. Their crucial role is also to assist the PDF forces in advancing and potentially seizing or destroying the massive elevator.

A secondary objective is to infiltrate and eliminate the Geenstealer Patriarch as quickly as possible to prevent them from summoning the Tyranids here.

And this battle continues…until tomorrow.

______________________________________________

(The illustration shows Eric receiving a lassgun battery instead of a lassgun or autogun like the other recruits.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 24: 24

Summary:

" I thought you might like it, even though it's not real,"

Day 295, Year 986, 41st Millennium

Upper Hive

Front Line

Gunfire continued to echo intermittently.

Eric remained seated, watching the other soldiers take their positions at the defensive line. Fortunately, no one noticed his presence. He clutched his Lass Pistol tightly, a mixture of anxiety and fear in his hand.

Although Eric had experience killing and shooting, that was only against a small number of enemies down below. Now he faced a fully armed enemy with exceptional tactical skills and a high level of danger.

If he wanted to increase his chances of survival, he had to stick with others, cooperate with them as much as possible.

But the soldiers around here were all former thugs—rude, disrespectful, and terrifying.

_It's not that I don't want to approach them... having friends and allies is good, but these guys seem too untrustworthy,_ Eric thought to himself, unaware that his hands were already sweating.

At this moment, Eric stopped thinking. He couldn't stay like this any longer. He had to be brave enough to do something... like brave enough to adapt to that society, and the only thing that mattered was that they would accept Eric... Eric slowly looked around to make sure everything was alright. The area was almost completely empty, filled only with the rubble of collapsed buildings. There were corpses of mutants and numerous PDF soldiers.

The current defensive line, now without an enemy, was being repaired by these conscripted soldiers. They were repairing the defenses and cover with whatever materials they could find, including scrap metal and large pieces of concrete. Some were chatting and joking crudely with their friends, while others were eating and drinking. Some were even openly using painkillers in front of everyone else... the last one being truly appalling. Tank drivers were hastily repairing or reloading their tanks at the defensive line.

Nearby, several wounded soldiers were resting after treatment or waiting for medical attention. They had a variety of injuries, from gunshot wounds to knife wounds, stab wounds, or even limb loss. When Eric noticed, the nurses weren't actually treating them... Eric was stunned and speechless... these field nurses were injecting the wounded with a potent drug.

Eric took a deep breath, *cough*, and then coughed as the cement dust filled his nostrils. He wiped his nose. He knew these people were terrifying, rude, and untrustworthy, but he couldn't refuse to talk to anyone and pretend he was alone and they didn't exist. He knew he had to rely on himself in this situation, in this brutal future where nothing seemed logical since the zombies appeared.

But he also had to cooperate with others.

Eric pursed his lips before slowly pushing himself up and cautiously walking, half-crouching, towards the group of soldiers on the defensive line about 50 meters away. He avoided looking at the corpses or anything that might have been human remains, some decaying on the ground, others freshly severed...

The sight of distorted, mutilated human bodies and internal organs ripped open from the abdomen by horrific attacks filled him with fear... and nausea. It was a gruesome and deeply disturbing image.

As he walked, Eric felt a pair of eyes watching him. _Right now, she was acting like a female soldier on her first battlefield, terrified...which was true._ Some eyes simply looked without curiosity, some glanced past, some looked analytically...and some looked with desire. Eric tried not to be afraid or indifferent to what was happening... He didn't even know whether he should be wary of the enemy or those close to him.

 

Why? If he had woken up here still a man, life would have been so much easier... Why did he have to wake up in the body of a beautiful, delicate woman?

Suddenly, another surviving officer appeared, looking very ill-tempered. The officer glared at Eric before shouting loudly:

"What are you waiting for, soldier? Hurry and help the others before they come again... If you delay any longer, I'll be the one to shoot you!!!" Eric flinched in surprise, quickly straightened up, and replied,

"Understood!!!" Eric answered with a firm voice, before quickly running towards an area near the building. There, a defensive barrier was constructed from steel plates and scrap metal, with a heavy machine gun resembling an American M-2 Browning mounted, and another M1919A3. About three or four soldiers were stationed there, chatting normally despite their position.

When the four soldiers realized someone was approaching, they turned towards Eric. Some looked on with amusement, others with curiosity, until one man spoke up.

"Hey!!! Hello, madam... I'm glad you survived, I thought you were dead." The man said, his voice sounding familiar, causing Eric to frown. These were the guys from the group who had been making lewd remarks about him... Why this? Eric thought to himself, his eyes clearly showing unease.

"Thanks for your concern," he replied softly, trying to project an air of strength, but simultaneously tightening his grip on his bayonet. Suddenly, the three men looked at one of them before speaking:

"Stop it, Ivan... I know what you're thinking," one of the men reprimanded his friend. Ivan merely flinched slightly before speaking in a tone as if he had done nothing wrong.

"I wasn't thinking anything, friend... You're the one imagining things, Kvas," Ivan said, raising an eyebrow and looking away, before pointing a finger at the man named Kvas, who had spoken to Eric in a polite tone, trying not to make his friend look good in front of him.

"Am I imagining things? Stop being such a womanizer, man," kvas said with a weary tone, before bending down to pick up a belt of ammunition, which Eric suspected might be .50 BMG rounds, and placing it near the heavy machine gun.

"Womanizer? They call him a handsome man, the kind everyone wants," Ivan said proudly, pulling down his mask to reveal a face that...to Eric considered quite good-looking, and with a very flirtatious demeanor...and surprisingly annoying.

"You two stop it..." A man with a mustache tried to stop them, but both turned and spoke to him in a similar vein, something like:

"Enough, Nicholas, don't interfere now," Ivan said, taking off his hat and adjusting his hair. Eric sighed and pursed his lips at the man's pretentious behavior.

"At least I know what I should and shouldn't meddle in...and I'm mature and educated enough...Don't get involved," kvas said, warning Nicholas and raising his hands. He shrugged before lightly patting his friend on the shoulder.

"Stop acting like that in front of her," Nicholas tried to warn the two. The three of them then argued over trivial matters for several minutes. Eric felt a little relieved that they didn't seem too threatening, but he didn't fully trust them either.

He knew that seemingly harmless people could be the most dangerous… Even in his time before coming here, there were many horrifying and unexpected things. Yet, this place seemed so peaceful, with laws and progress. What about a place like this? Just then, a man approached him and pulled something out of his field bag.

Eric was terrified that the man would pull out something dangerous, and he reached for his waist, ready to draw his pistol and shoot. But what the man pulled out was:

A fake flower.

"I thought you might like it, even though it's not real," the man said in a soft, warm voice. If it weren't for the fact that this man was the one who told the other three to share it equally, Eric would have been terrified. Eric hesitated for a moment before reaching out to accept it, thinking there was no harm in taking it.

"Thank you," Eric replied in a slightly soft voice, and the man seemed to blush at his tone.
However, when the others heard him speak and turned to see the man standing before them, blushing and fidgeting, their faces immediately showed displeasure.

"That's unfair," kvas said with a hint of displeasure.

"Wait a minute, those are my flowers! And the owner of the flowers should be over there!" Ivan said angrily, seeing his belongings stolen.

"Grab Brody and punish him," Nicholas said, and then the three of them dragged Brody aside to perform a (deep dark fantasy) training session in front of Eric, involving various wrestling moves and German suplexes. They weren't intending to cripple or seriously injure Brody; it was just a lesson.

"Okay..." Eric whispered to himself. These people were stranger than he thought. Suddenly, something occurred to him. Right now, the deliveries have almost no equipment or weapons for self-defense... not even supplies have been provided. And he has to do it again, doesn't he? Eric looked left and right before his eyes fell upon a pile of dead soldiers.

 

A pile of bodies lay not far away, each Friday seemingly containing fresh corpses. Some appeared to have been shot, others hit by artillery, some by explosives, and some looked like they'd been cut by a sharp object. Even the armor was torn like paper, suggesting something incredibly sharp had been used, or perhaps the armor itself was simply too fragile. Some bodies were so mutilated he didn't even want to look at them.

Eric quietly slipped away, trying not to attract the attention of the four men, before heading towards the pile of bodies. It was worse than he'd imagined… the stench of blood permeated the air, along with a strange, foul smell. Eric tried to ignore it, even though he was already feeling nauseous. He searched each corpse for anything interesting or useful, even removing their pants to sift through the mess.

He found several items, but none were useful. Luckily, he managed to find a couple of sticks of corpse starch. But why were there so many painkiller sticks in the mouths of the corpses? And some had visible needle marks on their arms. Okay, these must have been heavy users of these drugs.

It seemed he had found a usable arm guard—a metal upper arm brace. Eric awkwardly removed it, put it on his arm, and tightened it around his guest. He admitted, however, that the armor was surprisingly lightweight, likely reflecting its low durability.

_"Am I really at the point where I have to scour corpses for tools and food?"_

Eric thought to himself as he turned the man's body over. He then reached into the blood-soaked pants pockets, searching for anything valuable or usable. There was nothing, and the act of rummaging through someone else's pants was even more repulsive than looking at a corpse.
When he reached into the other pocket, Eric felt something.

Eric quickly withdrew his hand from the corpse, trying to compose himself, shocked and disgusted by what he had touched.

"Disgusting," Eric muttered to himself, before finding a corpse with clean clothes to wipe his hands on. Then, he stood up and walked to the other side of the pile of corpses, pulling out another body. Whether it was luck or misfortune, he found what appeared to be a chainsaw hybrid, about 90 centimeters long, with the engine positioned between the blade and the hilt. It lay beneath the corpse, covered in blood, with chunks of flesh clinging to its teeth.

It would be a perfect melee weapon. Judging by the handle, it was clearly a one-handed chainsaw, and perhaps light enough for single-handed use. The problem was, he wasn't skilled in close combat, nor was he adept with swords or similar weapons. However, having a melee weapon was better than nothing. It seemed capable of inflicting considerable damage.

Curious, Eric picked it up, disregarding the blood and smell. He gripped the hilt with his right hand, turning it over and over, slashing at it to familiarize himself with it. It was surprisingly well-balanced and lightweight, as if made for him.

From now on, this sword-like chainsaw would be his self-defense weapon, and for now, it needed to be cleaned. Eric spotted a corpse with relatively little blood, seemingly killed by an explosion. He casually walked over, tore off a piece of his shirt, and happily used it to wipe down the chainsaw.

From his perspective, the weapon's design was quite cool. Considering its sword-like appearance but actually being a chainsaw, what else could he call it?

"Chain sword," he thought, a fitting and stylish name.

While Eric was wiping down his new weapon, a hand suddenly grabbed his shoulder. A shiver ran down his spine, and he jumped in fear and shock.

Driven by fear and an automatic reaction, Eric spun around, swinging the unactivated chain sword to attack whoever had grabbed his shoulder. The moment he turned, he saw who it was.

 

Ivan, startled, was struck squarely on the shoulder by the chain sword, but his shoulder armor protected him. He cried out in pain from the impact, taking several steps back as the situation became increasingly tense.

"Stop! It was a misunderstanding," Ivan tried to explain, but Eric frowned even harder. A misunderstanding? No, this guy seemed incredibly flirtatious, and Eric suspected he might actually be trying to molest him. The fact that he claimed it was a misunderstanding, as if unaware of Ivan's deception, infuriated Eric.

Meanwhile, Quas and Nicholas were laughing at the situation.

"A misunderstanding?..." Eric said in a low, clear voice that betrayed his anger. His right hand touched a button on the chain sword's hilt. A small engine started up, and when he pressed the throttle, the small blade accelerated rapidly, creating a familiar sound.

Screech!!!

The blade spun rapidly, sending dirt flying onto his clothes before slowing down. Eric was instantly furious. His light blue uniform, which was initially only stained with blood near his hands, was now covered in blood on his pants and left sleeve. How was he going to explain this if someone saw it and misunderstood?!

"Don't force me to do this," Ivan said with a hint of trepidation, before making a motion as if preparing to draw the gun slung over his back to shoot Eric if something happened. Eric was tense too; even the slightest mistake could mean he was shot and killed. Ivan was equally tense, being very close to Eric, and might not be able to draw his gun in time, potentially leading to a horrific death. Just seeing the weapon, Eric didn't want to imagine the gruesome and gaping wounds someone would suffer.

"You're a psychopath!!!" Eric shouted. Honestly, after what happened, he was very cautious and afraid of experiencing something like that again. He wouldn't let anyone molest him, and if they did, they would face severe consequences.

"That's not it at all...listen to me..." But before Ivan could finish, Nicholas pulled him away, and Quas stepped in instead. Eric remained cautious, ready to lunge at any moment.

"I'm sorry, sir, but my friend is just like that...I understand you might not be comfortable with his words and behavior...Now, just calm down. We saw you needed a weapon, so we had Ivan call you." Quas tried to explain and persuade him. Hearing this, Eric frowned, his suspicions growing stronger.

_Or was he lulling him into a false sense of security before acting?_

"Put the gun down!!...And besides, why didn't you just shout for me?" Eric ordered, feeling increasingly uneasy being around these guys.

"Okay...this isn't our fault. It's entirely Ivan's." Kvas raised his hands, disarmed himself, and threw his weapon to the ground. Ivan was immediately displeased.

"I didn't think she'd be this shy and fierce!!" Ivan said, crossing his arms in displeasure, but immediately dropped them when he saw Eric glaring at him. Quas and Nicholas, seeing Ivan's fear of Eric, burst into laughter. Meanwhile, Brody, who was lying on the ground, slowly got up and went to his machine gun position, ignoring them completely.

"Do you think this is funny?" Eric said in a low, menacing voice. It wasn't funny at all for anyone to encounter something like this. Both Ivan and Eric fell silent.

"OK... she's as fierce as your mother, isn't she? Hahaha," Brody joked casually before falling silent, as no one found it funny. Just then, a lieutenant approached, having heard the commotion.

"What's all the fighting about, soldiers? Do you want me to help handle it?" The lieutenant said in a terrifying voice, causing everyone to fall silent and turn to look. Eric quickly found a way to cover his chain sword before trying to figure out how to handle the situation in front of a higher-ranking officer, as he hadn't received any training in discipline.

 

"There was just a small matter, Lieutenant," kvas replied casually, as if everything that had just happened had never occurred. Eric was instantly furious and spoke up to assure him that nothing was true.

"No, Lieutenant... that soldier, Ivan, tried to molest me," Eric said, pointing at Ivan. He sighed, hoping Ivan would receive some kind of punishment that would satisfy him. The Lieutenant glared at Ivan with a terrifying, murderous look. Ivan's face turned pale.

"I just saw her trying to find a weapon on the corpse. We already had weapons. I called her over and told her she had a weapon. I only grabbed her shoulder, and then she started yelling," Ivan tried to explain, trying to avoid punishment, his face showing extreme fear. Eric tried to imagine how terrifying the punishment must be for these people to be afraid of it.

"Just grabbing the shoulder—" Eric interrupted, trying to emphasize how touching someone without permission can make them feel threatened. But the lieutenant interrupted first.

"Stop arguing about nonsense. Go back to guarding, or I'll order your execution!" The lieutenant spoke in a loud, clear, firm, and terrifying voice. All five, including Eric, immediately responded in unison, trembling with fear.

"Understood, sir/ma'am!!!" They all replied in unison before dispersing to their positions. The other four remained at their heavy machine gun positions, while Eric, still collecting everything he had gathered from the pile of corpses, sat beside his heavy weapons position, wiping his chain sword and watching the other four with suspicion.

He was now fully alert and ready to pounce on the four if they did anything bad or threatened him. He would use this chain sword...

_Eric, don't think like that. You're just stressed. Don't even think about doing anything evil._

Eric reminded himself. Just the day before, he hadn't had thoughts like this, or even close to it. What was wrong with him? He'd only just entered the battlefield, and he was already acting like this.

_Damn it._

The other four continued their conversation as usual. Eric glanced at them briefly before turning back. Perhaps he had overreacted and been too paranoid.
Ivan had only touched his shoulder… but it still sent shivers down his spine.

"Hey!!! I think she needs a gun," Ivan's voice rang out. Eric tensed and quickly turned around. When he turned to Ivan, he tossed him a Lassgun. Eric caught it easily before looking at Ivan with a slight suspicion. Normally, he would have thought it was just a small act of kindness, but now he wondered if it was a ploy to lull him into a false sense of security. Ivan's demeanor was very flirtatious.

"You're not going to touch her shoulder again, are you, Ivan?" Brody teased Ivan playfully.

"Thanks," Eric replied curtly with a sigh, before turning back to examine the gun. It was in fairly good condition. He took out the batteries and magazines for the Lassgun from his pocket and tried assembling and inserting them. The energy indicator in the Lassgun's magazine lit up when he did. And it also indicated that it was still full of energy. Eric picked it up, aimed at a rock, and fired.

 

*Whoosh!*

A red beam of light accurately struck the rock, melting parts of it. Eric lowered his gun with satisfaction, unaware that his action had slightly unnerved the other four, who feared they too would be shot. Suddenly,

*Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!*

A barrage of gunfire erupted a few tens of meters ahead. The stench of cement dust and the vibrations from the explosions made it increasingly difficult for Eric to breathe. He hid behind a hastily constructed reinforced steel wall, his grip on his rifle tighter.

"For the Four-Armed Emperor!!!!" a shout rang out from the advancing mutants.

"Another wave is coming! Maintain your defenses! Eliminate them all! For the Emperor!!!"

"For the Emperor, every soldier in the defensive line shouted in unison!"

Eric, who hadn't shouted, swallowed hard before peeking through the firing ports he'd noticed and recoiled in shock.

A large number of mutants charged towards the defensive line. They scrambled for cover like highly trained individuals, and some even fired back rhythmically. They looked so much like humans… too much so, it sent shivers down his spine. Their eyes were empty yet strangely resolute. Their heads were bald and shiny, with patches of light and dark purple scales protruding from their foreheads like deformed bumps (like a 4th generation geenstealer).

“What the hell…” he muttered to himself, exhausted.

Bang!

Eric flinched as a bullet whizzed towards him, but it hit the cover and was deflected. He was so startled he instinctively crouched down, almost crouching.

“Ouch!!! Stay calm!” He blurted out, causing Nicholas to glance at him briefly before smiling and turning back.

Bang! Bang ... Eric quickly jumped up and aimed his gun through a gap, but there was no time to stress. One of them was running too close to the wall. Eric gritted his teeth, his hand trembling, and held his gun steady. He aimed swiftly and accurately, pulling the trigger. A red and white beam shot out, a bright red streak across the air, hitting the enemy squarely, causing them to stagger and fall to the ground. He then quickly aimed and fired at several more that managed to slip through. In his panic, Eric didn't realize how accurate he was. The geenstealers, or mutants as many soldiers knew them, fell like leaves.

Seeing three more mutants charging towards him, his fear intensified, and his movements and aiming became even faster.

Eric was unaware that while he was firing, some of the recruits were watching with a hint of amazement at his accuracy. He wasn't used to fighting armed enemies and counterattacks like this. Most of his past experiences involved defending himself from psychotic mutant bandits and zombies in the darkness of the Lower Hive, not a full-scale war like this. The lieutenant's shout rang out again. "Don't stop firing! They're looking for a way around!"

Just as Eric was about to fire at another mutant, no ruby-red beam came out. He quickly ducked, checking his gun's magazine – it was extremely low on energy.

"Why now?" Eric muttered under his breath as he removed the magazine with one hand and replaced it. The four men beside him occasionally reloaded their weapons. From a good vantage point, the ground around their feet was littered with spent brass casings of various sizes.

Eric stood up and continued firing his lassgun at the mutants. They seemed to number endlessly.

Another wave of enemies attacked. Laser beams streaked through the walls. Eric gritted his teeth, trying to focus on the closest enemy and eliminate them immediately. Suddenly, he saw something.

"Everyone, take cover! A rocket is coming this way…!" Eric shouted to the four men manning their heavy weapons. Before they could run away and crouch down on the ground, the four of them turned around in confusion, not realizing what Eric had said.

BOOM!!!!

The heavy machine gun position was violently destroyed. Eric felt the blast, and when he got up and looked back, he found that the machine gun had been destroyed. All four of them seemed to be in the same boat. Kvas was only half-bodied, Ivan had been thrown far away, and the person Eric thought was Nicholas was just a pile of rubble. Brody had disappeared somewhere.

 

Eric was heartbroken by what had happened. Iven though he didn't particularly like or fear these creatures, the deaths of the four were deeply distressing.

He was about to lean forward again to aim, his legs trembling with fear, barely able to support his weight. Suddenly, two or three mutants jumped into his defensive line. Eric turned his attention to them, firing his gun frantically because they were so close.

Two mutants fell instantly, but one managed to close in on Eric. Eric tried to defend himself with his gun at close range, but the mutant's hand easily deflected the knife. The mutant prepared to stab him in the stomach, but he dodged, the knife deflecting towards his chest armor instead. The blade grazed the metal without causing harm, and Eric struck it in the face, sending it staggering back slightly. He clutched its broken nose. Without hesitation, he used the butt of his gun to strike its face again, then grabbed his chain sword with his right hand, drew it, and lunged forward to slash at it.

*Screech!* *Aargh!*

The small saw blade swiftly tore at its flesh and bone, a gruesome wound stretching from its right shoulder to its left waist, almost severing its body in two. Before dying, it let out a short, agonizing cry before falling silent and its body collapsed.

Eric, now covered in blood, stood trembling. He had just killed a mutant with his new weapon, and the sight of its corpse was horrifying and disgusting.

At that moment, he peered through the viewing window, which offered some cover from the small weapons, and saw them beginning to retreat. It turned out that while he was still disoriented,

a Leman Russ tank with its six-barreled automatic cannons had arrived and unleashed its fury, forcing them to retreat. Eric felt a small sense of relief.

He glanced at the location where the heavy machine gun had been positioned, respectfully gathering the bodies of kvas, Ivan, Brody, and Nicholas to join the others. He then found a quiet corner and leaned against the wall.

Eric, now trembling and moderately frightened from what had just happened, fumbled in his pocket with his shaking, blood-stained hands, pulling out a corpse starch. He peeled it open and began to chew it. He pulled himself up, covering his arms with them, and lowered his head, trying to compose himself.

But he couldn't.

Suddenly, he remembered his painkillers.
He immediately dismissed that thought; otherwise, he might become addicted.

However, he was safe now, even if only temporarily. What he should do now was try to prepare himself for what had happened and prevent himself from worrying further and becoming more ill.

Or perhaps, maybe adopting the most revered religion here—the Emperor—would help him. From what he'd heard, the Emperor was similar to Jesus, but much more fantastical and sci-fi. But whatever, he didn't care now. Eric rummaged through his pockets before finding a pendant with the symbol of the Mechanicus...it might not be the two-headed eagle he'd seen, but it might do.

"Emperor protect," Eric murmured softly to himself.

"Hmph...what nonsense. What are you doing, Eric?" he thought to himself, realizing his actions were pointless and a waste of time. It might turn him into one of those religious fanatics. Eric picked up his gun, reloaded, and inspected his chain sword.

He found small pieces of flesh stuck between the blades, knowing it wouldn't be effective. He sat there, using whatever he could find to carefully remove the pieces from the chain sword.

And he prepared for the next battle.

 

 

 

____

 

 

The image shows Eric sitting with his knees hugged to his chest and his head bowed, a stick of corpse starch in his hand, after a traumatic event had occurred to him.

Writer's note: I really enjoyed writing this chapter, and this illustration was also very fun to draw.

Chapter 25

Summary:

"Can't accept the truth, can you?"

Day 296, Year 986, 41st Millennium

Hive Spire

The neon lights in the conference room reflected off the metal plates on the table, casting straight lines of circling motions. Valen Korvax stood near the window. Papers and holograms piled on the table, witnesses to his own thoughts. His face was expressionless, but his eyes were as cold as sharpened blades.

Four days ago, he hadn't been idle. After his younger brother informed him of the possibility of geenstealers infiltrating the nobility, he saw an opportunity to eliminate rivals, or those he disliked, from the power struggle in the hive city. He ordered his men to meticulously record guest attendance, piece together courtier testimonies, search for loopholes in accounts, and investigate the relationships between rival families and the strange cultists who had risen up in the lower hive. Every piece of information, even fragments, was incorporated into his mental equations. His informants were more adept at sniffing and gathering information than hunting dogs, provided they received sufficient funds.

“The evidence, everything is interconnected,” he muttered to himself in the room before picking up the small hologram again. The small connections between the orders from outside, the movements of servants transferred to other families, and the report of the missing warehouse attendant all pointed to something dirty lurking in the upper echelons of the city. The information he saw brought a smile to his face, though a part of him feared the risks involved.

The next morning, the meeting was called again by Inquisitor Korvin Hale to plan the next level of the battle. Nobles from various families and high-ranking PDF chiefs took their seats, but Vann’s seat remained empty. His despised younger brother was at the front lines. Valen knew it well; that rascal was awful, proposing the idea of using so many armored vehicles to break through their defenses but then not being in the meeting room to plan how to deal with others on the day of the actual attack.

Today’s meeting would, as usual, discuss battle plans and potential risks, but there was nothing particularly interesting. Valen’s only concern now was whether he could gain prestige and eliminate his rivals, or whether he would suffer further humiliation and become even more hostile, or worse, be killed. Valen stood up when the opportunity arose, his voice cold and steady as he spoke:

“I have evidence of contamination among our high-ranking members. There may be someone who is a geenstealer. I request an immediate investigation.” The people in the room stopped talking, stunned, whether by disbelief or curiosity, but all eyes turned to him. Valen walked to the holographic table in the center of the conference room and inserted a data disc.

The screen briefly went dark before coming back on, revealing financial trails, confidential messages, audio recordings, and everything that could link the Malvernis family as supporters of the geenstealers.

“How dare you! How dare you accuse me like this?” Nerol Malvernis, the family leader, stood up, pointing angrily at him. Valen remained unfazed and offered little response.

Valen walked unhurriedly to the corner of the table, his pace almost a subtle hint of the hidden truth. He stopped in front of Nerol, the man with a sharp smile and a clear vision of his position. He observed the people in the room, as he always did, but there was something Valen had accumulated, enough to confirm his intentions.

“If you are truly sincere, let me prove it,” Valen said calmly, a clear lack of respect in his voice.

“What do you mean, you rude bastard!!!” Nerol roared agitatedly, immediately raising suspicion among the nobles present. But he didn't care, reaching out and swiftly yanking the neatly attached wig from Nerol's head.

Unlike Valen, the two rival noble families preferred excessive luxury and opulence in their attire, their hairstyles and clothing often being conspicuously eye-catching. While they did possess some luxury, it wasn't so extravagant as to inconvenience or bother others…except for the common people under their care.

The action seemed rude to many, but Valen didn't care. He knew that letting politeness cloud his judgment was his biggest mistake at this moment. The wig fell from his head, revealing not just smooth human skin, but a textured surface with faint, scaly patterns radiating from the crown of his head. The nobleman's once sparkling eyes were now strange and inhumanly still. The sounds in the room seemed to momentarily vanish.

 

Valen didn't smile broadly, nor did he show any flamboyant delight. Instead, his face contorted with a chilling satisfaction, like someone who had strategically placed a crucial move on a chessboard and found it perfectly positioned.

“It’s a Genestealer,” he said slowly, not to shout, but to emphasize the fact. When the words left his lips, the people in the room rose, their conversation becoming boisterous, but not laughter. It was a tension mixed with fear and bewilderment.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

And before Nerol could react, he pulled out the bolt pistol concealed in his clothing and fired several more shots at Nerol Malvernis’s torso.

Inquisitor Korvin Hale watched the scene for a moment. He didn’t need to consult anyone. The responsibility in his eyes extended far beyond fleeting politics. He stepped closer, conducting a preliminary inspection with the habitual touch of a man who weighed religious and political measures, then sighed softly.

“Order a thorough investigation. Everyone in this room must undergo verification, and I will dispatch the Inquisition’s investigation team immediately. Any further contamination will be swept away without exception.”

The order was a verdict. All the men and women in the room knew what it meant. The test of patience and the manipulation of power was upon them. Valen watched as his rivals' men were escorted out one by one. The sound of soldiers' footsteps echoed both inside and outside the room. Members of the family who had been touched were being led away; even mere suspicion was enough to bring about their downfall in this system.

When the doors closed, there was a moment of silence. Valen turned to look at the corner of the room, his cold eyes meeting the shadows of the hologram displaying positions and transportation. He smiled faintly, neither sorrow nor excessive elation, the smile of someone whose political struggle had finally come to a practical conclusion. He wasn't celebrating the deaths of his rivals, but silently allowing the flow of power to take its course. In his heart, he held a small but unwavering feeling.

This purge had made him stronger, and on the day of judgment, he would stand above all others. And that was his desire.

Now, only two families ruled Hive City, and soon, perhaps only one would remain.

 

______________________________________________

 

Day 296, Year 986, 41st Millennium

Upper Hive

Front Line

Eric didn't know how long he'd been asleep, but he immediately felt the ground was incredibly hard… or rather, it had been hard since before he fell asleep. He was more surprised that he could sleep in a place like this, on a rough surface possibly stained with blood or something else, on the front line where the enemy could attack at any moment. And after what had happened hours ago…

The stress and fear from the first battle left him feeling a multitude of emotions: fear, depression, sadness, disgust, and anxiety.

Eric slowly opened his eyes. He felt dizzy, as if his brain was still reeling from the gunfire hours earlier… He didn't know what was wrong with him, sleeping on the front line, a place still so risky, and where the people around him weren't trustworthy. If he continued like this, he might die or not be able to endure it any longer.

But as soon as Eric moved, he felt something covering him.

A blanket?

Wait…

It made Eric jump up in fright. He sat up, pulled back the blanket, and checked himself, just in case someone had done anything to him while he slept. Eric frantically checked everything—his equipment, his clothes, even his underwear. He even touched his chest. Luckily, everything was still there; his clothes were still stained with blood, the metallic smell still lingering.

Eric breathed a sigh of relief, but at the same time felt ashamed and stressed… How terrible it was that he woke up with such thoughts first thing in the morning—terrible thoughts and the constant fear of being the victim.

Eric regained his composure, taking a deep breath, and his eyes fell upon someone sitting nearby.

Vann, in full uniform with even more armor than before, appeared to be a radio operator.

If that thing that Vann was carrying was actually a radio…

He was leaning against the steel wall of the shelter, one hand holding Eric's chain sword—it was much cleaner now—the other carefully wiping away dirt with a cloth, like a calm father mending a toy for his daughter. My face flushed again; I was ashamed, tense, but incredibly relieved all at the same time.

Now, it was just Eric and… Vann was in the vicinity, not far from where Quas, Nicholas, Evan, and Brody used to be stationed.

"Are you awake?" Vann said in a flat tone without even turning to look at me, as he pulled out some kind of metal rod and used it to scrape away bits of flesh stuck in a small saw blade.

"Mm..." I replied softly, afraid of being overheard, even though there was no one else around. Eric sat still for a few seconds before daring to speak again.

"Um... did you... cover me with a blanket?" Eric asked, his voice filled with suspicion and uncertainty. Actually, while he was asleep, he was unaware of the occasional gunshots outside. Someone might have tried to hurt him.

"Yes, I saw you were cold," he replied, glancing at me briefly as if it were perfectly normal.
I quickly lowered my head. Okay, now he thought this was starting to resemble a scene from a romantic movie.

"Thank you..." Eric said softly, though there was a hint of uncertainty and doubt in his voice. Hearing this, Vann didn't reply, only continuing to scrape away the flesh with the metal rod.

 

"It's alright...next time, if you don't know how to maintain your weapons, don't use them...you're so irresponsible. You shouldn't leave the lassgun magazine like that; you should take it to the charging station to recharge it so you'll be ready to fight. As for the assault chain sword, you should clean and oil it every time, and refuel it because it uses a promethium-fueled engine. And you have to remove any bits of flesh, otherwise it might obstruct its operation...and you have to pray to the machine spirit to make sure it doesn't malfunction (and then he continued complaining for another 5 minutes)~" Vann began a long, drawn-out explanation, reprimand, and scolding that left Eric feeling slightly exhausted and almost falling asleep.

Eric felt more relaxed after several hours, even though there were still gunshots outside.

"I didn't do anything embarrassing just now, did I?" Eric asked, remembering waking up and examining himself.

"I didn't see anything," Vann replied calmly, but his tone suggested he was hiding something. Eric thought Vann must have seen him do something like that.

Oh great, Eric, what did you just ask…Vann He must have seen that embarrassing scene.

Eric sighed softly and looked at him again. He was quiet, strangely kind, and most importantly… he didn't make Eric feel apprehensive and afraid like others.

But there were still many questions bothering him. First, why did Vann seem to know where he was and could appear to him at any time?

_Or was he being tracked?_ Eric thought to himself with apprehension. Because if that were true, he might never trust anyone again.

"How did you get here…?" Eric asked in an uncertain and slightly wary voice. Actually, he wasn't concerned about finding Vann on the battlefield, since Vann was also a PDF. He was more curious about how Vann could find him. Vann simply tilted his head and slowly turned towards him before answering:

"To join the battle, of course. Don't you think so?... Besides, there's a big attack tonight. You should hurry and prepare yourself… instead of just sleeping like this, someone might hurt you." Vann said with a hint of reproach in his voice. But the last sentence made Eric think.

 

"Damn it! Today's the big offensive. We're going to infiltrate enemy territory, and it's an urban environment. Fighting in a city is pretty bad in this kind of environment and situation. From yesterday's single battle, Eric could assess and analyze the situation using his logic. These enemies are incredibly skilled in urban combat. A head-on assault like this means fighting in their stronghold, and they're forced to do the same.

Eric imagined the cramped buildings and fierce CQB or even CQC battles. It was practically a nightmare for someone like him who's not good at close-quarters combat.

It's true, when he's not being careful like this, he's at risk of becoming a target, whether from the enemy or even other recruits.

Then Eric decided to ask about something that had been bothering him for a long time, something he'd wanted to ask for ages but never had the chance.

"I'm not accusing you, but how did you know where I was?" "It feels like you can pop up anywhere," Eric asked, his voice slightly accusatory towards Vann, his gaze fixed on Vann's yellow eyes.

"How hard could it be...to find you...there aren't many people with silver-white hair and such a beautiful face...besides, I don't think any woman would dare sleep in a place like this after the first fight," Vann said, his tone teasing and reproachful. Eric's left eye twitched slightly in anger. How dare Vann insult him like that? Even without saying it directly, Eric knew Vann was indirectly calling him lazy. But his anger was quickly overshadowed by embarrassment.

"Stop talking like that!!!" Eric shouted back, his voice irritated, yet his demeanor and tone made him look cute in his own way. Vann just chuckled softly.

"Two days ago you told me you were going to find another job, didn't you? Can you even read and write now~" Vann teased Eric, his voice laced with amusement. Eric gritted his teeth slightly.

_Of course. What kind of language is this? It's incredibly difficult to read, like a mix of many languages combined into one, with characteristics of all of them combined. And there's no dictionary for him to learn from! Not even books or dictionaries, he barely has the time to study._ Eric thought to himself.

"This isn't something you should be talking about right now, you know!" Eric said, his voice trembling from embarrassment and accumulated stress. Unconsciously, his face was flushed red from embarrassment and anger, and his defensive demeanor made him look more like someone sulking than angry.

"Can't accept the truth, can you?" Vann said with a smile. Even though Eric couldn't see his smile through the mask, he knew for sure that Vann was smiling.

Thump!

And what Vann received was a punch to the face.

 

____________________________________________

 

Under the Hive

The air below the Under Hive was heavy and thick, filled with the smell of old oil and iron dust from ancient machinery. The narrow, vibrating metal surface beneath their feet guided the four members of the Kill Team through narrow passageways that few dared to traverse.

The silver left arm insignia of Deathwatch reflected the faint flickering lights.

“I still think we should have more people,” satros space marine from the Malevolent Marines muttered in a low, resentful tone. “We’re going to decapitate all the brood to speed up the mission and prevent this planet’s downfall, yet they’re making the main force of the invasion plan… and look, the Inquisitor sent the four of us to deal with the Ganestealer Matriarch. It’s incredibly unfair, isn’t it?”

“Because of orders like that, the strategic points where the rest of our team need to assist the humans in retaking the territory are crucial to the outcome of the battle. This time, they’ve poured a massive amount of manpower and tanks into retaking it. It’s a total gamble.” "If some of us don't go help and they lose, then we lose too," Hakron, a space Marine from the Monitor, replied curtly, his voice cold as if reporting statistics.

"And why aren't some of the Adeptus Astartes doing their Adeptus Astartes work, but instead guarding the humans…?" Dreaven, a space Marine from the Black Dragon, with bone claws and horns protruding from his head, paused slightly at the word "humans," as if swallowing a word he didn't want to leave his mouth. "Instead of coming—"

"...The Genestealer is closer than we thought... I smell it." Hjolmir, a space Marine from the Blood Wolf, took a deep breath and wrinkled his nose, stopping to look at a pile of wreckage resembling old shipping crates, before reaching up to examine the deep, long claw marks.

The breathing of the other three men in their helmets paused, not from fear, but from the reality of the battlefield. They knew they would surely die a miserable death if the enemy realized they had infiltrated.

He continued in a calm, almost text-like tone:
"According to the reports, there's no sign of anything appearing at the edge of the star system. This is our only chance." "Should we eliminate it now, or wait for the Hive Fleet to arrive?"

Then the four space marines continued on their mission that would decide the fate of this planet.

______________________________________________

Pov Hakron at that time:

"Inquisitor Korvin Hale, I require all eight space marines, including myself, for this mission."

"I'm sorry, Hakron, I can only provide you with four."

Chapter 26

Summary:

"I agree with him, maybe it's all a pretense... Don't fall for it. We should kill them quickly and move to another room... Or is the reason you're hesitating because you feel sorry for them?"

Day 296, Year 986, 41st Millennium

Upper Hive

Front Line

The roar of hundreds of tank engines echoed from the front line, announcing the start of the massive assault. The front line, a straight line of various Leman Russ battle tanks, was tasked with protecting the infantry and providing defense. Some tanks were equipped with large guns specifically designed for destroying buildings, as the tank crews of these Leman Russ models were ordered to destroy every possible structure, ensuring there were no blind spots for enemy ambushes. Following closely behind were Chimeras transporting infantry.

The unarmored PDF infantry followed behind the tanks in a line of conscripted soldiers mixed with carefully trained troops. Some were from criminal backgrounds, others were professional soldiers and veterans. They were armed with automatic rifles, lassguns, and various other weapons. Private soldiers from the Korvax family also joined the fight, and engineers had advanced to clear traps and clear paths through the rubble. Vox-caster officers, armed with transmitters, continuously relayed orders. The short, rapid commands kept everyone's composure steady, though hearts pounded.

Some sections of the street were so narrow that the two sides nearly bumped into each other. Building walls obscured visibility, forcing movement to be cautious and rhythmic. Reconnaissance units reported enemy defensive formations in smaller alleys. The geenstealers and mutant units exploited city corners. The PDF advanced swiftly but remained wary of flanking attacks. Vox announced orders from the central commander:

“Proceed directly to the main elevator shaft. Do not retreat. Report progress periodically.” The order was so firm that everyone knew there was no room for hesitation. The PDF engineers began preparing small explosive charges to disrupt the elevator's locking system, while tanks advanced ahead. The stakes were set on one point: severing the enemy's supply lines.

To secure victory in this battle.

Clashes rang out intermittently, resulting in fierce and difficult fighting. PDF forces battled the geenstealers fiercely; numerous brutal close-quarters combat ensued. Many tanks were easily destroyed by their ambushes and traps.

Although there were heavy losses in the early stages of the battle, there were still many conscripts and PDF soldiers left.

And the advance had to continue.

_____________________________________________

 

Eric felt stressed, suspicious, uneasy, scared, and extremely anxious. He thought yesterday's fight was bad, but today's battle, a massive invasion of the mutant-occupied territory, was even worse. And now Vann was missing again, and he was terrified he might be dead.

The war in the city was awful… close-quarters combat was happening in every building, leaving him with no way to hide, and enemies could ambush him from anywhere. Furthermore, they were more familiar with the terrain, and ambushes were possible at any moment. Fighting was happening in every alleyway. While he was thinking this, four mutants emerged from a building. Eric didn't hesitate to raise his rifle and aim at them.

Pew! Pew! Pew!

Red laser beams accurately struck their heads. The mutants died instantly; some fell, others plummeted from windows. Eric lowered his rifle and looked around. He saw several conscripted soldiers slowly following the tanks. In his mind, these soldiers were ordinary factory workers; they didn't seem particularly rough, but they appeared fearful and insecure. But that didn't lower Eric's guard. These conscripts weren't as threatening as the soldiers in helmets and armor, somewhat like knights. They bore the same insignia as the troops he'd encountered in the Lower Hive, and they possessed remarkably high tactical and combat skills.

BOOM!!!

The roar of the tank's main gun made him jump. Every time the Leman Russ tank in front of him fired at the mutants, shrapnel, smoke, dust, and pieces of flesh flew up and scattered everywhere. Eric cautiously followed the tank during the assault, seeking cover and crouching behind a half-body metal plate, gripping his lassgun so tightly his shoulder muscles trembled.

"Death to the heretics and mutants! For the Emperor!!!" a man shouted before charging towards the mutants and brutally attacking several with his spiked club, similar to a morning star, before being overwhelmed and shot dead.

_Is this area full of religious fanatics?_ Eric thought to himself.

Eric stared at the sight before him in bewilderment before quickly ducking back inside, not wanting to become a target for a sniper. What he had just seen was something he could only see occasionally. From what he knew, these people worshipped and revered the Emperor to a terrifying degree.

Eric could see and analyze that the governing system and society had instilled in them the belief in the Emperor's reverence, loyalty, and disobedience, regardless of their miserable living conditions. It was a horrifying and depressing society, though perhaps less so than what lay below.

_But that was all for the Emperor. Everyone had their duty; life ended only in death. Human life was the Emperor's currency._ It was a terrifying ideology.

Eric aimed his gun at another mutant attempting to fire an anti-tank rocket at the Leman Russ tank. The red laser beam exploded its head before it could pull the trigger. The tank paused, seeing hundreds of hideous mutants charging forward as if their lives were worthless.

BANG!!!!

The main gun mounted on the turret roared. High-explosive shells instantly reduced dozens of mutants to mere rubble, while those around them were injured. Despite the blows, these mutants continued charging towards the tank. Eric and the others worked together to restrain them, killing dozens. From his observations, the Korvax soldiers were far more accurate and skilled marksmen than them, and also much more steady.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

The sound of the automatic cannons, or heavy bolters, mounted on the side turrets of the Leman Russ tank roared. They unleashed a barrage of large shells, probably bigger than his thumb, on the charging mutants. The massive shells tore them apart, leaving only fragments of flesh on the ground. Soon, the tank moved on.

Eric and the other recruits cautiously followed the tank without hesitation. This tank could provide some level of support and protection, and was essential against heavily armored enemies, such as the many armored trucks used by the mutants.

While he was running alongside them... Eric's thoughts flashed back to the previous moment, before the attack began. The moment he punched Vann in the face because he wouldn't stop teasing him—about things that weren't appropriate to joke about, like someone being different or not being able to write. He still remembered Vann's faint expression; he still smiled fearlessly even after being punched. And that made Eric's face flush with embarrassment. He was genuinely angry, but the shame overwhelmed him, turning into foolish sulking.

 

And then, he felt a slight sensation as if all eyes were on him. Even in his uniform, he stood out, including his marksmanship. Eric never knew he was such a good marksman, except for the pistol he always used. Unlike the other conscripts, some were skinny and scrawny, while others were muscular. It was an irrational thought, yet difficult to shake off. He didn't want to be the center of attention, didn't want to be a reason for an attack, but he was here because he had no other choice.

A loud noise erupted from the tank ahead as the tank commander opened the top hatch and shouted at the group of conscripts, of whom Eric was one.

"Engineers or whoever has heavy explosives, go ahead and clear the way for the tank! I don't want to risk driving across; I don't know if there are any traps!" The tank commander's command caused everyone to gather all the explosives and put them into a bag before one man volunteered to place the explosives in the bag at the obstacle ahead. Eric quickly found cover and took shelter. He didn't know if shrapnel or anything else would hit him. Having found cover, Eric fumbled for the lassgun magazine in his pocket and automatically reloaded. Although his hands were still trembling from the fighting, he was getting used to the process with repeated attempts.

The man who volunteered to plant the grenade in front of them crouched low and cautiously crawled forward, stuffing the grenade bag under the barricade and pulling the trigger before quickly running back out.

BOOM!!!!

A loud explosion echoed. Eric flinched slightly, and when he rose from cover, he found the barricade gone. The tank commander emerged from his tank and thanked the man.

"Thank you for your kindness… May the Emperor protect you," the tank commander said, making the Aquila sign with his hand.

"No problem," the man who volunteered to plant the grenade replied, still somewhat disoriented from the explosion.

"Likewise, comrade," the man responded, but then suddenly…

BANG!

Gunfire rang out, and the tank commander was shot in the shoulder. Eric and the others quickly sought cover.

"Aargh! That bastard is over there! Give him a high-explosive artillery shell!" The tank commander quickly retreated into the tank, ordering the turret to aim at a building suspected to have snipers. The tank slowly turned its turret toward the building.

Boom!!

Another artillery fire rang out, obliterating the area where the snipers were believed to be. The room hit was destroyed, and the almost unrecognizable remains of a mutant were flung out.

Then the battle continued. Eric moved cautiously with the others. At least having more people around made him safer, as it meant the enemy might not choose to shoot him first.

Fighting in a confined urban space was different from the battles he was used to in the Lower Hive. That was about surviving against animals and mutants, and enemies with limited weaponry. This time, the enemies were sophisticated, fully armed, organized, and using alleyways as traps. He was more afraid than he thought, but not as afraid as giving up. Eric told himself that and tried to assess the risks, scanning the alleyways, looking for corners where the enemy might be hiding.

A shout rang out. Mutants emerged from the rubble, raising their machine guns and firing at the group of soldiers. Many of the recruits were instantly killed, but Eric managed to dodge and duck to the ground. Almost half of the recruits who were with him were already dead, their bodies lying on the ground. Eric quickly composed himself, took a deep breath, and aimed his lassgun at the mutant, firing ten shots.

Making sure everything was safe, Eric slowly stood up, looking around nervously. He didn't know if they would be shot again or if there were traps waiting. He hoped there weren't any snipers around.

Beside him, a soldier was groaning in pain, his leg broken and the bone protruding. Eric glanced at the man twice before cautiously approaching, crouching low. He pulled a bandage from his pocket and quickly and firmly applied it, even though his hands trembled slightly. A broken bone like that was terrifying. But before he could do that, he realized he didn't know how to give first aid for a broken bone like this.

"What are you doing?!" the man exclaimed, sounding uncertain. Eric shook his head slightly before replying.

 

"How did I save your life?" he replied softly, a hint of annoyance added to the tone.

Eric rummaged through his pocket again and found two painkiller syringes he kept for himself. He took one and injected it into the man's thigh.

"...Thank you so much," the man said, his voice clearly laced with pain, his face showing signs of easing.

"You're welcome? You'll wait here for the doctor, right?" Eric asked, unsure if the doctor was dead or missing.

"Yes...I'll wait here. You regroup and attack...I can manage if it means victory," the man replied, raising his automatic rifle in a defensive stance.

"Then good luck," Eric nodded slightly and stood up. He glanced at the remaining ten or so soldiers and a tank guarding the target. It seemed that Lieutenant Rocklin was issuing orders, and their advance had come to a standstill. Eric rushed to the group of soldiers and listened as his lieutenant briefed them on their mission. They learned that they had to clear a building suspected of containing weapons of mass destruction, which would hinder the progress of other units.

Eric acknowledged the order like the others, though his heart was filled with anxiety. Fighting in confined spaces like buildings seemed terrifying and dangerous. He didn't know if there were traps or other creatures hiding in the rooms. And what if they encountered something as tough as those space marines? He had almost no heavy weaponry. He could die a miserable death, or worse. But orders were orders.

Once they were certain there were no dangerous creatures around the building, Eric and his team quickly entered. They cautiously explored the building. His team consisted of five people: the one at the front wore more extensive armor and a shotgun, while the rest used lassguns and only wore standard armor consisting of helmets and breastplates. On the other hand, there were soldiers serving the Korvax family.

"Hey...can I ask you something? Why do you guys have such a hostile look on your faces and in your eyes towards those soldiers?" Eric asked one of the conscripts in front of him, curious because he saw how afraid and disgusted he was of the soldiers in their knight-like helmets.

"Those scumbags are servants of the house Korvax . Nobody likes them," the conscript replied with a voice laced with hatred. Eric didn't ask further; just from their tone, he knew these soldiers were very ill-mannered and intimidating.

Opening and searching each room was quite tense, as they worried about what they might find. After failing to clear the first floor, they reached the second floor. Although there was nothing downstairs, they couldn't be completely complacent. Eric sighed, tired and anxious, and attached the bayonet to his lassgun, also picking up his assault chain sword and wielding it with one hand. He put away his primary weapon, a rifle, before picking up a Lass Pistol.

Upon reaching the first room on the second floor, the man at the front slowly opened the door, only to be riddled with bullets. Eric was shocked, but the others weren't. One of the soldiers in front of him grabbed a grenade and threw it into the room before waiting three seconds.

 

BOOM!!

A short explosion rang out, and the remaining three people, except Eric, immediately rushed into the room. Several gunshots then rang out. Eric, recovering from his shock, hurried in. Upon entering, he found several corpses of the most terrifyingly realistic-looking mutants he had ever encountered, along with the body of one of the conscripts who had accompanied him. The three, including Eric, remained silent, not saying much before splitting up to explore the other rooms as they usually did.

In Eric's opinion, the room was quite cramped, with decorations that could easily be purchased by someone with a moderate income (though even moderate income is still low). Eric noticed the bathroom door was closed. He raised his Lass Pistol and Assault Chain Sword, ready for combat, before cautiously approaching the bathroom.

"Damn, it's locked," Eric muttered to himself, looking left and right and seeing that the others were also searching the room. He activated his chain sword before thrusting it at the doorknob and the door itself. Just as he was about to open it, the door swung open rapidly, and someone lunged at him.

"Death to the Emperor of Corpses!!!" A man emerged from the bathroom with incredible speed, wielding a pried-up iron pipe, ready to strike Eric's head. Eric tried to dodge but failed, the pipe hitting his helmet squarely. Eric staggered backward, crying out in pain.

"Agh!!! You bastard!!!" Eric gritted his teeth before lunging at the man who was about to swing the pipe again. He used the hilt of his chain sword to deflect the man's arm before accelerating and plunging the blade into the man's chest.

*Screech!!!*

"Ah...*Ugh! ...*Hic...*" The man cried out briefly before spitting out a large amount of blood. The blade had torn through his lungs and bone. Blood splattered onto Eric's face and uniform. In an instant, the struggling body became completely still. The lifeless body of the man, its chest gaping open, fell motionless. Eric, his hand trembling slightly, pulled the chain sword from the man's body.

Was he going to kill someone this way again...? No, maybe this man wasn't human... but even so, this method made him feel terrible, disgusted, and repulsed by the wounds it inflicted. This melee weapon was the best he had, and it was essential; he couldn't possibly part with it easily unless he found a better one.

Eric, his breathing labored, slowly slowed before looking behind him and seeing the two remaining soldiers watching him intently.

"Can I withdraw my bet? You look terrifying," one of the soldiers said, quickly averting Eric's gaze when he noticed him staring at him.

"Suit yourself, but I'm not playing anymore," the other said, trying to avoid attracting attention and continuing to search the room. Eric, now recovering from his exhaustion, looked around the room before picking up a chair and sitting down.
Please remove the mask from his face and take out the bottle of water to drink, while wiping the blood from his face with his hand.

 

"That hurts like hell," Eric muttered softly, removing his helmet with one hand and gently rubbing the painful area with the other. He was thankful he was wearing the helmet; otherwise, it would have been much worse.

Would he survive the war if this continued? How lucky he was to have made it this far. If he had dodged even a little bit later, if he had been the one leading the way? He would have died easily and tragically, like many others he'd seen.

Suddenly, the two remaining recruits searched the closet and found something that made them think hard.

"Don't do anything to me, please! I have nothing to do with them... No!! John!" A woman hiding in the closet was dragged out, a baby wrapped in blankets in her arms. She was terrified, tears streaming down her face as she saw the lifeless body of the man Eric had killed lying on the floor.

The other recruit raised his gun and prepared to shoot the woman, but Eric stopped him.

"Why won't you let us shoot her?" the recruit asked, bewildered and suspicious. Another soldier, holding a gun pointed at the woman, looked at Eric with extreme suspicion.

"Are you going to shoot defenseless civilians?" Eric asked, curious and reluctant to see the two civilians die. For him, killing innocent civilians was a war crime and unacceptable (but if necessary, he would do it). The recruit raised an eyebrow slightly before replying.

"Where have you been?... These are rebels, they might be mutants... Don't you see what they are? Some of them look very human... And why is this woman able to stay in this area without being attacked? That means she's either a mutant or an outcast... And there's no mercy for traitors or rebels." The recruit explained calmly, glancing at the woman who was sitting and hugging a crying baby. Eric pondered deeply. The recruit's words made sense. If he continued to be suspicious or act differently, he might be seen as different and eliminated.

"I agree with him, maybe it's all a pretense... Don't fall for it. We should kill them quickly and move to another room... Or is the reason you're hesitating because you feel sorry for them?" The recruit observed, and both recruits immediately turned to look at Eric. Eric was tense and sweating slightly. He was suspected, and he needed to find an excuse quickly, otherwise he might have to flee or be killed.

 

Eric had to kill this mother and child? Kill that innocent baby? The thought made him tremble with guilt. He didn't want to kill a child, or even someone defenseless. Even though those around him didn't seem to mind, he felt utterly guilty. This overwhelming stress, anxiety, and guilt... what was this? But if he didn't do this, he might be the one to die, or he might have to flee to his death. And of course, he chose to do what he thought was best right now.

"Okay," Eric said softly, though hesitantly. He turned back to the woman sitting on the ground, hugging her child, with the same soldier still pointing his gun at her. Eric took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down. He reached into his belt and pulled out his Lass Pistol, aiming it at the woman's head.

He wouldn't die, and the risk was acceptable. She might be a mutant.

"Please... don't hurt me and my child!!!" "You killed him... please..." The woman hugged her baby tighter, looking at Eric with a pitiful and heart-wrenching expression that was too much for many to bear. Eric slowly closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to ignore the woman's pleading voice.

Wah! Wah!

The baby in her arms began to cry. Eric gritted his teeth and made a firm decision. Now was the time to live here. He knew then that

hesitation was definitely not a good idea.

Pew! Pew!

A red flash of light, two shots from a last-minute pistol, rang out, and Eric's hands began to tremble and weaken. Eric was slightly shocked by what he had just done. His face beneath the black mask was even paler than before, even though it was already pale. Eric put the gun away and tried to walk away to calm himself down. The two recruits nodded in approval of Eric's actions, seemingly accepting him. They followed but then stopped abruptly. Eric, hearing why they stopped, turned around and saw Lieutenant Rocklin. He stood staring at them.

"What are you so surprised about, soldiers? I heard everything you did...and as for her," Lieutenant Rocklin said in a low, menacing voice, glaring at them as if they had done something wrong.

 

Eric immediately became worried that what he had just done was wrong. He might have been tricked into doing something unacceptable here, and he wondered if he would be punished.

While Eric was thinking with fear and anxiety, Lieutenant Rocklin gave an answer that left Eric feeling dizzy, surprised, and completely bewildered.

"You did very well, soldier. The Emperor and the Empire need servants who are unwavering like you... even though you may hesitate now and be a little hesitant... but I am confident that in the future, you will be without hesitation in doing things like this again." Lieutenant Rocklin spoke with great admiration.
Eric, hearing this, was now confused, surprised, and puzzled.

"Thank you, sir," he replied with a slight smile, trying to appear proud of what he had just done, as if it were merely his duty. But for him, it was a smile of utter surprise and emptiness, and the thought flashed through his mind:

Will he have nightmares about what he just did?

_____________________________________

Author's Note: Okay, things are starting to get dark. But technically, what Eric had just done was definitely right, because the woman might already have contracted geenstealer, even if it seemed a bit severe.

Chapter 27: Corpse starch

Summary:

"Huh...?" Eric unconsciously muttered softly when he felt something with a fabric-like texture while chewing. He quickly pulled it out of his mouth and discovered it was the same type of fabric used in military uniforms, and even the same color.

Day 297, Year 986, 41st Millennium

Upper Hive

Front Line

His goal this time was to lead the breakthrough and help these soldiers seize the main elevator of the hive city, achieving victory. He was willing to do it; it was about protecting many innocent civilians from the clutches of the xenos and heretics. However, his battle brother wasn't very keen on this mission, but what could he do? They had no choice but to fight.

"Don't be afraid, human... hurry on before I kill you!" Chaplain Samael shouted at a hesitant recruit, urging him to join the rest of the troops. Before he and three other battle brothers charged into the horde of fully formed Geenstealers, showing no fear of the danger.

"Kill Xenos!!!!" he roared, unleashing a spell on the nearest Geenstealer with full force, severing it in half.

"Purge the Unclean!!!!" He then spun around, deflecting the claws of another Geenstealer attempting to attack him from behind, and using his other hand to grab its neck, yanking it off with full force, catching its spine in his hand.

"Burn the Heretic!!!!" he shouted again, using the head with its spine still attached to another Geenstealer, using his staff to deliver an upward-angled blow to its chin, shattering it. He then kicked it to the ground and stomped on its chest, crushing it further. Meanwhile, the other battle brothers were fighting fiercely as well. Caesar was sweeping his chain sword in a long, furious sweep, slaughtering multiple Geenstealers simultaneously. His movements were so ferocious and insane that Samael found it extremely worrying, as Caesar could easily be afflicted with Black Ragh if this continued.

The others weren't as concerned. Tuki, the space marine from the Cacharodon Space Marine chapter, was using his axe and pistol to deal with the Xenos, while Kitros was using his energy sword to fight through hordes with graceful movements typical of a Dark Angel.

Samael then turned his attention to what was directly in front of him. He saw dozens of Abominants charging towards them—modified Xenos hybrids with sharp claws and wielding hammers or whatever they could find, capable of inflicting a fatal blow in a single attack. Several small creatures called "Mindwyrm Familiars" protected themselves and their allies nearby from the enemy's psychic attacks. Samael quickly diverted his attention from the Geenstealers he was currently fighting and charged directly into the horde of Abominants.

He rammed several Geenstealers, knocking them down, and along the way, wielding his Crosius staff to take down dozens more. Samael gritted his teeth, looking for an opportunity, before using his spell to smash the head of one Geenstealer into its body. He then leaped onto its body, soaring above the head of the nearest Abominant before slamming down and crushing its head with the heel of his armored boot.

(Abominants are a type of Geenstealer with immense durability and strength; they can easily crush Space Marines with their hammers.)

The massive body instantly fell to the ground. Samael didn't let the chance go to waste; he picked up the Abominant's power sledgehammer with one hand. Before he could swing it at the nearest Mindwyrm Familiar, he shattered it into pieces.

Other Abominants seeing Samael rushed forward to attack. One was about to swing its hammer to reduce the other to flesh, but Samael dodged and used his spell to strike its arm, knocking the hammer out of its hand. He then swung the hammer in his other hand at its chest, sending it flying several meters away. Suddenly turning around, he used his spell to strike another's head, slicing open blood, bone, tissue, and brain matter, scattering everywhere.

Samael's breathing became heavy. Everything he saw began to turn red. He was being consumed by the Red Thirs. He felt teeth growing sharp. He didn't care about this now, or he would die.

"For the Emperor!" Samael shouted, deflecting another's hammer with his staff and then using his own hammer to strike its face, killing it instantly. Meanwhile, he noticed the other Battle Brothers rushing to attack the Xenos to help him. Several other ordinary human soldiers were also present. Seeing this, he smiled before dodging another hammer and using his flowing armor to strike the abominant that had just lost its balance after missing its attack. He then used his club to strike its side, causing it to stumble, before using the hammer to smash its head in for the end.

He was starting to like using hammers now. If he survived, he'd have the tech marines build him a huge thunder hammer.

"For the Sangeunius!!!!" he shouted before swinging the hammer at another abominant that tried to strike him. Both of its legs were instantly broken. Samael didn't hesitate, stomping on its head again until its skull was completely shattered.

 

"Die!!!" He then continued his attack on another abominant, using his spell to smash its face before following up with a hammer blow. Now they began to retreat, leaving behind numerous corpses and Samael, who stood trembling and exhausted.

"What are you doing, Chaplain Samael? , that's utterly unreasonable! You shouldn't have done that. You should try to be calmer," Caesar said, irritated as he fired a bolt pistol at an abominant's head before using his chain sword to cleave it in half.

"...Bring me another one to kill...As for that, I helped you complete the mission, brother," he replied calmly, though his demeanor was increasingly agitated and breathless.

"You two are both ridiculous!!" Kitros grumbled at the two as he drew his energy sword from the abominant Chaplain's body. Samael frowned. How was it ridiculous? He just wanted to eliminate as many enemies as possible and protect these little human soldiers, giving them a better chance of survival. Because if these ordinary soldiers were to fight the abominants, their chances of survival would be slim.

"Enough! We should move on to our next destination, not waste time arguing over such trivial matters," Tuki tried to stop the three from arguing. The three merely glanced at him, nodded, and then led their group of soldiers deeper into enemy territory.

______________________________________________

 

“It was terrifying,” Eric slowly lowered the binoculars he had retrieved from the soldier’s corpse. He had seen the Space Marines fighting the mutants fiercely and bravely. It was a bloody sight.

Chaplain Samael was far more terrifying than he had imagined. He was incredibly agile, aggressive, and strong, befitting a genetically modified human. The way he tore off an alien’s head with one hand was gruesome. He would really need heavy weaponry to fight these guys. Considering their strength and physical attributes, they were superior to ordinary humans in every way. But whatever, Samael and the others were gone.

Even so, it wasn’t as terrifying or disgusting as shooting the woman and baby the other day, suspecting them of being mutants.

The truth was, after hours of trying to convince himself that it wasn’t wrong, that what he did was acceptable. He didn’t harbor any ill will towards her. He didn’t kill her out of necessity. Was he deceiving himself?

Whatever.

Eric turned towards where the Leman Russ tank was being repaired. A religious technician was working, using a wrench to fix the tank tracks damaged by a rocket attack. Meanwhile, they were all chanting prayers. Eric was able to decipher that it was in the Biannarik language.

Since the tanks their platoon was escorting had been temporarily damaged, Eric and his platoon rested in the area.

This was a much better thing, because right now he felt stuffy, hot, and uncomfortable from fighting all day.

Eric, having separated from the group, sighed softly before leaning his gun against it. He then removed his chest armor and helmet, placing them beside where he was sitting. Eric felt an immediate sense of relief, no longer having to wear the rather heavy armor. He took several deep breaths, eagerly and relaxed at the temporary comfort. But this action was incredibly foolish, because even though this thin armor might offer almost no protection, it did give him a chance of survival. It could still protect him from melee weapons, increasing his chances of survival.

In a place like this, enemies could come from anywhere, at any time, or from any place. Whatever, right now he just wanted to be comfortable.

Eric unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt to relieve the discomfort, causing his shoulders to drop slightly. He reached into his pocket and found something—a comb he kept there.

Eric smoothed out his white hair. It was a bit of a mess, having crammed it into his hat for about two or three days. He ran his hand through his hair, gently combing it with a relaxed air.

He shifted his shoulders, loosening his shirt, and settled into the most comfortable position he could manage, oblivious to anyone watching. He hummed a tune, which helped somewhat mask his anxiety and guilt.

"When you can even say my name..." Eric murmured softly. He'd heard this song a few times, but he still remembered the lyrics. They were in English, not Low Gothic. He could have translated them into Low Gothic, but he decided against it. Meanwhile, he pondered many different things.

Okay, today he and the PDF conscripted troops had advanced deep into the mutant-occupied territory and were able to continue fighting effectively with the help of the four space marines and a large number of armored vehicles and tanks acquired from the reserve tanks and armored vehicles that had been used to pay taxes to the central government.

 

The deeper they went, the more dangerous and terrifying mutants they encountered. Some required tanks to deal with. Many of his teammates had already died, and the tension in the battle was escalating.

"His memory is gone...you feel...Number...call my name..." As he hummed a tune, he sensed something approaching.

The sound of a Chimira armored vehicle instantly alerted Eric. He knew that the sound of such a vehicle meant they were regrouping and distributing more ammunition and supplies.

Eric quickly put away his comb, stood up, buttoned his shirt, and hastily put on his armor. But it seemed he had done it a little too fast.

"Damn it...why is this...damn it!!" he muttered under his breath as he pressed on the armor's seams. He hadn't adjusted those two lumps of fat before putting on this uncomfortable suit. He felt extremely uncomfortable, his face showing frustration and displeasure. But now wasn't the time to take the armor off and put it on. He had to hurry before Lieutenant Rocklin started scolding him.

Before long, Eric, whose hair was still not tucked into his helmet, arrived at the road where the Lemanrus tank and Chimira armored vehicle were parked, along with the other recruits. Those standing or resting would immediately turn to look at him upon seeing him, before returning to their normal activities.

If Lieutenant Rocklin knew he was gone, it would be terrible. He might be punished. But for now, he needed to find the right moment to adjust those two lumps of fat. Eric spotted some wreckage that might provide warmth, so he quickly hid behind it before carefully removing and putting on his chest armor. He adjusted it a few times to make sure it stayed in place and wouldn't make him feel any more uncomfortable. Then he sighed softly and went to gather supplies like the others.

After getting supplies, Eric found a suitable corner to eat alone. He unwrapped a package of corpses starch, revealing a coarse, tasteless, rectangular bar of dough, sometimes with a slightly rancid smell. Eric ate it as he did every day, but today was different.

 

"Huh...?" Eric unconsciously muttered softly when he felt something with a fabric-like texture while chewing. He quickly pulled it out of his mouth and discovered it was the same type of fabric used in military uniforms, and even the same color.

"It must just be a production error, right?" Eric thought optimistically before continuing to eat, without caring that the actual material might be something else entirely.

........Like human corpses (and luckily, he didn't know that human corpses could be used to make corpse starch, allowing him to consume it normally).

______________________________________________

Chaplain Samael with the power sledgehamme he retrieved from the corpse of an abominant.

Chapter 28: Melee combat

Day 297, Year 986, 41st Millennium

Upper Nest

Front Line

If Eric remembered correctly, today was the third day of the battle. Third day already, and everything remained the same. Heavy clashes occurred occasionally, escalating as they advanced further into enemy territory. Now, every time they breached an enemy camp, at least four or five soldiers died, mostly from his own platoon. He didn't even know when it would be his turn to die.

It was awful.

Especially now, with those hideous and inhumane creatures—mutants, of course—and some of the aliens he'd seen escaping from the upper nest. Some were even capable of tearing tanks to shreds.

Eric sighed softly as he walked down the road with the other soldiers, the tank leading the way. He glanced cautiously at the buildings to his left and right, wary of potential ambushes. His grip on his laser gun tightened. He felt strangely uncomfortable from not having showered for three days. He'd fought, his uniform was stained with blood, and he was covered in it all over. He also felt increasingly exhausted.

Three days of continuous fighting, wearing armor and carrying heavy loads in his backpack almost constantly, had left him feeling fatigued and worn out more easily. He tried to find opportunities to sit down and rest or take off his backpack whenever possible.

However, surviving for so long had made him less tolerant of the sight of brutally mutilated corpses, and he was beginning to feel less depressed and traumatized, even though he was more cautious.

Whatever.

Eric glanced left and right again as he walked, checking the ground for landmines like the ones he stepped on that killed several soldiers that day. Besides, they also had to watch out for those four-armed aliens. They were much larger than normal humans and could hide anywhere. They could jump from multi-story buildings and attack humans without injury. Regular guns couldn't kill them; you had to spray them constantly. They were terrifying. Even he, a fairly skilled marksman, found it difficult to kill them unless he shot them in the eye, which was still challenging.

 

Meanwhile, he glanced at the four or so surviving Korvax family soldiers out of a dozen or so. From what he'd seen on the battlefield, they were quite skilled in close-quarters combat, exceptionally accurate marksmen, and possessed quick decision-making abilities. He was also somewhat enviable, wearing high-quality armor capable of easily withstanding lassgun, assault rifle, or autogun attacks—it was likely very expensive armor.

But never mind that. In his opinion, the interesting thing about them was that they served the Korvax family, the ruling family of this area. However, rumors and accounts from other soldiers described them as extremely cruel, and their ruler as tyrannical.

But Eric wasn't very interested in that. What interested him more was the current situation. The fighting was raging, and the PDF forces were advancing further into the territory. This was a good sign, meaning they were on the verge of victory, and the war might end sooner than he thought… He hoped it would end quickly so he could return to a normal life and find a job.

But another part of him wondered what if it wasn't over yet. There was a high probability the war wouldn't end so easily. Because the goal of this battle was simply to capture or destroy the giant elevator, their main supply line from the bottom to the top.

Perhaps he would be fighting a long war, like World War I and World War II. But how could he survive such a long battle?

_Don't think like that, Eric. It'll just stress you out,_ he tried to tell himself.

Suddenly, his eyes fell on the building in front and the rubble piled on the street. To others, or to some, it might just be ordinary wreckage, but to him, it felt abnormal.

Eric focused on the rubble in front of the warehouse, analyzing and trying to find something unusual. But before he could think or look any further, a piece of concrete and steel broke off, revealing a heavy machine gun aimed at his group of soldiers, and Eric was one of them.

"Get down now!!!!" Lieutenant Rocklin shouted before quickly dropping to the ground, covered in rubble—concrete fragments, steel shards, and dried blood. Eric quickly jumped out of the way and ducked to the ground before the lieutenant could even finish his sentence. Other soldiers did the same, but many didn't manage to land in time and were killed by the heavy machine gun fire. Their armor was practically useless, and the condition of their corpses was horrifying.

Eric looked at the many mutilated bodies. Some had been shot in the shoulder, their arms severed and ribs exposed. Others had been shot in the abdomen, leaving gaping wounds and internal organs spilling out. Some had severed legs or other body parts. He tried to compose himself and ignore the sight before raising his lassgun, aiming at the heavy machine gun, and pulling the trigger.

Pew!

A red beam of light struck the head of one of the mutants, instantly exploding it, and the machine gun ceased firing. Another mutant tried to replace the dead but was hit by cannon fire from the Leman Russ tank, scattering its remains.

Eric sighed heavily. His exhaustion had vanished, replaced by a surge of adrenaline. His anxiety and paranoia grew. Eric meticulously scanned the building, front, top, and back, before quickly getting up. Lieutenant Rocklin also stood up, shouting orders for everyone to search for useful and necessary items from the bodies of their fallen comrades and then quickly continue their journey.

The surviving soldiers immediately began searching the bodies of their recently deceased comrades. Eric was one of them. Although they had ammunition and explosives delivered by the Chimira armored vehicles, lately these vehicles had been attacked by mutants, causing delays or even preventing deliveries. Therefore, they had to use everything they had, even from the corpses.

Eric rose from the ground and brushed the dust off his blood-stained clothes, trying to prevent them from getting any dirtier. He wasn't exactly a clean freak... but compared to the people here, he was probably the cleanest.

 

“That was close,” Eric muttered to himself, thinking about the possibility of being the center of attention. His figure was clearly visible, and he instinctively stretched his arms slightly to relax.

Snap!

Eric’s eyes widened slightly. He felt a sharp pain in his right shoulder, similar to the initial tearing sensation during a massage. He had never felt anything like it before. It was just an external sensation, like nothing was supporting him. He wanted to explore what it felt like.

Eric checked. One of his bra straps had snapped. It might have been bunched up at the point of breakage, causing discomfort. Before he knew it, he froze.

“It must have just been a feeling?” he thought to himself, turning and reaching his left hand into the gap between his bra and his right armpit. He reached his right chest and found that the bra strap had indeed snapped.

Eric pulled his hand away, realizing he was touching his chest. He looked worried and embarrassed, but most people couldn’t see his face because he was wearing a veil.

“Damn it,” Eric murmured softly, swallowing hard. He gripped his right elbow tightly, overwhelmed by the shocking situation, a mixture of nervousness and unconscious control.

Sometimes, that tightness in his chest while walking, or the lack of normal fat accumulation… It made him feel visibly naked.

Eric closed his eyes.
The image on his left showed numerous soldiers, their strength derived from the corpses of the dead. He ignored his demeanor completely. Now, he was filled with intense anxiety and uncertainty, struggling to control himself.

_It's alright._ He would try to compose himself.

Let everything flow slowly. Harvesting from the numerous corpses and previous surveys was just one way to regain control. He would slowly find a suitable position, then switch to the bandage on his chest. He didn't feel anything special now. He confidently repeated, "Whatever, what else is there to worry about today?"

But sometimes, he would persevere. Lieutenant Rocklin continued to lead, while Eric comfortably positioned himself in the center to control the situation. Being at the front risked being the first to be attacked, serving as a warning signal. Being at the very back might allow him permission to reach the safest central research facility.

But suddenly,

Lieutenant Rocklin's booming command rang out. Powerful bolster shells, recently fired, rapidly shattered the enemy line. Lieutenant Rocklin's soldiers were under attack again from that direction.

"Watch out!" The warning pierced the chaos. All the fortifications hastily regrouped or sought cover, rushing towards Eric. It almost made him fall.

"Damn it!!" Eric cursed inwardly, wondering why they ran without checking if there was anyone in front of them. He raised his laser gun to warn the mutants and prepared to fire, but a figure appeared behind Eric, causing him to turn back and reassess the situation.

 

"Ugh!!!" He felt excruciating pain. Something slammed into his chest armor, sending him staggering backward. The pain in his chest was unbearable; the hard, rigid metal chestplate had been violently crushed against the soft, sensitive flesh, like a hammer striking his delicate tissue.
Eric gritted his teeth, tears welling up slightly from the pain. In that split second, he saw his attacker.

The enemy resembled a human in almost every way, except for its bald head with scattered light purple scales on its forehead. It was a mutant, a Neophyte Hybrid, and in its hand, it held a pipe pulled from the wall.

Eric quickly aimed his gun, firing at its head. However, the mutant used its other hand to grab his lassgun and deflect the shot. The red laser beam, intended for its head, instead hit the pipe in its hand, causing it to fall. He struggled to pull the lassgun from its grasp.

"Get your hands off my gun!" Eric snarled, trying to pull his weapon back. But the opponent's strength was almost indistinguishable from that of a heavily trained man – a Genestealer Hybrid. Simply pulling the gun toward itself, the attacker easily snatched it from Eric, who would then throw it away.

Damn it! Eric thought to himself, trying to draw his chain sword, but it was too late. He quickly dodged a punch from the mutant. Was he forced to fight in close combat?!

He tried to escape, but there was no way to get past the mutant; he had to run through it. And now, no one was there to help him because everyone else was fighting fiercely.

He hated close-quarters combat. Eric was practically hopeless at it. He had no skill in it, and his strength was lacking. But there was no other choice. Eric, his face tense, glared at his opponent, who was grinning smugly at their enemy. A moment later, the attack came again. Eric quickly used his arm armor to block the blow. The heavy blow made his arm tremble slightly, but it also left him with a small opening.

The attack continued, but this time Eric dodged. Eric landed an elbow strike to the side of its ribs, giving it a slight advantage before it swung its arm at the side of his helmet, sending him staggering in the direction of the blow and nearly knocking his helmet off.

It attacked again, this time with a punch aimed at Eric's face, but he dodged, the punch hitting his chest armor instead. While this chest armor could protect against small bullets and shrapnel, it could also withstand some melee weapons, but not the kind that rammed into the target. The punch slammed into the left side of his chest armor, the impact causing him pain and making him stagger slightly. In this moment of disorientation, unable to dodge or attack,

Thud!

Eric was hit by a heavy punch to the face, almost knocking him over. His bag fell out, his glasses flew off, and his helmet nearly came off. He tasted blood and felt immense pain before quickly regaining his balance and dodging another punch. Now panicked, Eric punched the creature in the face, but it seemed to have little effect. Seeing this, Eric's face immediately turned pale. The creature was stronger than he had imagined.

Eric reached for his bayonet, instead of his chain sword, knowing he wouldn't have time to activate it. He lunged forward, aiming to stab the mutant in the face, but the creature easily grabbed his wrist. Eric was stunned and worried by what had happened. The mutant looked at him with mockery before shaking its head slightly.

 

"You weakling, worshipper of the false emperor... Now the angel is coming, and the four-armed emperor is being reborn... Why would you give up your resistance? Join us and fight for freedom!" It tried to entice Eric, but he didn't listen. He desperately struggled to free himself from its grip. Seeing this, it looked away in disappointment before twisting its hand.

"Agh!!!" Eric cried out in pain. His body turned in the same direction its arm was twisted. The bayonet fell from his hand. He tried to kick its leg, but was met with a heavy punch to the stomach.

Thump!

Eric was too breathless to speak or cry out in pain. Tears streamed down his face as the fist landed on his lower abdomen. His back arched backward. It released its grip, leaving Eric, barely able to stand, standing there with a mocking expression, as if he were an unworthy opponent.

Eric, barely able to breathe, slowly slumped to the ground, clutching his stomach with both hands before curling up and struggling to take deep breaths. He was in excruciating pain; everything felt like a ache. He couldn't breathe properly, his body was immobile. He was in agonizing agony. While he was suffering, the mutant simply stood there, arms crossed, sneering at him.

"Weak...useless. I think you'd make a great test subject," it said with a sadistic, psychopathic smile. Eric's eyes widened in terror. No one could help him now, and he knew that if anyone looked at him like that, he would be subjected to the same treatment. He was about to be kidnapped for experimentation!

"Afraid, are you? What can you do in this state?" it taunted, kicking the chain sword away from Eric. Eric, struggling to move, could only try to breathe deeply and endure the pain... He wouldn't die like this... He wouldn't die at the hands of this mutant until he achieved his goal... But now he couldn't do anything! Damn it!!!

"You're a pathetic creature..." This time, the voice was laced with contempt. Eric wouldn't tolerate its arrogant words any longer. It dared to call him a pathetic creature! His hands, now able to move, grasped a chunk of concrete and gripped it tightly. He would smash this guy's head to pieces! The creature lowered itself beside him, one hand gripping his neck and trying to lift him up.

Eric, now breathless and unable to breathe, struggled desperately. His plan was failing. He used both hands to pry the creature's hand off his neck, the rock slipping from its grasp. He merely chuckled at the sight before looking away, towards where the pdf's troops were beginning to lose ground to the geenstealers, unaware that one of Eric's legs was already fully extended.

Thump!!!

 

Eric kicked the mutant hard in the groin, causing it to immediately release him and curl up like a shrimp, clutching its crotch, just like Eric himself, who was also clutching his stomach after a full-force punch. Eric, still trembling from pain, struggled to his feet, a sinister smile on his face as he prepared to get revenge.

While the mutant lay on the ground, clutching its groin in pain, Eric, still reeling from the shock, slowly walked towards where his assault chain sword had fallen. He bent down to pick it up, his gaze fixed on the mutant with a menacing look.

"Afraid, are you?... What can you do in this state?" he repeated the mutant's insulting words. He wanted to know how it felt to face the same fate; he would get his revenge. Eric tightened his grip on the assault chain sword. The mutant, seeing him approaching with the sword, widened its eyes in terror and tried pathetically to speak for itself.

"Wait, that was a misunderstanding... You should calm down!!!" it tried to say frantically. Eric, whose anger was now somewhat dissipating his pain, approached the mutant much faster. Seeing this, the mutant tried to crawl away, a pathetic attempt at escape.

"Weak... useless, huh!" Eric repeated its words before delivering another powerful kick to its groin, sending it curling up again. Eric grinned with satisfaction before delivering another kick to its torso, forcing it to lie flat. He straddled its chest and repeatedly struck its face with his assault chain sword. The mutant tried to parry and push him away with its hands, but to no avail. Enraged, Eric continued to strike its face with the chain sword until its hands weakened and went still, but he didn't stop.

"A pathetic creature, huh?" Eric said, breathing heavily. His hands were covered in blood, and the mutant's head was now just a pile of flesh. Eric tried to calm himself down. "Okay, it's dead now." He looked left and right, realizing the PDF forces were starting to gain control. Eric used his assault chain sword to prop himself up and kicked the creature again with contempt.

"Tch! Those disgusting mutants," he thought to himself, filled with contempt and hatred.

In his mind, since coming to this world, mutants were utterly evil. Those who had tried to devour him, and most of them actually did, as well as the hideous and perverse ones, deserved to be wiped out from the galaxy altogether.

Eric slowly picked up his glasses and put them on. The pain was starting to return. He gritted his teeth, enduring the pain, and slowly walked to his fallen bag, followed by his gun. Then he rejoined the other PDF soldiers, still experiencing some shortness of breath and pain. He also thought he needed more close-combat training.

"Ouch!... *cough* *cough*" Eric coughed softly, the pain still lingering where he'd been punched. He's definitely got internal injuries now. Damn!

 

______________________________________________

Kill Team's breakthrough continued silently, broken only by the heavy footsteps of their power armor on the vibrating metal floor. Within the narrow alleys, the light from their helmets was the only thing battling the thick darkness filled with dust and the stench of Tyranid geenstealers. Suddenly, Kill Team entered an open area—an old, dilapidated warehouse supported by crumbling pillars.

"Ahead! There are a lot of geenstealers up there!" Hjolmir from Blood Wolf roared, wrinkling his nose. Before his roar could finish... Six bluish-purple creatures darted forward from the darkness. These Genestealers moved too fast for humans to perceive, but for the Adeptus Astartes, they were mere moving images requiring immediate reaction. Hakron, channeling the Monitor and wearing his heavy Terminator armor, didn't hesitate. He charged at them cautiously, for even the slightest carelessness could easily kill them. The lightning claw mounted on his left arm activated, its four long claws enveloped in a terrifying display of lightning.

"Maintain formation! And watch your rear!"
Rumble! The first Genestealer slammed into Hakron's breastplate, letting out a high-pitched shriek. But Hakron was far faster than anticipated, unleashing a blinding blue arc of his Lightning Claw.

Slash! Crack!

His Lightning Claw sliced the Genestealer into multiple pieces, its blood splattering across the Terminator armor, but Hakron remained unfazed. He was an unmoving rock.
While Hakron stalled for time, Satros, the Marine Malevolent, still grumbling about the absurdity of the mission, began to work skillfully.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

"What a waste of time!" He raised his Storm Bolter and fired with precision and speed. No shots were wasted. Large kraken-piercing shells tore apart the bodies of the geenstealers trying to find openings from the sides. They fell with massive holes in their chests and heads. Satros showed no emotion in his killing, only a repulsive mastery.
Thump! Thump! The Bolter roared.
Dreaven, from the Black Dragon, with bone claws protruding from his body, engaged in fierce combat. He didn't use a gun, but charged into battle with a savage instinct that even his own kind would be wary of.
He used his sharp bone claws to deflect enemy claws, then counterattacked with swift and brutal thrusts.

"Go, brothers! It looks like it's noticed!" Dreaven roared, a mixture of fury, disgust, and a desire to prove his worth. Hjolmir, with his superior hunter instincts, was ready to fight. Leading the charge at a rapid pace, he paid little attention to the lower-level Genestealers, focusing instead on finding the fastest route to their goal.

"This way! They're guarding the main passageway!"
He wielded his oversized Chainsword, slashing at any Genestealer blocking their path, cutting them in half. Hjolmir operated like a wolf sniffing its prey; words were few, only determination to reach their destination. The Kill Team moved as a single, flawless unit. Hakron stayed at the front to draw attention and absorb attacks, Satros provided covering fire, Dreaven broke through the lines, and Hjolmir led the way. The battle lasted less than two minutes before they breached the first line of defense, leaving behind a gruesome heap of Genestealers lying on the ground.

"This is how it should be...it would have been over sooner, wouldn't it, everyone, if we were all here?" Satros muttered contentedly as he reloaded his stormbolter.

"Hurry up, stop complaining, Satros!" Hakron ordered coldly. They followed Hjolmir down an increasingly complex and dark corridor until the Kill Team reached the entrance of a massive tunnel that used to be the Under Hive's main ventilation system. Hjolmir stopped, taking a deep breath through the air vents in his helmet.

"I've found it," Hakron whispered. Suddenly, everyone felt an immense pressure radiating from the darkness ahead. The Genestealer Matriarch, the mission's objective...was waiting for them. Inside a massive hall covered in purple slime, a colossal Genestealer Matriarch sat on a high pedestal. It was twice the size of a Space Marine, with claws far larger and longer than those of a typical Genestealer. Its eyes stared at the Kill Team like prey walking into a trap. Dozens of Genestealer minions crawled around it, crawling along the walls and ceiling, awaiting their master's command. The four members of the Kill Team stopped in their tracks, fearless. Only a determination as strong as steel could stand.

"For the emperor!" everyone shouted in unison before charging fearlessly towards the geenstealer matriarch.

Chapter 29: 29

Summary:

"I think the plan looks good…" one of the space marines said, still unsure. Vann didn't pay much attention, as the soldier had almost no experience. He was only interested in the space marine's opinion and needed their support.

"What about my plan, sir?" Vann asked, looking at the space marine.

"Hmm… I think it's alright… So let's go with that."

Day 297, Year 986, 41st Millennium

Upper Hive

Front Line

Eric cautiously slipped away from the PDF soldiers, pretending to have a personal errand to run. He trudged through the rubble, trying to find a secluded spot dark enough to be unnoticed. Paranoia made him constantly glance left and right, until he found a small alcove behind a sturdy concrete wall that seemed to offer him some hiding place.

“This should be safe…” he murmured to himself before quickly sitting down. His hands were still slightly trembling from exhaustion. He awkwardly unlocked his chest armor. As soon as the weight of the metal armor disappeared, he breathed a sigh of relief. But that relief was short-lived, as the pain from where he had been punched in the stomach returned.

“Damn…that hurts,” Eric muttered, gritting his teeth, and quickly dealt with the problem that had been bothering him for hours. He removed his shirts one by one before reaching in to untangle his broken bra strap and carelessly tossing it aside. Then he pulled out some clean bandages (the few he could find) from his pocket. He skillfully began wrapping the bandage around his chest, even though it hurt with every breath. He knew this was only a temporary fix. But it would help stabilize his chest while he ran, and more importantly, prevent the bra straps from pressing against his wound or tearing his skin. However, as he was wrapping the bandage, his nose revealed another pathetic truth.

“Ouch…damn it,” Eric winced in pain at the pungent smell. He hadn’t showered in three days. He was covered in dust and dirt, and worst of all, dried mutant blood clung to his clothes and under his fingernails. His once beautiful, lustrous white hair (which he secretly prided himself on in the mirror) was now tangled and sticky from the fight, despite him having combed it the day before.

 

"How much longer do I have to endure this filthy state? I really want to take a shower..." He grumbled under his breath, frustrated. Honestly, he wasn't exactly serious about his hygiene...or was he? Being a woman is really tough, especially during periods or when fighting in battles... It's a good thing his period hasn't started yet; otherwise, he'd probably lose his mind. Besides, it's almost been a month already.
After wrapping himself in bandages, Eric picked up his breastplate and put it back on, letting out another deep sigh.

"...When will I get some decent, properly fitting armor?" Eric grumbled, shifting around, trying to adjust the position and straighten his clothes as best he could. He leaned against the cold concrete wall and looked up at the ceiling of Hive City, where the sky was invisible, only metal structures and pipes lay before him.
Anxiety crept back into his heart as he thought about tomorrow's mission: capturing the main elevator...
Just thinking about it sent shivers down his spine. Such a crucial area must be swarming with mutants. Today, just encountering low-level mutants was already overwhelming. What about tomorrow? How terrifying and depraved will the ones guarding the elevator be? How long will their claws be? Or will they have fangs that can tear tanks and armor like paper?

"I don't even want to think about it..." Eric hugged his knees to his chest, his blue eyes filled with fear as he recalled the recent battle. He was practically useless without equipment or weapons. It was incredibly worrying; if he wasn't lucky again, he wouldn't survive. He sat there for a moment, letting himself sink into weakness and fear in the dark corner where no one could see him. He took a deep breath, slapped his cheeks twice to regain his composure, and tried to be strong, refusing to dwell on his mistakes and what had happened—consider it an experience.

It was an experience that left him deeply wounded.

"Alright, Eric... go back to sleep. Tomorrow's hell awaits." He slowly stood up, brushed the dust off his bottom (which didn't make him any cleaner), and walked back to the campfire where the other soldiers were sleeping, some keeping watch. He tried to blend in and act as normal as possible. Before he could find a suitable spot, he settled down to sleep using a piece of brick as a pillow.

How did he even manage to sleep in that position?

It's ridiculously funny.

____________________________________________

 

Day 298 of the 986th year of the 41st millennium

Upper Hive

Front Line

The faint light from the overhead lamps of the new day pierced through the smoke and steel structure of Hive City. The atmosphere at the assembly point was tense. The sounds of weapons checks, prayers to the Emperor and the Machine Spirit, and commands echoed throughout. Eric stood near his troops, gripping his Lasgun tightly, trying to suppress the growing excitement and fear within him. His eyes scanned the group preparing for battle, and then suddenly, his gaze fell upon a familiar woman with brown hair.

"Livia!" Eric shouted, a smile unconsciously spreading across his face. A strange feeling of relief washed over him. Among thousands of strangers, seeing someone familiar was like finding an oasis in the desert. The woman turned, and seeing Eric, she smiled broadly as well, before waving and walking towards him.

"Erica! Thank the Emperor for keeping you alive!" Livia greeted him brightly, her face pale and smeared with soot, showing a hint of weariness. Yet, her smile was genuine.

 

"...What happened to your face?!" Livia asked again, concerned, noticing a slight swollen cheek on Eric's side.

"Just a minor injury from a fight," Eric replied, genuinely happy to see his friend, even if it was a new friend he'd only known for about a week. He tried to act as normal as possible, though inwardly grumbling about the smell of sweat from those around him. Hearing her question, he thought back to when that mutant punched him and almost knocked him down. Then his brows furrowed slightly as he looked around at Livia.

"That mark on my face... I got punched by a mutant. Don't worry, I killed it... And... where's Maria? And Rosa? Why haven't I seen them?" Eric asked, gently rubbing his face, his voice tinged with his usual curiosity. Normally, the three of them were always together. From what he'd observed at the camp, Livia, Maria, and Rosa were always walking around together. As soon as he finished speaking, the smile on Livia's face vanished as if erased by an eraser. She lowered her head, looking at the ground. Her dirt-stained boots suddenly seemed more interesting. Her lips were tightly pressed together, as if trying to hold something back. The silence that followed for a few seconds was heavy as a rock. Eric froze. A terrible premonition struck him. He knew instantly… he understood the meaning of this silence too well in this cruel world.

"Rosa was hit in the stomach by shrapnel, and now she's critically injured. As for Maria, she was struck by that big xenos's hammer until her body was almost unrecognizable… She's dead, Erika…” Livia said in a soft, trembling voice, trying to look away, tears welling up in her eyes as she spoke of Maria. Eric was shocked and deeply saddened. She was another one of his friends… and she shouldn't have met such a end… He didn't even want to imagine what she looked like after being struck by that huge hammer… she would have been minced.

"Ah… I understand...." Eric murmured softly.
A wave of sadness surged through his chest. It wasn't a sorrowful outburst, but a heart-wrenching emptiness. Memories from days before heading to the front lines flooded back uncontrollably. The image of the steamy communal shower... how mortified he was... Eric recalled the first time he had to shower naked with the other women in the barracks. He remembered trying to sneak in alone, but the three of them teased him, and somehow he made friends.

But it was Maria, Livia, and Rosani who were the ones who started talking to him in a friendly way. Maria's cheerful laughter and smile still echoed in his memory. The initial awkwardness gradually turned into familiarity. Eric began to relax around them. The time in the shower became one of the few times he felt 'safe' and could release his stress. The three of them would often gossip about the arrogant Arbites or complain about trivial things. Maria's laughter was always the loudest, but today... that laughter was gone. Eric took a deep breath, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. He couldn't cry now. The battle was about to begin, and weakness could mean death.

 

"I'm sorry...you...you did so well." Eric said softly, reaching out to gently squeeze Livia's shoulder, a clumsy gesture of comfort typical of his less-than-skilled comforter. Livia sobbed, looking up, tears welling up in her eyes, but she nodded and forced a smile.

"Yes...she did...she saved my life so many times...she even laughed before she died," Livia said, her voice trembling slightly but clearly filled with sadness.

"Hmm...of course...she's probably seated on the golden throne now," Eric acknowledged firmly, thinking about the reverence for the Emperor who had sat on the golden throne for 10,000 years, guiding humanity with his light. It was quite similar to Christianity, or perhaps even the same, but evolved...he was thinking something utterly ridiculous. Even though he was still terrified and wanted to hide in some dark corner, Eric tightened his grip on his gun, adjusting his uncomfortable breastplate. Staring straight ahead, this crazy future is utterly awful...

"Hahaha...Yes, she has served and worshipped the Emperor faithfully her entire life. She will surely ascend to the golden throne...but I hope Rosa doesn't follow Maria to the golden throne anytime soon," Livia said, trying to laugh lightly to feel a little better. But when Rosa was mentioned, Eric secretly felt very worried and concerned about her survival. He didn't want to lose another friend.

"You can't visit Rosa now. She's at the medical facility in the rear...but don't worry, the last time I saw her, she only lost a little blood...she's in the doctors' hands now, she'll be alright...don't worry." Livia tried to reassure Eric and herself, but Eric remained uneasy. He didn't know if many of the injured had received treatment yet.

"Okay, soon we'll be attacking the giant elevator that the enemy has seized...it's going to be very dangerous...so, how about we have a drink first?" Eric said, looking at the large elevator appearing in the distance. It's going to be full of enemies, really... Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out something he'd gathered.

"You... just like you... hahaha... I'm taking it!" Livia said, snatching the bottle of liquor from Eric's hand and downing it in three gulps. Eric froze, frowning and pouting slightly in anger. He intended to share it with her, not let her drink it all.

"Why did you do that! What am I supposed to drink? There's only one bottle!" Eric said in a slightly high-pitched voice, his demeanor trying to show his frustration and anger, but it didn't look scary at all; in fact, it was rather cute.

 

"Oh...don't make that face...I'll buy you another one later, okay? Hahaha *hiccup*" Livia said in a voice that clearly indicated she was getting drunk. Eric could only puff out his cheeks in displeasure. He might not get another chance to drink... Eric looked left and right warily, realizing he might be punished for drinking like this during battle or a break. Or he was afraid someone might harm his friend. He turned to Livia and whispered softly in her ear.

"Hey!...I think we should get out of here...You should find a safe place to rest, Livia." Eric whispered softly enough for Livia to hear but not for others. Livia, now quite drunk, swayed as if to fall, and he had to support her. The alcohol he'd just had was really strong.

"Where are you taking me...? We should drink more...Drink to that girl...Hmm..." Livia said in a groggy, almost incoherent voice. Eric frowned slightly; he wanted to drink too. But what would he drink? Livia had already finished all the liquor he'd gathered.

"Let's go somewhere safer and more secluded..." Eric replied softly. He helped Livia walk to a corner of the ruined building—not exactly secluded, but reasonably safe. He carefully helped her sit down on a relatively flat surface before sitting down himself. He placed his bag down and began preparing his equipment, getting ready for the next battle.

Today had been terrible. He was glad she survived, but also heartbroken that two of his friends were seriously injured and the other had already passed away. He didn't know if he would lose anyone else...or if he himself would die... When would this war end? Eric thought as he removed his helmet, which was positioned beside him, and the uncomfortable breastplate.

Hmph! Eric sighed as he picked up his lassgun and gently wiped the muzzle with a cloth he'd found. At least his weapon was easy to maintain; just wiping it and periodically checking its components was enough. Besides, it looked pretty high-tech, in his opinion.

Eric finished wiping the muzzle of his rifle. He put the cloth back in his pocket and leaned back against the cold, crumbling metal wall. Livia sat beside him, her head slightly tilted, her breathing becoming more regular.

She's asleep, isn't she…?

Eric glanced at her briefly before letting out a soft sigh of relief. At least now he had someone to talk to if she sobered up… and now she was safe. He was about to turn his attention back to the gun in his hand.

Suddenly, Livia stirred. Eric flinched slightly but didn't pay much attention, thinking she was just waking up normally. But before he could say anything, her hand reached out and grabbed the hem of his shirt.

 

“…It’s so cold, Maria…” A sleepy murmur escaped Livia’s lips before her body leaned closer… closer and closer… and then she hugged him tightly, her arms wrapped around his waist.

“…Don’t go anywhere…”

Eric froze, overwhelmed by a strange mix of feelings. It was both a feeling of being invaded and a bizarre, tingling sensation. He was being held in her arms; what was he going to do?

“—Hey, wait…!” His voice was too soft, his hands suspended in mid-air, unsure where to put them.
His heart pounded with shock more than embarrassment; his mind raced, searching for an answer.

Livia buried her face in his chest. Even through the fabric, he could still feel the touch of her cheek. Her warm, steady breaths, like a child finally finding solace. Eric swallowed, his face flushing slightly. He felt an inexplicable strange sensation the moment she buried her face in his chest.

“…I’m not Maria…” he murmured softly, a mixture of embarrassment and fear of waking her. His hand awkwardly lowered, finally resting carefully on Livia’s shoulder. He didn’t hug her back, just “put it there.” Yet, at the same time, he wanted to push Livia away because she was invading his personal space.

Livia stirred slightly, tightening her embrace a little more before muttering something unintelligible. Then… she fell back asleep. He felt tense as she hugged him tighter, and it seemed she was sound asleep, sleeping in his arms. Eric sighed deeply, the tension in his shoulders gradually easing. He simply used his hand to gently push her away and carefully laid her down.

“…She’s so heavy…” he muttered to himself softly, glancing left and right, afraid someone might see them. Before quickly packing his things into his bag and preparing for the next battle.

_____________________________________________

 

Day 298, Year 986, 41st Millennium

Upper Hive

Front Line

Temporary Command Center near the front line

"Are you sure of your decision, General?" Chaplain Samael said softly, gazing at the table laden with maps, equipment, and plans. High-ranking officers and other personnel were also observing. Vann, who had stood at the end of the table for three hours since the meeting began, could only stare cautiously at them before sighing and answering frankly:

"I'm afraid it's the best plan... considering the losses we've suffered over the past three to four days. Of the 100,000 soldiers used to capture this elevator, after the battle, only 50,000 to 60,000 remain. Furthermore, we only have about 1,000 armored vehicles and tanks left. Fighting in a city and confined space like this is extremely difficult." Vann spoke softly, seemingly unfazed by the number of lost soldiers. But even more regrettable than the loss of soldiers were the number of tanks and armored vehicles. The losses were too great.

"But if you think your breakthrough plan isn't quite right...it doesn't conform to the Codex Astartes," Chaplain Samael objected, holding up a book. Vann frowned slightly; he didn't know what kind of book that was.

"No, it's quite successful... From our scouting efforts... the enemy has very strong defenses... we can't surround and attack from multiple directions to guarantee victory... but we can concentrate our forces on a single point and gradually break down their defenses... or simply put, I have a plan to use our forces to concentrate and defend a single point," Vann explained, holding up a paper containing a photograph taken by the scouts. The picture showed small defensive structures and fortifications built from scrap metal, fitted with various types of cannons. The only way to penetrate this type of defense is to use high-powered weapons or employ human wave tactics and blitz Krieg, using armored vehicles to break through the defenses.

"I think the plan looks good…" one of the space marines said, still unsure. Vann didn't pay much attention, as the soldier had almost no experience. He was only interested in the space marine's opinion and needed their support.

"What about my plan, sir?" Vann asked, looking at the space marine.

"Hmm… I think it's alright… So let's go with that."

 

 

__________________________________________

 Pov: Eric was surprised when he found out why he hadn't seen his other two friends.

 

 

Chapter 30: 30

Day 299, Year 986, 41st Millennium

Upper Hive

Front Line, near the main transport elevator of the hive city

Finally, the assault began.

The PDF forces, led by numerous armored vehicles and tanks, advanced along the narrow, precarious streets. Along the way, they were ambushed in every conceivable way: landmines, anti-tank rockets, and even geenstealers, which strapped explosives to themselves and launched them at the PDF forces, causing immense damage.

But we all knew what would happen. With their overwhelming numbers, their unwavering faith in the Emperor of Mankind, and the firepower of their armored vehicles and tanks, they were able to advance deeper and deeper rapidly, even at the cost of heavy casualties. And then they reached the main defenses of the geenstealer cult.

____________________________________________

A deafening roar, like thunder, erupted from the Battle Cannon of a Leman Russ tank less than three meters away, deafening the ears. The blast of air from the gunfire hit Eric, almost making him trip.

"Damn it... am I going to be permanently deaf?" Eric muttered under his breath, his voice barely a whisper compared to the hellish outside world. One hand gripped the Lasgun so tightly that his knuckles turned white, the other brushed the cement dust off his helmet.

_This assault is far worse and more brutal than any before. And the mutants are attaching explosives to themselves and charging at tanks!_ he thought to himself, adjusting the collar of his Flak Armor, which was starting to sting the skin on his shoulder. Eric, believing the point they were about to capture must be a crucial strategic location, as many suspected, jogged along, trying to maintain a safe distance behind the heavy steel rear of the Leman Russ tank ahead. Not too far to be a target, and not too close to be crushed by the tracks, or suffer shrapnel wounds from the sounds of the tanks being attacked and exploding, like some of the other soldiers. He'd learned that the back of a tank offered a degree of safety. But no place is safe forever, or 100% safe. And worse, he didn't know Livia's well-being, because she was in a different unit and might even be fighting in a different area.

He was terribly worried about Livia.

 

"Ugh! How disgusting," Eric thought to himself as he accidentally stepped on the corpse of an unfortunate and pathetic PDF soldier who had been shot and crushed by a tank. His body was now flattened and mashed up.

Bang! Clang! Boom!

The sound of enemy artillery shells raining down on the thick armor of the tank in front of him created a whirlwind of sparks like deadly fireworks. A shell ricocheted past Eric's ear. He automatically recoiled, a shiver running down his spine, but he kept running.

"...Isn't there a better way?" he sarcastically remarked, his gaze sweeping around. His fellow PDF soldiers running beside him wore similar expressions—maniacal, empty, terrified, and exhausted. When the tank slightly shifted to open a firing angle, he thought this tactic was quite wasteful of soldiers. It was a crude fighting strategy, even though it seemed to be targeting a specific defensive point. But judging from the state of things, it seems the commander who gave these orders has probably thought it through.

Hopefully.

After walking a little further, the scene suddenly became clear through the smoke. The colossal cargo elevator, once the heart of transportation in Hive City, was now almost unrecognizable. It had become a small, ugly, and terrifying fortress. Rusty steel plates, wrecked cars, and rubble were crudely welded together to form thick walls. Heavy machine guns and gun emplacements, and rocket launchers, protruded from gaps in the rubbish like sharp thorns of a beast. The flashes of gunfire emanated from the junk fortress incessantly, like hundreds of demonic eyes staring at them. Eric unconsciously slowed his pace, his eyes widening beneath his helmet. Worry was evident on his soot-stained face.

_That's... a hellish pile of garbage..._ he thought to himself, swallowing hard. The courage he had gathered moments before began to waver.

"Do we really have to storm that thing? Just seeing it makes me feel like we're going to be crushed before we even get to the gate... Someone tell me this is just a nightmare." Despite his incessant grumbling, Eric tightened his grip on his gun, took a deep breath into his dust-filled lungs, and continued running after the tanks... towards the shadowy fortress ahead.

While many continued running and advancing, and tanks still drove on, some hesitated, overcome with fear and apprehension, including himself. It was terrifying. Suddenly, they were within range of the cannons, and every gun on this small, dilapidated fortress unleashed a barrage of fire on the advancing PDF forces.

Many tanks were destroyed instantly, including armored vehicles that exploded and burst into flames. Many PDF soldiers were killed on the spot, while others likely took cover behind the wreckage of tanks or those still operational to protect themselves from the fortress's gunfire. Eric was one of them, hiding behind a tank wreck, his hand gripping his gun tightly. It was terrifying suppressive fire; the continuous barrage of artillery combined with machine gun fire. He barely dared to move. Dust and dirt covered him. When the gunfire subsided for only a few seconds, he quickly looked up and aimed his gun at the dilapidated fortress.

 

He picked up his binoculars and peered cautiously, spotting a mutant manning one of its cannons. The cannon was shielded with thick steel plates and had a small viewing window through which he could discern the mutant. He carefully raised his own rifle, aiming at the mutant. From this distance, he wasn't sure if he'd hit anything, nor was he certain his own Lassgun could reach it. He was even uncertain about its range, as previous battles had always been at distances of no more than 100 or 50 meters. Eric held his breath before pulling the trigger.

Pew!!

A red beam of light shot towards the mutant's head, narrowly missing it by the small opening. Its head exploded, and its body slumped limply. The cannon was temporarily disabled until a new mutant took over.

It seemed the PDF forces were regaining their composure. Numerous tank cannons bombarded the fortress, inflicting some damage on the main gun emplacements, but it wasn't significant. Each time one cannon was destroyed, another would take its place. But it seemed the bad luck wasn't over yet.

The fortress gates swung open, revealing numerous tanks, either captured by the mutants or manufactured in factories on the other side, moving out and fiercely battling the PDF tanks.
Suddenly, a tank battle erupted in a confined space. The hideous fortress, made of mutant junk, ceased its barrage of fire and switched to providing friendly support.

This caused many PDF soldiers to hesitate, filled with fear and anxiety. Then, a figure in armor entered the battlefield. Eric recognized the details of the armor and the name of this space marine: Chaplain Samael. He walked in with a large hammer in his hand and a staff, the Corzius Arcanum, shaped like a two-headed eagle with its wings half-folded. His demeanor was calm and unfazed by the tanks and artillery fire directed at the PDF forces. Three other space marines followed closely behind. As he advanced towards the front, many PDF soldiers looked at Chaplain Samael with eyes filled with courage and hope. If Eric's understanding was correct... They revere space marines as angels sent from the Emperor, angels of death, which seems plausible.

 

"Look up! Imperial soldiers! What are you looking at!?" Chaplain Samael stopped in front of the line of soldiers, ignoring the artillery and machine gun fire that had just come, and spoke in a heavy, fierce, and chillingly powerful voice. His voice was amplified by his Vox-caster, echoing through the surrounding ruins. Even in the midst of the fighting, many soldiers paused, listening to what the chaplain was about to say, but they didn't lower their guard and continued to fire.

He paused for a moment, letting the explosions answer, before continuing in a softer but still menacing tone.

"Do you see the thickness of those iron walls? Do you see the fire spewing from the muzzles of those beasts?" He spoke, raising his staff, Crozius Arcanum, high above his head and pointing it at the rubble fortress.

"Remember! They have fear! That's all they have! They hide behind that disgusting pile of scrap metal, knowing their very existence is fragile and repulsive! They are disease! Just tainted half-breeds of Xenos!" "They are merely parasites burrowing into the stomach of this city! ...Since some have come this far, should you hesitate? Everyone here is brave, why not show more courage? Or will you be a coward and die a pathetic death? I will be the one to kill them myself!" Chaplain Samael spoke with harsh words and a voice filled with hatred. Eric flinched slightly at the mention of cowards being killed. He slowly pushed himself up from the ground, crouched, and aimed at the mutants he had targeted earlier. Suddenly, he saw one of the mutants aim a gun at Chaplain Samael, but he dodged and drew his large pistol, firing back and killing the mutant instantly. Eric was stunned, as he had barely seen Chaplain draw his pistol with his eyes. The distance between him and his target was approximately 800 meters.

_If Samael intended to kill him, he wouldn't survive,_ Eric thought to himself anxiously after witnessing Chaplain Samael's pistol shooting skills.

"What are we waiting for?... Look at those heretics, those disgusting weaklings in front of me... They deserve to be eliminated, and they must be eliminated now....

Kill the xenos!!!

Burn the heretic!!!

Purge the unclean!!!!

For the emperor!!!!!!" Chaplain Samael roared loudly before charging towards the advancing Geenstealers and other Space Marines. The human soldiers, hearing the speech, were greatly energized; their faith was rekindled and filled to the fullest.

"For the emperor!!!" All the PDf soldiers shouted in unison before continuing the fight with renewed determination. The tanks accelerated and charged at full speed, disregarding the terrain. The ordinary human soldiers ran after the tanks without hesitation, shouting their prayers as they went.

 

Tanks from both sides exchanged fierce gunfire. Shouts of overwhelming courage erupted from both sides. As far as Eric could hear, one side consisted of mutants with their twisted beliefs about some kind of four-armed emperor, while the other side comprised PDF soldiers shouting praises to the emperor while firing artillery at the mutant tanks. The ground infantry was equally fierce, fighting with guns and melee weapons. Eric, aiming his rifle, even saw some PDF infantrymen using swords, or even Warhammer weapons. Slashing, hand-to-hand combat, and even bludgeoning enemies to death with rifle butts were rampant across the battlefield. In a short time, massive losses had occurred on both sides. Tank wreckage and corpses littered the battlefield.

It seemed like an eternity.

But this was only the first 10 minutes of fighting in this area.

And Eric, still reeling from the unfolding events, had barely done anything in those 10 minutes. There were some PDFs like himself, hesitant and fearful of the war unfolding before them. They stood in the back lines, taking cover, and some cowardly offered covering fire, as if they were being treated with timid despair. Eric understood that feeling perfectly, because he was in the same situation now.

_Who would be crazy enough to dare go out and fight like this?_ he thought to himself, craning his neck to watch the chaotic, brutal, violent, and rather bloody battle.

"Die, you ugly bastard!" he cursed before seizing a good opportunity to aim his gun at one of the mutants and pull the trigger. It fell instantly. Looking ahead again, he saw that the PDF soldiers charging into close combat with the mutants were getting closer, and it seemed that the armored vehicle and tank attacks had already damaged some of the turrets and cannons.

Eric quickly assessed the risks before leaving the camp and running after the other soldiers. He couldn't stay behind; otherwise, he might be suspected and possibly killed. As he ran, he cautiously looked left and right, periodically taking cover behind the wreckage of tanks. Along the way, he noticed and could feel the despair.

Right now, the area is littered with hundreds of wrecked tanks. Some have burning corpses on board, others have missing turrets, and the ground is covered in the remains of both humans and mutants, with small pools of blood in some areas. Some tanks have been rammed into wreckage, deflected off it without a second thought, and then driven forward only to be shot and explode.

Eric tried to ignore the scene, stopping abruptly and aiming at a mutant attempting to attack him from the side, using the wreckage for cover. He fired two shots, enough to easily kill it. Without hesitation, he sprinted to catch up with the others. Ahead of him...

"Hahaha...Die, you filthy creatures!!!" Lieutenant Rocklin was wielding a pickaxe, which he may have retrieved from somewhere, relentlessly slaughtering the mutants. He was leading his troop, running closer and closer to the fortified position. And several platoons of soldiers, including many tanks, were also present.

Chaplain Samael and the space marines led the way. Chaplain Samael and the other space marines fought the mutants, easily and quickly killing them. They fell like leaves, and many fled as they got closer. Erik tried to ignore anything that might distract him; he had to be extremely careful, or he would surely die.

Finally, Erik caught up with his group, which now consisted of only about five people. Finding the others made him feel a little relieved. It seemed that hundreds, even thousands, of mutants were beginning to emerge from the Guru within the fortress walls, each becoming increasingly hideous.

 

"Don't move!! Don't budge! Form a defensive line, fire short-range shots, and eliminate them all!!!!" Lieutenant Rocklin shouted, wielding his pickaxe to strike one of the mutants on the head, sending its body convulsing one last time before it died. He then pulled the pickaxe from its head. The PDF soldiers in that group then unleashed a barrage of attacks on the approaching mutants. Eric was immediately flustered by the sheer number of them, but he could only show his panic and continue fighting despite his fear.

However, the space marines and some PDF soldiers, filled with unwavering spirit and faith, fought fiercely and with hatred. They managed to break through the horde of mutants, getting closer and closer to the fortress.

It seemed that the PDF tank force had now defeated and destroyed all of the mutant tanks. They had shifted from fighting the tanks to providing full fire support, although only about 50 tanks remained.

The previously dire situation began to improve. The mutants were being pushed further and closer into the scrap-like fortress. Everywhere they passed, corpses lay piled on the ground. Eric ignored them and continued firing at the mutants. Suddenly, something made many of the PDF soldiers stop in their tracks, including Eric. He had never seen such a huge tank before. The design he had envisioned, perhaps the German P-1000 from World War II, wasn't quite as massive, but it was still enormous. It was mounted with twins heavy bolters on each side, and two large turrets above the tracks, each fitted with a large last cannon. At the front, there was a massive main gun and two heavy bolters. Who the hell designed this tank?!

"How the hell did the Baneblade get here?! We're screwed!!!!" Lieutenant Rocklin cursed. Soon enough, disaster struck the PDF side.

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Lower Hive, an area not controlled by the Empire or the Geenstealer cult.

Malakai, the fanatical cult leader, his eyes wide and gleaming a dull yellow under the dim light of torches made of human fat. He stood before a summoning circle painted in blood, a gruesome sacrifice, and forbidden symbols of unspeakable power. Faint but hungry chants echoed from the hundreds of thousands of members gathered around him.

“O Eyes of Truth! Prince of Darkness! Purifier of the world from lies! God of Blood, and God of life and decay! Look upon your faithful servant!” Malakai roared, raising his bone ceremonial knife high before plunging it into the heart of his last victim, crucified on the altar. His emotions surged like never before. The plan he had spent decades structuring and gathering his followers for was finally bearing fruit. He had rebelled in his weakest moment. He envisioned a world liberated from the oppression of the Empire. And most importantly, liberation from the oppression of the Korvax family. He would make this planet his kingdom, under the divine rule of the God of Chaos. ‘Power! Power greater than any planetary governor ever! Praise from the Great Angel…and he himself might even become a demon prince.’

The summoning ring began to emit a blinding dark purple light. The air trembled and distorted, like a reflection in turbulent water. The walls of the hall cracked with the tremors. Screams of excitement erupted from the Cultists as the veil of reality tore, and what appeared to be a massive, hallucinatory portal appeared. The scent of ozone, blood, and more, and a scorching mist of chaotic energy erupted. A colossal figure emerged from the portal… nearly 100 Chaos Space Marines in blood-red armor, adorned with sacred inscriptions and oaths in ancient languages. They were the Word Bearers, those who shattered the Empire’s faith to spread the truth of chaos! Malachite knelt down in overwhelming joy. These were his angels! They had arrived to guide him to final victory!

“Honorable Archangel!” Malakai shouted with utmost respect.

“The ceremony is complete! We are ready to serve your army!” The remaining Cultists quickly knelt, bowing their heads, awaiting the command and the blessing of chaos… A word bearer, with horns protruding from his shoulders and seemingly the leader, stood still for a moment. He looked up at the vast, trembling assembly of Cultists with profound respect, and then a voice, distorted and hoarse from the communication jamming through his helmet, roared, instantly silencing the hall.

“HYDRA DOMINATUS!!! For alpharius!!!” *Click!!!*

With that roar, he raised the Bolter rifle in his hand without hesitation, quickly cocking it. Malachi and the other Cultists exchanged bewildered glances… “Hydra Dominatus”? That was no praise they had ever heard! And why was their angel aiming a weapon at them? Before the fanatical Cultists could even comprehend the situation, a Bolter gun rang out...

BANG!!!

Malakai's torso, severed from the chest up, fell to the ground, shocking the chaos cultists present. While their surprise hadn't subsided, the armor of these chaos space marines began to change color from blood-red to a sea-blue.

Every chaos space marine raised their weapons, and the massacre began.

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Pov chaos cultists (image by writer)

Chapter 31: 31

Summary:

“Listen to me... you came here... you found it was a misunderstanding on the part of the planet governor... what the Rogue Trader brought was expensive junk... you and your team have successfully eliminated the Patriarch, even at the cost of your brothers' lives... you are the sole surviving hero... return and report to Corvin Hale in this manner...”

Day 299, 986, 41st Millennium

Upper Hive

Front Line, Near the Main Elevator of the City of Hive

Shortly after the appearance of the heavy tank Benblade, piloted by Gensteeler, many PDF soldiers panicked. But before they could react, the Benblade inflicted devastating damage on the PDF forces. Its heavy machine guns easily wiped out infantry, and its massive front gun destroyed one Lemanrus tank and several infantrymen with a single shot. The main turret's gun was equally terrifying; a single shot destroyed the Lemanrus, inflicting severe damage. The metal armor warped from the gunshot, a large hole was found in the hull, and the turret was gone. But the PDF forces did not stand idly by; they engaged immediately, even though many of their weapons were ineffective against the tank's thick armor, and they lacked powerful Lemanrus tanks like the Lemanrus Executioner with its massive plasma cannon or the Lemanrus Vanquisher with its high-penetration combat gun.

Seeing that the PDF were at a disadvantage, the Gensteeler cult exacerbated the situation by sending in more infantry and tanks.

Father Samael gritted his teeth in frustration. He glanced left and right, then charged at the Benblade tank, ignoring the incoming bullets and Gensteelers.

The battle, which should have ended quickly and victoriously, dragged on, the situation worsening, and morale plummeting, though mostly high. The PDF forces were still holding on, but they couldn't last much longer if the situation continued.

_____________________________________________

Eric ran swiftly through the wreckage of tanks from both sides, finally pausing to catch his breath behind a detached tank turret. He took the opportunity to survey the chaotic battlefield once more. His eyes slowly… swept across the bloodshed around him.

'Breathe in… breathe out… Don't panic… Don't panic,' he murmured repeatedly to himself, trying to control himself and prevent himself from panicking too much. But now, he was curled up, trembling with fear, behind the tank construction site, his gun gripped tightly.

 

Everything he saw confirmed the madness of this dark future world. The wreckage of PDF tanks and mutants littered the battlefield. Some tanks were torn apart by the massive cannons of those giant tanks. The lifeless bodies of PDF infantry lay scattered, some with faces contorted with fear, but most were filled with hatred and fanaticism, their bodies too mutilated to be recognized as human.

In the distance, he saw Chaplain Samael shouting praises to the Emperor before charging into a tank, ignoring the artillery fire, machine gun fire, and the charging mutants. The other space marines, witnessing this, were powerless to do anything but stand guard, providing cover for their comrade.

In Eric's mind, this was a brutal and bloody battle. The four days of fighting to reach this point, this Elevator Fortress, had cost countless ordinary lives. Throughout the battle, he knew that advancing block by block in the city could cost the lives of dozens of soldiers, depending on how strong the defenses were. And the fight for this massive elevator would likely result in massive casualties; in Eric's opinion, if he could download an estimate of the death toll, it would be in the thousands, at least...

_How did I get to this point?_ Eric thought wearily. He remembered the feeling of seeing the disgusting, pus-filled green zombies, the fear and surprise of the Tech-Priest who looked like something out of a cyberpunk movie, the disgust at the Genestealer (alien and mutant), and the dread of the Chaos Cultists he'd encountered before. Everything was an extreme manifestation of the darkest imagination.

(And he wouldn't count that blue-armored, tentacled space marine; that bastard was a nightmare for him.)

Initially, he managed to reach the upper floors, which were far better than the lower ones. ...If he survived, he would have a more comfortable life and a better future... if nothing went wrong... And now... this giant tank had appeared, blocking the path to victory that seemed so close... If they destroyed this tank... If they seized this elevator... the advance wouldn't be halted, victory would come sooner, and the lives of the survivors might be safe... including his, who might have a better chance of survival.

Eric's gaze swept over the giant tank once again. Its main gun continued to fire at the remaining PDF tanks, causing another tank to explode into a massive fireball.

Suddenly, Eric saw Chaplain Samael, having run through the artillery fire and successfully closing in on the tank. Eric watched the scene intently, his eyes wide with hope. Could this space marine be able to destroy this giant tank?

Chaplain Samael climbed onto the tank, ignoring the barrage of laser beams and assault rifle bullets wielded by the mutants. But that didn't slow him down at all. Chaplain Samael climbed onto the tank's turret, grabbed the gunner's head, and crushed it in one blow like a watermelon smashed by a hammer. He then stood up and pulled something from his belt. It was a grenade, and judging by its color, it was a Krak grenade, an armor-piercing bomb powerful enough to destroy even enemy armored vehicles... though it only killed the crew inside and didn't inflict further serious damage.

Eric and several others witnessing this were encouraged and about to rejoice that the tank was about to be destroyed.

But just as Eric was about to witness the spectacular scene, Chaplain Samael suddenly twitched and stopped, surprising everyone. His hand had gone limp, and the grenade had been released. The bomb missed its turret and instead ricocheted off, severely damaging one of the last cannon turrets and rendering it unusable.

"Horus!!!!" Chaplain Samael roared, his voice filled with hatred, before charging behind the lines and charging into the horde of mutants. He began slaughtering them with his bare hands, displaying extreme brutality—so much so that one might not have seen Chaplain Samael tear a large alien in two with his bare hands.

 

"What the hell is going on?!" Eric thought to himself, extremely confused and anxious. What just happened? Why did Chaplain Samael suddenly go berserk and savage like this? Right when they were about to win! It's unfair and illogical!!!!

"Die traitor!!!!" Chaplain Samael roared, using both hands to crush the large alien's head with his hammer, then slamming his backhand into another mutant, sending them flying several meters away. He was now covered in bullet wounds and his armor was severely damaged. As everything became chaotic, the mutants began to lose their composure due to the rampaging Chaplain on their front lines.

Seeing this, the PDF forces immediately retaliated. They tried to take advantage of this opportunity, but were still hindered by the massive tank.

_I should go back and rejoin the others,_Eric thought to himself. But when he turned around and saw several PDF soldiers running back to rejoin the line of fire, only to be shot dead by their own side, he immediately abandoned the idea.

_Damn it._Now he couldn't find a safer place. On one side was a horde of mutants ready to kill him, and on the other side were groups of extremists ready to kill him as well.

Eric looked behind him again and saw that those PDF soldiers were filled with anger, hatred, and rage. The mutants were no different... He looked at the many soldiers again, thinking about the lives lost on their way to this elevator. Everyone lost their lives fighting against the evil mutants who wanted to kill and slaughter humans, or worse. Even though many of them were just civilians, and some were thugs... they fought with courage, or the closest thing to courage they could muster... And then he turned to look at himself.

Eric admitted that perhaps he was being selfish and paranoid (Writer's note: The selfishness part is probably just his own... but the paranoia is real). But what he did wasn't evil, and he didn't intend to hurt anyone directly. He was just scared and confused by this brutal place. He simply wanted to survive. Eric glanced at the tank again, then back at the PDF's defenses, which were slowly crumbling like earthen embankments eroded by water.

_Damn it!! I can't retreat!! There are mutants in front, and fanatics behind—_ Eric thought to himself, clutching his head in stress.

Eric slowly lowered his hands and took a deep breath as he made a decision... He wanted to cry, laugh, and pity himself for making such a decision...

It was probably the stupidest decision he'd ever made.

Then his gaze fell upon the underside of the tank, a component that didn't seem to be as heavily armored as the rest of the giant vehicle. He began processing the information rapidly. He tried to recall the basic knowledge of vehicles and mechanics he had before coming to this world.

"...Its armor must be so thick that even the tank's main gun can't do much damage to it. The weapons I have now are no match for it... Unless... and oh..." Eric muttered to himself, ignoring the fierce and bloody battle outside. Suddenly, he noticed a small piece of damage to the turret of the Lass Cannon, destroyed by Chaplain Samael's explosion. The hole was large enough for him to see everything inside from a distance... and large enough for him to throw a tank-destroying grenade! Or maybe use an anti-tank rocket or other anti-tank weapon to finish it off from this range.

He looked at the area filled with corpses and wrecked tanks around him. Most were destroyed Leman Russ tanks. Some had bent cannons, others had missing tracks. But then he saw something that sparked an idea in his mind.

Eric picked up his Lass Pistol and stared at it for a moment. He knew he was a good pistol shooter, but in this situation, it wouldn't be very useful. He pulled out the pendant with the Mechanicus symbol from his pocket, then silently prayed to the Emperor for something he thought didn't exist, seeking courage and morale.

Finally, he saw a large bomb on the soldier's body. It was as big as his thigh and undoubtedly incredibly powerful.

Without hesitation, Eric grabbed the heavy bomb, clutching it tightly, and started running! He held a pistol in his right arm and the bomb in his left. It wasn't a graceful run, nor a heroic sprint, but a crouching, weaving traversing the rubble as best as his Flak armor and exhausted body could manage. He moved along the gap between the Space Marine fire and the wreckage of the destroyed PDF tank.

 

"Oh my god! What possessed me to do this!?" he yelled to himself, dodging flying metal plates from the explosion.

"I should have crawled away! I should love myself more! Damn it!" Eric shouted, his body scrambling as he ran and dodged the wreckage. Every step was a rapid assessment of risk. He zigzagged, dodging behind wrecked tanks when enemy fired... heading towards the gap created by the Space Marines clashing with the Genestealer Hybrids.

Whoosh! Bang!

Laser and machine gun fire from the Cultists surrounding the Baneblade tank began raining down on him. He was the only moving target separated from the group. Eric's eyes widened in genuine shock. He had never been the center of attention like this before. And a target for small arms fire and bullets at that! And he hated it!

"Damn it...!" he groaned, his face pale beneath his helmet.

But then... the gunfire changed! Several laser rifles from the PDF rear began firing at the group of mutants aiming at Eric. Some PDF soldiers, noticing this reckless act, either out of admiration or pity, decided to provide him with covering fire.

The sound of the cannons and the sight before him filled him with fear. This surge of adrenaline made Eric feel lightheaded. The mix of courage and panic propelled him faster. He lunged towards the giant tank, which was slowly rotating its turret to find a new target.

But near the Baneblade's tracks, the heat from the engine and the crushing sound of the tracks were deafening, making it impossible for him to communicate with himself. A number of mutants were guarding it, and he couldn't destroy the tank as long as they remained.

Eric drew his laser pistol, aimed, and fired with a speed that even a well-trained human couldn't follow with the eye. He instantly killed five mutants. Now he was in a good position. He didn't care that he was in the shadow of a massive tank with a huge cannon that had just inflicted devastating damage on the PDF forces. With trembling hands, he quickly released the safety pin of the grenade he was holding.

"Hurry! Hurry!...Take this!!! For the Emperor!!" Eric shouted, praising the Emperor, and pulled the time-delay fuse! Before swinging himself and throwing the grenade with all his might, aiming for the weakest or least unarmored target.

Luckily, the grenade Eric just threw was a Melta grenade, and even luckier, it landed perfectly in the gap left by the damage caused by Chaplain Samael's Krak grenade.

Without hesitation, Eric lunged to the side at maximum speed, but he only managed to move less than 10 meters.

BOOM!!!

The explosion was louder than any cannon fire he had ever heard. The Melta grenade had exploded right in the tank's ammunition storage area. The Baneblade tank was destroyed from within its turret, sending it flying tens of meters into the air. The shockwave slammed into his small frame. Eric's condition was immediate. His Flak armor couldn't withstand the close-range blast. Eric felt like he'd been hit by a truck; his body was uncontrollably thrown into the air. A sharp pain shot through every fiber of his being. The chaotic battle unfolding before him distorted into a fiery red before everything went dark and silent. The Baneblade tank was destroyed, and the PDF forces had advanced rapidly, regaining the advantage. As Eric's body crashed to the ground, he lay motionless.

 

_____________________________________________

Lower Hive

Amidst the corpses of chaos cultists lying scattered and the lingering smell of Bolter gunpowder, Argus of Alpha Legion, clad in his signature blood-stained sea-blue armor, stood staring at the processing screen on his detector. The green light from the screen reflected on his helmet. Beside him, Warpsmith Vatheg Mechadendrites was hacking into the wreckage of the machinery in the ceremonial chamber.

"The signal is still stable... Vatheg, are you really sure that idiotic planet governor was 'lucky' enough to acquire this level of Xenos technology in a single transaction through a Rogue Trader? This kind of thing shouldn't have fallen into the hands of corrupt nobles on a fringe planet like this," Argus asked uncertainly, tapping his fingers on the detector periodically.

"Lucky? Hmph... There's no such thing as coincidence in this universe, Argus. The data I've pulled from the soul-machine network confirms it's some kind of Necron technology that's still highly stable and functional. I don't care how it got here." "I only care that it becomes part of my killing machine," Vatheg said in a hoarse, metal-crushing voice from behind his mask, as he focused intently on what he was doing.

"But is it worth the risk? The deeper we go, the riskier it becomes. The lower levels could be teeming with Genestealers... and you know how dangerous they are." Argus peered down into the dark crater of the Under-hive.

"Afraid of the Xenos, Argus?" Vatheg asked with a hint of sarcasm.

"I'm not afraid of them, but I'm thinking about another 'variable'... A strike group from Deathwatch was sent down before us. Information says there are only four of them. Their goal is clear: to recover that technology and eliminate the Genestealer Patriarch to stop the invasion." Argus replied with a slight chuckle. In truth, he knew how terrifying they were, especially the Genestealers.

"Hmph... Four of the Emperor's pups, and those Xenos in their own territory." "Do you think they'll survive?" Vatheg replied, which was actually quite reasonable. Who would send only four people on such a dangerous and life-threatening mission? The mission was unlikely to succeed, or at least had a very low chance of success.

"That's the point... The Deathwatch aren't likely to survive. No matter how skilled they are, facing the Patriarch in such a confined space is practically suicide. But what worries me is, if they make a mistake and cause an explosion or destroy that technology before they die, we'll waste our time." Argus didn't know how to argue, so he put away his detection device and checked his Bolter before offering another suggestion.

"Then we need to get down there faster than they die... Let the Deathwatch be the decoy, drawing the attention of the insects, while we go in to reap the benefits from the wreckage of both sides. For example, find any surviving space marines, and have the Chaos Sorcerer extract information from their memories. Since they were assigned this mission by the Inquisitor, they should have more detailed information than we do. After that, we'll implant new memories into them and have them report to their master that there's no such Xenos technology as claimed... If we do this, we won't be..." "The inquisitor is hunting while we've already obtained what we want... I'm truly a genius," Vathek said with a slightly conceited tone. His machandrite began to move rapidly, preparing for battle.

"A wise choice... Then let's go, before all of the Imperial servants become food for Xenos," Argus said jokingly before the two burst into soft laughter.

______________________________________________

 

Under the Hive

Hakron's labored breathing echoed through his cracked armor. Thick red blood seeped from the gaping wound on his now empty left arm. The systems in his armor struggled to inject painkillers and blood thinners, causing him to feel a scorching heat coursing through his body. He tightened his grip on the Lightning Claw in his right hand. Flashes of turquoise electricity flickered in the blood-red eyes of Genestealer Patriarch, the colossal monster towering over the corpses of his Deathwatch comrades.

‘If I had insisted on getting eight more men, or even a support team, we wouldn't end up in this filthy pit,’ Hakron cursed inwardly, cautiously backing away. His mission was a complete failure. His teammates were all dead, and he was about to die too. As Patriarch crouched down, preparing to deliver the final blow,

suddenly, a Bolter gun roared from the surrounding darkness. Bullets slammed into the Genestealer minions surrounding him, mangling their flesh. The muzzle flashes forced Hakron to squint.

"Space Marines? Reinforcements?" A glimmer of hope flickered in his mind, though he was skeptical, as there were no other Space Marine groups in this area besides their own. That hope vanished instantly when he saw dozens of warriors in bluish-green and sea-blue armor emerge from the shadows. They wore no chapter insignia he recognized, only the intricately carved Hydra patterns.

Alpha Legion...

"Retreat! You heretics!" Hakron tried to raise his lightning claw in defiance, even though his body was severely wounded and near death. He wouldn't let them get their way; the traitors deserved to die. But suddenly, the air around him began to distort, and the stench of ozone and sulfur was nauseating.

"You've fought enough..." "Servant of the Emperor," a whispered voice, tinged with mockery and teasing, seemed to emanate from within his own skull.

Wrapsmith Vatheg and another warrior stepped forward, with a mysterious cloaked figure advancing. The Chaos Sorcerer, his fingers moving in the air, unleashed a wave of dark purple energy that bound Hakron, rendering him immobile. Even his Power Armor rumbled in protest under the pressure of his psychic power.

"Argus... deal with that Xenos. I will 'deal with' the memories of this Emperor's servant myself," Sigmund, still using his psychic powers to restrain Hakron, said in a low voice. Hakron's eyes widened as he watched Argus approach the injured Patriarch with a calm but unhurried pace. As the Chaos Sorcerer drew closer, his gloved hand touched Hakron's helmet. A massive surge of psychic energy assaulted his mind like a thousand needles.

He struggled to resist what was being done to him, praying to the Emperor. He tried to resist their invasion of his mind, but he couldn't... he was too injured to do so, and he had been utterly defeated.

The reality began to distort... the image of Alpha Legion was erased, replaced by emptiness. The image of Necron technology was reduced to worthless scrap metal.

“Listen to me... you came here... you found it was a misunderstanding on the part of the planet governor... what the Rogue Trader brought was expensive junk... you and your team have successfully eliminated the Patriarch, even at the cost of your brothers' lives... you are the sole surviving hero... return and report to Corvin Hale in this manner...” The mage's voice echoed in Hakron's shattering consciousness. Hakron's awareness faded, and the last sound echoed in his ears before everything went black...

 

_____________________________________________

Hive Spire

A bloodcurdling scream, barely human, echoed through the soundproofed interrogation room. The stench of burning flesh mingled with a faint smell of sulfur. Inquisitor Korvin Hale stood motionless, one hand gripping the plasma gun at his waist, the other adjusting a knob on the control panel of the neuro-excruciator.

Before him stood the Star Governor, once clad in luxurious silk garments, now tattered and his body covered in burns and bloodstains from intense interrogation. He thrashed about in his restrained chair, tears and snot streaming down his contorted face, consumed by extreme fear.

"Please... Inquisitor! I don't know! I swear!" the Governor screamed. "I just wanted to collect oddities and rare items... That Rogue Trader said it was just... just ancient works of art!" The Star Governor's excuses were futile.

"A work of art?..." Inquisitor Korvin Hale repeated the words in a voice colder and more terrifying than a shout. "You brought an object, an artifact and technology of Xenos, into the territory of the Imperiam. A metal coffin with green electrical circuit patterns... Do you think I'm stupid? Do you think I don't know what might be inside? It could be nothing but useless junk, or technology capable of erasing this planet in an instant!"

"I don't know! I thought it was just an empty coffin! I... Aaaargh!" Hale twisted the knob again, sending a direct electrical shock to the governor's nerves. Another scream of pain rang out.

"And now... because of your greed, the Genestealer Cult stole it and sent it into the Underhive. If 'that thing' awakens, or if those human scum know how to activate it..." "Death would be the greatest mercy I can offer you...who knows what lies ahead?" He tried to explain to the planet's governor, hoping he wouldn't do this again...even though he wouldn't get a second chance.

Suddenly, an alarm sounded from the Servo-skull hovering beside Inquisitor Korvin Hale's shoulder. Its mechanical eyes blinked rapidly.

"Contact from Deathwatch assault unit. Code: Hakron."

Inquisitor Korvin Hale froze, stopping abruptly. He turned his back on the governor, who was breathing heavily. Worry was evident in his eyes. This mission was far too risky. Sending only four men into the Geenstealer Patriarch's lair to kill him and recover such a high-level artifact was reckless. But he had no choice; the other space marines were divided up for other combat and missions.

"Connect the line," Inquisitor Korvin Hale ordered sternly.
A blurry hologram appeared in mid-air, revealing Hakron, his armor heavily damaged and his left arm missing. Blood seeped through the cracks in his helmet. The Space Marine's breathing was heavy and hoarse.

"Inquisitor...mission...completed...Alpha-level Xenos target...Genesealer Patriarch...eliminated." Hakron's voice trailed off.
Inquisitor Korvin Hale held his breath for a moment, his heart pounding.

"And the artifact? The Necron Coffin?" he asked, his voice slightly softer, at least his subordinate Space Marines wouldn't blame him, and there might be good news.

Hakron was silent for a moment, as if processing newly overwritten memories. "We found it...in the beast's lair...my team...all my brethren...sacrificed themselves to clear the way for me to reach it..."

"Hakron! Report the status of that object immediately!" Inquisitor Korvin Hale demanded, his fists clenched.

"It...is nothing, sir...it's a fake...or its power core has been removed centuries ago...it's just an empty metal coffin..." "No energy reaction... No dangerous technology... Just junk that Rogue Trader tricked into buying for that fool..." Hakron replied with a strangely confident tone, lost in that false memory.

Inquisitor Korvin Hale sighed heavily. The heavy feeling in his chest was almost halved, replaced quickly by relief. Although instinctively skeptical—an empty coffin? Such a huge investment for junk?—the report from Deathwatch, the most honest and only survivor, was the best evidence right now.

"Understood, Hakron... You did well... I salute your fallen brethren. Their sacrifice protected this planet." Inquisitor Korvin Hale spoke in a slightly softer tone.

"Hold your position. I will order the tech marines to bring the Overlord to you now."
Inquisitor Korvin said in a low voice before the communication was cut off. He stood still for a moment. A fleeting sense of grief over the loss of four Space Marines who had served him for so long flashed through his mind. (Writer's note: And those were all Space Marines from chapters with rather questionable reputations.) But as an Inquisitor, the outcome was paramount... The threat was eliminated, and the artifacts were just a misunderstanding. He slowly turned back to the planetary governor, who remained trembling in his chair. A cruel smile reappeared on Inquisitor Korvin Hale's face.

"It seems you're telling one truth, Governor... it was indeed just a worthless collectible... But..." Inquisitor Korvin Hale slowly approached the planetary governor, asking a thought-provoking question... but certainly not in this situation.

"Your audacity in engaging in the trade of Xenos technology, bringing catastrophic risk to the planet Imperium... the crime has been committed, and there is only one punishment."Inquisitor Korvin Hale slowly approached the planet governor, intending to ask a thought-provoking question… but certainly not in this situation.

"Your audacity in trading Xenos technology and bringing catastrophic risk to the planet Imperiam… the crime is complete, and there is only one punishment." Inquisitor Korvin Hale said, slowly and lightly unlocking the plasma gun from the holster on his belt.

"No! No! You said it's safe! Spare my life! I'll give you everything!" the planet governor cried, panicking, his despair and fear evident.

"…The punishment is death…" Inquisitor Korvin Hale said in a cold, emotionless voice, raising the gun and aiming it at the governor's forehead.

Whoosh!!! Bang!!!

Chapter 32

Day 299, Year 986, 41st Millennium

Upper Hive

Front Line, near the main transport elevator of the hive city

"Wow..." Vann, in his increasingly dirty PDF uniform, stood stunned, holding his radio. A massive tank exploded into a fireball, its turret soaring tens of meters into the air before crashing back down on his comrades. The Geenstealer cult's front line was crumbling and disunited, allowing the PDF forces to advance and fight effectively, seemingly on the verge of victory.

Previously, when the Super Heavy Battle Tank Baneblade appeared on the battlefield, he was immediately panicked. However, he also connected the dots, realizing the Malvernis family was implicated with the Geenstealers, and this tank might have been smuggled in by them. But that didn't matter now; he needed to figure out a way to destroy it. The battle was going in their favor, and victory was imminent. Losing now would be utterly in vain. And he tried every possible way and every kind of help to destroy it.

Now, the Baneblade, the giant tank that had been a nightmare for the PDF forces in this battle, was destroyed, reduced to charred wreckage, its turret billowing with smoke and flames. His sharp eyes peered through the smoke at the massive, burning wreckage, and then at a figure flung several meters away by the explosion.

He saw everything… from the moment the white-haired girl decided to recklessly run through the thick, iron-walled hail of bullets, a near-suicide attempt, to close in on the giant tank and throw a grenade at a vital point, destroying it almost instantly. He didn't know if she was brave or insane.

After the shock subsided, Vann let out a soft laugh, a laugh that other PDFs might find unsettling because it sounded so terrifying.

"That crazy girl…" he muttered to himself, quite amazed by her contradictions. Erika, a shy, insecure girl. He thought so many things about her were contradictory. Despite being shy and insecure, she dared to do something like this. This is exactly what he expected from an "ordinary person" whohadbeen pushed to the limit.

 

Vann realized that Erica wasn't just beautiful, intelligent, and a skilled marksman; she also possessed a "fierce survival instinct" that transformed into courage in desperate situations.

"Damn... almost perfect," Vann thought to himself. His logic and reasoning raced. Vann felt both relieved and inexplicably good, because the battle situation was improving. The tank had been destroyed, and they were certain victory. And the shy girl he'd chosen to pretend to be a trusted friend was far more than meets the eye.

At first, he didn't think much of her. She was just a girl from the Lower Hive, a place known for its uneducated, barbaric, and cruel inhabitants—a place he understood well from his years of experience. She wasn't particularly remarkable for her looks—beautiful enough to disguise herself as nobility—and her skill with firearms, especially handguns. Until he noticed something special and started talking to her... and then he realized she was more than meets the eye.

In fact, he didn't expect her to be so skilled in mathematics and management; it exceeded his expectations. Even though she was illiterate and couldn't read or write. But that wasn't a problem, because he could teach her.

If he could save her in this life-or-death situation and forge a deep bond of loyalty rooted in gratitude and indebtedness, he would gain more than just a skilled soldier. He would gain a friend, a trustworthy assassin, a bodyguard willing to sacrifice his life for him, and a rather capable and versatile assistant—or perhaps a spy who used her beauty to lure her targets. And judging by her shy and insecure personality, she would easily charm any man. It seemed fortunate that most of his political enemies were womanizers who easily offered themselves to women, making her even more valuable.

Vann tightened his grip on the communication device. He didn't show any panic or excessive joy, but his eyes reflected a cold, determined determination. He wouldn't let such a powerful "pawn" die tragically before his eyes.

"Don't die so soon, Erica... Your life from now on belongs to me," he murmured to himself, unaware that he was speaking with an expression of profound satisfaction. He had to hurry before her condition worsened because he saw her very close to the tank explosion and she had been thrown several meters away. He didn't want useless assistants or subordinates, and he didn't want her to die either.

He stepped out from cover, his body surviving through the rubble of PDF forces and Geenstealer cult members, along with numerous wrecked tanks, toward the unconscious woman hundreds of meters away. Every step was precisely calculated. Even in the chaotic battlefield, he maintained a strangely dignified bearing.

For Vann, this wasn't just free help... it was a life-binding contract, one she couldn't refuse from the moment he chose to take an interest in her.

Although most of the Geenstealers were now losing their unity in their fight against the PDF forces, some chose to fight to the death.

Vann raised his bolt pistol, aiming at an approaching Geenstealer before pulling the trigger.

Bang!

The massive bullet exploded inside its body, severing one of its arms. He sprinted on, through the PDFs fiercely battling the surviving Geenstealers. He saw that the PDFs were beginning to gain entry into the makeshift fortifications built over the large elevator, and a chaotic battle was underway inside. But some were fighting the Geenstealers outside.

At that moment, he sensed something. His instincts warned him, and he dodged just in time. Vann narrowly avoided a blade strike, then quickly stepped back before turning to look at his attacker.

It was a Geenstealer, not unlike the others he'd seen—most had three arms, bald heads, and hideous, distorted faces. But what set it apart was the large hood covering its head, along with some kind of tube connected to its nose. In one hand was a pistol, in the other a blade seemingly coated in poison, and in the left were three sharp claws.

Vann shifted his hand to his otherwise ordinary sword scabbard. He didn't want to waste time on such things; his real intention wasn't to kill the Geenstealers, but to help someone who would become a crucial pawn in his future. In the blink of an eye, he drew his bolt pistol and fired a burst at it.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Three bullets flew precisely towards where it stood, but this geenstealer was faster than expected. It easily dodged the bullets before attempting to aim its pistol at Vann's head, but he wouldn't let it do that.

 

Vann lunged forward swiftly, closing in on the creature. He drew his sword from its scabbard and swung it in a wide arc, severing the arm holding the gun in a single blow. A slightly psychopathic smile played on his lips. He admitted that since being expelled from his family, surviving and struggling on the lower levels had been terrible. He'd been fighting almost constantly, and had become quite skilled in close combat.

Greenstealer looked shocked and amazed by what happened before using the claws on its other arm to attack Vann's shoulder. Vann didn't even dodge.

Instead, he used this opportunity, spinning around and swinging his sword diagonally upwards, slicing across the creature's abdomen and across its shoulder. However, the claws also struck his right shoulder, knocking his gun out of its grasp.

He gritted his teeth in pain, gazing at the severe, gaping wound on his shoulder. The claws had easily sliced through the bone. The two distanced themselves from each other again. He looked at the now heavily injured Geenstealer, who looked back at him.

Vann flicked the blood from his sword before pressing a switch on the hilt with his thumb. A bright blue force field and tiny sparks of lightning enveloped his blade. They stared at each other for a moment before lunging at each other again.

This time, it was much faster and attacked wildly, but Vann used his skills to parry and counterattack. Although he was much slower than it, it wasn't a big problem as the creature was losing more and more blood, and he was waiting for the right moment.

He ducked to avoid a wide-ranging sword strike before straightening up and aiming to decapitate it, but the creature's sword blocked it. He retreated quickly as it counterattacked with a speed he could no longer follow with his eyes.

Vann was starting to enjoy the fight more and more. He didn't know whether he should hurry to his next task or continue fighting. The pain in his arm, the exhaustion, and the pounding heart from the fight were making him feel somewhat good.

And he chose it all.

This time, he would use a rather dirty method to defeat it. While it was distracted, he deliberately feigned a sword strike in a different direction.
Seeing this, Greenstealer raised his sword to defend.

But in that instant, he deflected the blade, easily attacking in another direction. His power sword severed its head from its body.

 

Its body slumped to the floor, which was covered in corpses and filth. Vann kicked the severed head with contempt and disgust before rushing towards the girl he intended to help.

____________________________________________

In the darkness of the underground research lab, filled with the humming of modified machinery, the dim green light from computer screens reflected the figures of Genestealer Cultists in oily and blood-stained lab coats. They were crowded around the "Necron Coffin," a dark, ominous metal object inscribed with mysterious circuits. Drilling tools screeched as they tried to pry open the surface, which was too hard for human technology to comprehend.

The researchers, all Genestealers, were so engrossed in the ancient artifact that they didn't notice the "dark shadow" around them moving.

The thick steel door was silently torn open, like a ripped piece of paper. Warriors in bluish-green and gray armor swarmed into the room like ravenous spirits. They were the Alpha Legion, moving with speed and perfect coordination, appearing like mirror images of each other.

The sound of the Stalker Bolter gun echoed faintly.

Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!

Each bullet accurately pierced the skulls of the Cultists. Blood and brain matter splattered the walls before they could even sound the alarm. One researcher, attempting to press the emergency button, had his wrist impaled by a giant combat knife, pinning him to the control panel.

Before a power sword instantly severed his head.

Argus and warp smith Vatheg stepped over the still-wet corpses, heading straight for Necron's coffin. The other team members quickly dispersed to secure strategic positions around the room. Every movement was silent, the only sound being the light metallic footsteps on the floor.

In less than ten seconds, the research room, once filled with Geenstealers, was plunged into utter silence. Only the sound of machinery lingered, and the figures of the Alpha Legion stood over the corpses they themselves had created.

"Area clear," Argus said curtly through the communication channel, lowering his weapon and staring at the ancient artifact that now belonged entirely to them.

 

Seeing this, Warp Smith Vatheg immediately inspected the coffin. Judging from its appearance, it was clearly Necron technology. The traces indicated that Geenstealer and many others had been trying to open it for a long time, but none had succeeded, whether due to insufficient or inadequate equipment, or other limitations.

But Warp Smith Vatheg had no such problems. Although he was an engineer and researcher, he didn't rely solely on science. He was a servant of the god of darkness, worshipping the power of chaos to gain immense power and knowledge. He knew firsthand the terrifying ability of that power to distort reality.

Terrifying enough that he didn't want to meddle with it at all.

So, Warp Smith Vatheg made a quick decision. He improvised temporarily, gathering materials and creating a hand-sized plasma cutter. Anyone not blind would immediately recognize that this plasma cutter was contaminated with warp energy. And it was certainly more powerful than a typical plasma cutter, capable of cutting through almost anything in nearly an instant. Warp Smith Vathek wasted no time, immediately attaching it to one of his machandrites.

A blindingly bright blue-white flash shot out from the tip of Vathek's machandrite. The plasma cutter's slicing through the Necron metal echoed with a strange, high-pitched whistling sound, as if the metal were alive, screaming in pain. But in reality, it was the sound emanating from the plasma cutter. Vathek moved with the calm and precise movements of a skilled surgeon, slowly dragging the plasma cutter along the edge of the coffin.

Argus stood with his arms crossed, leaning against the research lab wall, his gaze fixed on the widening crack in the coffin. The silence in the room made the hissing sound of heat more pronounced.

"Do you see that energy reaction, Vathek? If this is truly the Necron coffin, there should be a sleeping body inside... Or is it just some kind of technological storage facility that you all crave?" Argus asked, his voice tinged with curiosity. But Vathek, engrossed in his work, didn't even glance up. His mechanical tentacles meticulously detected the temperature and electrical currents circulating beneath the metal shell.

"Don't look at it with human eyes, Argus. For the Necron, coffins aren't always for corpses... They could be data-conduit, or even a 'cage' for something far more powerful than we can imagine," Vathek replied in a trembling, synthesized voice.

"A cage? Are you telling me we might be unleashing something even the Iron Bones fear?" Argus shifted slightly, one hand instinctively moving closer to his Bolter gun.

"That's the thrill of doing something like this, isn't it? But overall, it's a possibility. If it's pure 'machine soul,' I'll fuse it into my armor. But if it's a lost star map... we'll gain the key to an arsenal the Empire only dreams of. Or, worse, something incredibly dangerous." Vathek let out a laugh that sounded like grinding gears.
The plasma cutter sliced through the final latch. A faint emerald green beam of light began to emerge from the crack. The temperature in the room plummeted, causing condensation to form on the armored masks of both of them.

"Prepare yourself, Argus. The truth we seek... is about to be revealed," Vatheg said, manipulating the large machandrite to pry open the heavy coffin lid. With just a little more force, the lid was pried open, the heavy iron lid crashing to the floor with a loud bang.

CRASH!

A cloud of frigid air billowed out, and a thin figure in dull gold and silver armor slowly sat up. Its eyes were empty voids, flickering with green light. It was the Necron Chronomancer, disoriented by what had just happened, before turning to one of the alpha legions standing guard. It pointed its staff and unleashed a beam of green light that struck the alpha legion. The moment the beam hit, the armor and flesh of the alpha legion instantly disintegrated into dust.

 

"You lowlife creatures... How dare you…" A hoarse voice in the Necrontier language rumbled from its throat. In its other hand, it clutched the Tesseract Vault, a glowing cube that seemed to contain immense energy.

In the split second after everything had happened, Argus and Vatheg exchanged glances. They felt neither fear nor respect for the ancient creature before them. They were space marines; they weren't afraid of such nonsense. They were only frustrated at losing a subordinate.

"Vatheg… now!" Argus shouted, just as the Chronomancer was about to attack again.

"Yaaah!!!" Argus lunged forward, slamming his shoulder with full force, sending the Necron's metal body flying from its coffin and crashing to the ground. Warp smith Vatheg wasted no time, striking its chest with his large machandrite, crushing it.

"You… you… Ugh!" Before it could finish speaking… Argus and Vatheg's massive steel boots on their feet moved faster than their hands could reach for guns or other weapons, stomping relentlessly on the creature's body. The sound of the Necrodermins clanging and breaking echoed loudly, like a sledgehammer smashing a trash can.

"Wake up... (stomping)... you killed one of my men... (stomping)... you old iron-boned bastard!" Vatheg cursed, crushing what appeared to be the creature's face. Argus, seizing the opportunity while it was being overwhelmed and unable to move, snatched the cube from its clawed hand, severing the Necrodermins' fingers.

"Mission accomplished! Retreat quickly!" Argus shouted. They stomped one last time, flattening the Chronomancer's body against the floor, before turning and fleeing the research lab. The remaining Alpha Legion warriors used their flamethrower guns to burn down the hallway and destroy any evidence.

______________________________________________

Writer's Note: At least Eric is lucky to have people who care about him...

Chapter 33

Summary:

"Good luck, Erica. I have to go now. And don't forget to thank yu893-9. He's been taking care of you for the past year."

Day 299 of the 987th year of the 41st millennium

Eastern edge of Secmentum ultima

Above the orbit of Opel III

Frigate, class sword Hand of Judgment,

[Transcript: Vermilion-level access code]

Recorder: Inquisitor Korvin Hale Ordo Xenos

Location: Frigate, class sword Hand of Judgment,

Orbit of Opel III

Subject: Summary of the Battle of Hive Kathion

(Long sigh mixed with the sound of liquid being poured into a glass)

"On day 650 of the 986th year of the 41st millennium, I received a request for help from this planet regarding a mutant problem threatening the planet. But when I arrived, I found it to be more serious than I initially thought."

"It is the geenstealer cult and chaos cultists. Fortunately, their infestation on this planet is relatively mild in other hive cities, but the situation in Hive Kathion..."

 

"It was quite a crisis. Fierce fighting erupted in the under hive, lower hive, and upper hive. The confined spaces were brutally contested between the Genestealer Cult, Chaos Cultists, and the roughly equal numbers of PDF forces. It was horrific, and the prolonged wipeout lasted about a year."

"Finally, the nightmare of the Opel III ended... although the purge of the Genestealer Cult and Chaos Cultists in Hive Kathion cost us five valuable Deathwatch members.

Three Deathwatch members died bravely and honorably in their fight to kill the Genestealer patriarch, and two more died bravely and honorably during the battle to capture or destroy the hive city's main freight elevator.

And the battle for this main freight elevator was the primary cause of the massive casualties, whether civilians, brave PDF soldiers, or innocent loyal citizens.

Although the fighting in this hive city was short, lasting less than a year, it was incredibly bloody, brutal, and ferocious, resulting in the deaths of nearly 5 billion people." "But it also led me to something far more interesting than the remnants of those despicable Xenos hybrids."

"I'm talking about Vann Korvax, a young, idealistic, and innovative general who commands the pdf forces stationed at the Kathion Hive."

"While the foolish nobles and old-fashioned generals in this planet's High Council were preoccupied with bureaucracy, vested interests, inefficient strategies, and formalities, Korvax did something I'd never seen anyone dare to do before... He immediately 'seized' heavy equipment, including the massive number of Leman Russ tanks and armored vehicles destined for export tax to the Tithe."

"He ignored the restraining orders and threats of the death penalty from politicians who were more concerned with numbers on paper than lives. Korvax understood that if the Hive fell, those tanks would become mere scrap metal in the hands of a heretical army. He chose to risk the death penalty for immediate victory on the battlefield."

 

"His decisiveness in crushing the empire's corrupt bureaucracy for a greater purpose... that's what I admire. This man is not just a soldier following orders, but a strategist with vision and a heart strong enough to bear the sin of betraying the rules to preserve the stars. Even though under his leadership a massive number of PDF troops fell in battle, that's acceptable and understandable. Most of the PDF troops involved were conscripts drawn from terrified civilians and gangsters. To win with such minimal losses is incredibly fortunate."

"I have used my inquisitor authority to suspend all charges against him. A man like Vann Korvax is too worthy of being executed by those ignorant nobles. I will keep him by my side..." "Perhaps in the future, the work of Ordo Xenos will require someone like him who dares to cross the line between 'rules' and 'results'."

"My business here is finished. My next task is to travel to investigate anomalies in a few nearby star systems to protect the Empire and destroy those who dare to threaten it."

"End of recording... To the Emperor."
[End of recording]

______________________________________________

 

Day 299, Year 987, 41st Millennium

Upper Hive

Hive Kathion

Upper Hive

"Beep... beep... beep..."

The rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor was the first thing he heard. Eric slowly opened his eyes. The first thing that hit him was the blindingly bright light from a fluorescent bulb and the pungent smell of disinfectant mixed with the scent of rust and incense—the kind the Sisters of Battle and the priests in the church used in their rituals—making Eric wrinkle his nose slightly.

_Where... where am I?_ Eric's first thought was filled with apprehension and doubt. His hand instinctively searched for a weapon but found nothing but a coarse blanket and bedsheets. He knew exactly what he had done before waking up in this place.

He didn't know what he had thought or done in that situation—running through a hail of bullets to throw anti-tank grenades at a tank... But if he survived, it meant the tanks must have been destroyed, and the operation must have progressed significantly. And if he wasn't mistaken, he was probably unconscious and taken to a military hospital or something. And now he's survived.

_And that's the most important thing right now._

But right now, Eric felt his body was heavy, as if weighed down with lead. He could barely move. He tried to look around, bewildered. Actually, the room he was in was similar to the typical hospital rooms he'd seen in the modern world, except this room had a white ceiling and some Gothic-style wall decoration. There were tubes hanging from a ventilator or some kind of machine he didn't recognize, which looked more like torture devices than medical equipment, and those tubes were connected to his wrist, supplying medication or what he assumed was an IV drip.

_That machine is creepy,_ he thought to himself, looking at the machine connected to his wrist and the servitor mopping the floor in the corner of the room. Honestly, he felt quite disgusted and a little sorry for the person being used as a servitor. ...but he felt more uneasy about its appearance.

"You're awake, are you... sleepyhead?" A familiar hoarse voice came from the bed beside him. Eric tried to turn his stiff neck to look, and he widened his eyes in joy and surprise. His friend Livia was sitting there, leaning against the headboard. Her face looked haggard and covered in fresh scars, but her eyes were still strong. However, what made Eric freeze was Livia's missing left arm.

"Livia... I'm glad to see you again, and... your arm..." Eric tried to speak, but his throat was so dry that his voice was hoarse like sandpaper.
Livia shrugged her left shoulder and moved her remaining left arm nonchalantly.

 

"I'm still alive, you know... That's worth it. Don't make that face like you're about to cry, Erica. You were in a vegetative state for a whole year, you know? And you know, running through a hail of bullets to throw a grenade at that tank and destroying it was incredibly brave. It allowed the PDF forces to seize the main transport elevator of Hive City. You were so lucky that one of the radio operators ran and rescued you from the battlefield just in time before your condition worsened. You're also incredibly lucky that someone paid for your medical treatment, even though they didn't reveal their identity..." Livia said in a rather indifferent tone, with a hint of admiration for his bravery, but the impact of being hit like that made Eric a little embarrassed. That radio operator might have been Vann, and he really wanted to thank whoever paid for his medical treatment if he had the chance.

"One year!? I've been asleep for that long? And... what about the war?" Eric repeated in his mind, stunned. He didn't know if the war was over, and now he was probably in the rear. What was the situation like? Were there any risks? Eric's thoughts began to wander again. But Livia seemed to read the panic in his eyes. She forced a weary but sincere smile.

"It's over... We won. Those disgusting mutants have been driven out and finally wiped out." Livia replied in a soft, slightly tired voice. At that moment, a multitude of emotions overwhelmed Eric. Joy at surviving mixed with sadness at seeing his friend's condition, but above all, immense relief. Tears welled up in the corners of his eyes unconsciously, not from weakness, but from the pent-up frustration finally released.

"It's over... Maybe you'll get back to being a hairdresser, Livia, and maybe I'll get a better job too." He tried to joke a little, smiling cheerfully. If he was lucky, the news would mean he could live and work in the Upper Hive, a place with more job opportunities, where he could work in his area of expertise and avoid the hard labor of the factories he endured in the Lower Hive. Eric thought to himself, smiling before extending his trembling hand to Livia, even with the IV and some other tube restraining his arm. But he wanted to touch her, to confirm that his friend was still alive. However, as he moved to sit up, a cold sensation shot through his back… Eric froze, his hand outstretched in mid-air. He suddenly noticed that the hospital gown he was wearing was just a thin piece of fabric tied in a knot at the back, and the material was so rough and sheer that it was almost transparent in the bright light!

 

"Huh!!" Eric's face turned from pale to bright red in an instant. Shyness surged through him, overshadowing his earlier gratitude.

"The... why is this patient gown... like this?!"
He frantically grabbed the blanket to wrap around himself, almost pulling the IV line out. What kind of crazy patient gown was this? It didn't resemble the thin, typical hospital gowns he'd seen in Germany at all. It was even thinner than anything he'd ever worn, and so minimal.

"Hahaha! You just realized that, huh?" Livia laughed heartily, her shoulders shaking. He frowned at her laughter. What was so funny about this?

"But... it's too thin! And... what about the doctor... what about the male doctor? Will he see?!" Eric grumbled, burying himself under the blanket until only his eyes were visible. Honestly, if it were a female doctor or nurse, he could accept it... he shouldn't be complaining like this... Eric tried to reassure himself. Why was he making such a fuss about something like this? It was utterly ridiculous. Livia, seeing his reaction... Eric shook his head in exasperation.

"Why are you worrying about the doctor? He saved your life... You're the shyest woman I've ever met," Livia grumbled nonchalantly. Eric smiled, tears welling up in his eyes. Despite his embarrassment and inward grumbling, he tried to change the subject because he was starting to feel uneasy about the creepy atmosphere of the hospital.

"Thank you, Emperor... for keeping me alive. How can you be so sad? And are you in a lot of pain?" Eric asked, concerned and curious.

"Of course it hurts... but I'll probably just buy a prosthetic arm... As for that, I lost my arm in shrapnel wounds," Livia replied cheerfully, a small laugh escaping her throat. Eric chuckled softly along with his friend before realizing someone was missing.

"And what about Rosa?" Eric looked for his other friend. From the latest news he'd heard, Livia had told him she was in critical condition, and he wanted to know how she was doing and how worrying she was, because she was another friend he cared about just as much as Livia. But when Livia heard his question, her expression saddened slightly.

"Unfortunately, the doctors couldn't save her life...Erica...Rosa has gone to meet the Golden Throne and returned to Maria..." Livia replied with a sorrowful tone. Eric, hearing this, fell silent.

"Do you remember what you promised me?" Eric, not wanting the atmosphere to become more somber, quickly changed the subject. This should have been a time of happiness, a time when the war was over, and everyone needed to move forward, not be so sad. Livia rolled her eyes slightly.

"I know...you don't need to remind me, I haven't forgotten...and I think you might be interested in a liquor called Amazac," Livia replied with a slightly cunning tone. It made him a little uneasy, but he was still curious about what the liquor his friend mentioned tasted like. Then he suddenly wondered who was paying for his medical treatment? It certainly wasn't the central authority or the army, because they didn't seem to care much about their soldiers, judging by the state-of-the-art equipment, even with their advanced laser guns.

 

And if you look at the central authority or those who govern here, you can forget about that. Even the administration of the Lower Hive is so corrupt and exploitative of its citizens; imagine how they could possibly afford to pay for medical treatment for a low-ranking soldier like himself. Regardless, he will thank that mysterious person if he ever gets the chance to meet them.

 

But as he was smiling, a voice suddenly interrupted, and a figure walked in, instantly wiping Eric's smile away.

"Alright, visiting hours are over.../''''Patient progress report: condition has improved and they are conscious.\ The next step, now that the patient is conscious, is surgery to remove the implanted tissue regeneration substance in the abdomen." A fearsome-looking tech priest entered the room. He wore an old red cloak of the Mechanicus and had eight green artificial eyes. Tubes or wires protruded from his face, creating a terrifyingly elaborate beard. He could see parts of the skin that were connected to or had cybernetic implants. A backpack with bottles containing various liquids hung from his back, presumably the power source, and several machandrites moved periodically, the mechanical tentacles unsettling and horrifying to him.

"Good luck, Erica. I have to go now. And don't forget to thank yu893-9. He's been taking care of you for the past year." "Good luck, goodbye," Livia said in a cheerful voice before walking out of the room, leaving Eric alone with the tech priest.

"Goodbye," Eric whispered. Suddenly, the tech priest raised a hand modified with five syringes protruding from its fingertips, and spoke in a lifeless voice.

"Alright, first step: Inject a stimulant and a local anesthetic (the kind that doesn't cause pain but paralyzes instead)." The tech priest spoke emotionlessly before approaching the patient's bed. Eric was shocked by the tech priest's words. He had been told there would be surgery, so why a stimulant instead of an anesthetic? But it was too late. The tech priest plunged the needle into Eric's neck. Eric gasped, his eyes wide with terror. He felt the pain of the needle piercing his neck. He struggled, but his body was immobile. The tech priest then picked up a bag of blood and attached it to Eric's other wrist. Next, leather belts were used to secure his hands and feet to the bed. Suddenly, the tech priest unveiled a sheet, revealing numerous tiny robotic hands with gleaming small blades and a small chainsaw inside.

"Wait! Why haven't you given me anesthesia yet?!" Eric asked, panicked that he was about to undergo surgery without being anesthetized and while still conscious. Before he could move or speak, the tech priest simply turned around and replied, giving Eric an answer that only increased his anxiety.

"I'm sorry, but the person paying for your treatment hasn't paid for regular anesthetics and painkillers... Besides, keeping you conscious allows me to record the treatment results and other things more accurately." The tech priest replied in the same cold and emotionless voice, before applying antiseptic to the metal blades and thinly smearing it on the area about to be operated on.

And then the moment of pain began as the first sharp, small blade sliced into his left abdomen.

Eric tried to scream, but only a faint groan escaped his throat. The pain was unbearable, and tears streamed down his cheeks as he watched the robotic arms, fitted with blades, perform surgery on his body with merciless precision. Those eight green eyes remained indifferent to his tears, as if human pain were merely meaningless numerical data. He felt like a machine being repaired, not a "human" with feelings...

_________________________________________

Writer's Note: Okay, now there's more happiness and brightness, and less grim darkness.

Chapter 34: 34

Summary:

"Do we understand each other, Archdeacon?" Valen repeated. Malachi could only grit his teeth. He knew Valen wasn't threatening him. He'd ordered the purging of an entire district for a small protest without hesitation, and he wouldn't hesitate to eliminate these obstacles either.

"Understood... Lord," Archdeacon said in a trembling voice before leaving the room.

Day 339, Year 987, 41st Millennium

Upper Hive

...Eric's footsteps echoed on the polished stone floor of the somewhat somber corridor, adorned with a mix of artwork and quirky collectibles, within the Planetary Defense Force (PDF) offices. The rhythm was hurried yet cautious.

Today, he was dressed in a light blue, well-tailored uniform. It had a vintage style, reminiscent of Napoleonic French military uniforms, but without the insignia and gold trim, making it simple, polite, and undeniably stylish. Eric glanced down at himself, feeling insecure. He wondered if the light blue suited his pale skin, white hair, and blue eyes. He hadn't even looked in a mirror yet.

But... at least it was better than his combat uniform. However, thinking about his battle attire, he immediately wanted to avoid it—the ill-fitting flak armor layered over it, making him incredibly uncomfortable. He decided not to dwell on it. "Just a little more..." he murmured to himself, a faint smile appearing at the corner of his mouth. He had heard that headquarters had summoned him for a reward, or something similar, in recognition of his bravery.

But to say he was truly brave wouldn't be entirely accurate. He was simply terrified. Running to the back might mean being shot and killed by his own side, while staying ahead offered a much better chance of survival.

However, his heart swelled with hope now. The thought of returning to a normal life with a better standard of living was palpable. He was currently in the Upper Hive, one of the layers of the Hive City, where the living conditions were far superior to the Lower Hive. The relatively clean streets alone showed how much better it was.

And here, there were more jobs and options than in the Lower Hive. He could fully utilize his abilities to find a suitable job that matched his skills. Of course, it had to be accounting or management, even though he was capable of more. It was pure paradise. Eric could barely contain his joy.

"Ouch..." Eric groaned softly. Suddenly, a sharp pain shot through his left abdomen, instantly wiping away his smile. He paused for a moment, bending down slightly. His slender hand, clad in a white glove, automatically reached to gently cup the area.

The horrifying memory of the infirmary a month ago replayed in his mind… the feeling of the anesthetic paralyzing him, rendering him immobile even his fingertips, yet still feeling the pain of every millimeter of the blade and chainsaw cutting into his skin… the icy touch of the machinery… and the emotionless eyes of that Tech-Priest.

It was one of the most agonizing moments of his life.

"Damn it, you bastard!" Eric cursed inwardly, seething with frustration and resentment. If he had a choice, he would never seek treatment from those Mechanics again. He thought these lunatics, who seemed to have stepped out of Cyberpunk 2077, weren't fit to be doctors at all. They were better suited to being mechanics than performing surgery or treating others.

He gently massaged the wound, taking a deep breath. To suppress the lingering pain and fear, he darted left and right warily, making sure no one had seen his earlier display of weakness. He didn't want to attract attention or be perceived as a crybaby.

It would look terrible if someone saw a woman who was supposed to be so brave suddenly acting so weak.

"Calm down, Eric... you have to stay calm," he reassured himself, trying to regain his composure. "Just walk in, sign the papers, and I'll be free... then I can roll around in my room to my heart's content."

He adjusted his collar, straightening his back to regain his confidence. Although the wound in his stomach ached slightly with every step, he didn't complain further. Surviving in the lower hive and making it to the upper hive was far worse. Back then, he had a broken upper right arm and internal bruising, yet he survived. Now, he was only recovering from surgery; why couldn't he endure that?

 

Eric took another deep breath before continuing towards the large door at the end of the hallway... the door that led to the location of the official or clerk who would present him with a reward or something similar.

Eric stopped in front of the large wooden door.
This door was made of real wood, not metal like the ones he had encountered before, and it might be the first wooden door he had ever seen since entering this dark future world.

Eric took another deep breath, calming himself before gently pushing the wooden door open. The door slowly swung open under Eric's push, creaking a sound that indicated its age and need for some maintenance.

Inside was a room decorated in a rather simple yet luxurious style. Crystal chandeliers hung above, and two or three cabinets leaned against the walls in the corners. Portraits of important figures and the Emperor adorned the walls. In the center of the room sat a large wooden desk.

Eric stepped forward and stopped in front of the thick wooden desk, where a middle-aged male clerk sat amidst a pile of documents. The man looked up at him briefly with an empty gaze. Before bending down to focus on the paper in his hand and beginning to read the information aloud in a flat, indifferent tone,

"Lieutenant Erica de la Cruz...is that right?" the clerk murmured in a rather nonchalant tone.

"Yes, sir," Eric replied loudly and clearly, but at the same time, he felt slightly surprised that he had been promoted from private to lieutenant. But that didn't matter; who wanted to be a soldier anyway when they could do other work that was more comfortable and suited to their abilities?

"Female, approximately 25 years old, pale skin, blue eyes, white hair, height 176 centimeters, weight 70 kilograms..." the clerk continued. Eric, standing straight in front of the wooden desk, trying to maintain a military demeanor, frowned slightly, looking down at his own body with a feeling of suspicion and thinking to himself:

_70 kilograms? Is the scale inaccurate? I don't seem to weigh that much, do I?_ He was secretly annoyed by the number that seemed a little too high in his opinion, but he didn't say anything.

"Previous history..." "Residing in the Lower Hive," the clerk said, his voice slightly strained, laced with the clear contempt of those from the Upper Hive who viewed those from the lower classes as mere trash, or to put it more politely, barbaric and uneducated.

"Conscripted into the PDF forces... Hmm... Note that you demonstrated extraordinary bravery in combat and contributed immensely to the strategic impact. The higher ups believe you deserve a reward." Having finished speaking, the clerk slid open a drawer and placed a metal identification card with a stamp and a few other documents on the table, along with a silver-grey metal key with a room number attached.

_No way!? I get a room as a reward?_ Eric thought, disbelief etched on his face.

"Congratulations. Your civilian status has been upgraded from the Lower Hive to the Upper Hive, and you are entitled to free accommodation in the residential area of the lower Upper Hive." Eric took the card and key, his face remaining expressionless as he tried to maintain a calm, composed, and dignified demeanor. Inwardly, however, he was overjoyed, practically jumping for joy. The exhaustion from the battle that ended about a year ago, the horrifying memories of fighting the space marines—the blue island with the skull symbol, bat wings, and grotesque tentacles—the green zombies, mutants, aliens on that floor, and the terrible experiences in the operating room—all seemed to be healed by this key.

_Finally_, he thought, clutching the key tightly. Deep down, he knew this empire, or whoever ruled it, held little mercy, judging by the living conditions of the people in the lower hive.

What he had received was like scraps of meat thrown to the dogs that worked diligently in this extreme totalitarian regime. And he didn't have the same strong faith in the "Emperor" as most others here. If anyone knew his innermost thoughts, he would have been branded a heretic and executed long ago. In truth, he didn't care what was happening outside or what was changing; as long as it didn't affect him, that was good enough. Now he was in the upper hive, and officially recognized... that was more than enough for him.

"Thank you, Ave Imperator," Eric replied briefly, his voice polite as usual. He gestured with his hands, making a two-headed eagle symbol. The clerk merely nodded slightly before continuing his work. Eric turned and walked away from the clerk's desk feeling much lighter. Although his abdominal wound still ached, the hope of starting a new life in a cleaner and safer place gave him the strength to continue. After leaving the PDF office with the key to his new room,

he quickly retrieved it and walked to the ammunition and weapons storage room, a considerable distance away. It was time for him to pick up the items he had left there a long time ago. He hoped they were still there.

_Hopefully_

When he arrived, he found a man sitting at the counter whom he recognized.
This man was the counter attendant he had bribed to allow him to store important items before going into battle. Eric approached, stopping about two meters in front of the counter, and began speaking first.

 

"Hello, do you remember me?" Eric greeted with a rather cheerful voice, even though he tried not to show his pain. The officer behind the counter looked up at him for a moment before replying in a rather weak voice:

"Ah, it's you...Erica de la Cruz, isn't it? The woman who bribed me and made me commit fraud for the first time in years." The officer spoke with a slight hint of humor, but it was very light, and Eric immediately understood what he was talking about. It meant the officer still remembered that Eric had entrusted something to him in exchange for a sum of money for safekeeping.

"You still remember me, huh...so you must remember what I entrusted to you when you last saw me," Eric asked in a calm voice with a slight smile, unaware that his smile looked very beautiful and charming. The officer tilted his head slightly at his smile, then chuckled softly before patting the table and saying:

"I recognize you... these must be yours, right? Luckily, I've kept them safe. But wait a minute," the officer paused before ducking under the counter and pulling out a bag. It was a medium-sized, gray, one-shoulder bag, slightly dusty. Eric tried to recall what he had put in it. As far as he could remember, there was money, two or three sets of clothes, a few personal items, and a chest wrap.

_I haven't washed the chest wrap before putting it in the bag,_ Eric thought to himself, a little worried because now, after a year, he would have to throw it away.

"Here's yours... take it quickly so I don't have to worry about it anymore." The officer handed the bag to Eric before urging him to leave. Eric accepted the bag, thanked him politely, and left the room and the PDF office.

Eric, slinging the bag over his shoulder, began reading the documents the clerk had given him. They were documents concerning his address.

Judging from his current location, and if he was correct, he'd need to take the elevator down for about 5 minutes, then the magnetic levitation train for another 20 minutes, and then walk for half an hour to the Upper Hive in Area 895.

In no time at all, he arrived at the train station, which was designed in a Gothic style, adorned with Mechanic symbols and skulls. Eric stepped onto the central transport station to use the giant magnetic levitation train that connected the different zones. Its appearance was strangely contradictory. It looked modern with its rather noisy propulsion technology, yet its shape was angular and full of ancient metal rivets, in the style of Mechanic engineering he had seen before.

"It's huge..." he murmured, gazing at the train's body, which resembled a moving fortress. Although amazed by its grandeur, as soon as he stepped inside, he let out a soft gasp.

"What's this musty smell...? It's like they haven't cleaned it at all." Eric muttered softly, trying to stand in the safest corner to avoid being jostled by other passengers. As the train pulled into the lower Upper Hive,

Eric disembarked and found an atmosphere drastically different from the hell he had left behind. While the crowds were still moderately dense, they were far more orderly. Massive skyscrapers were built on top of each other, their tops reaching the stone ceilings 50 meters high. The streetlights provided a steady illumination, and repairs to the war damage were being carried out rapidly.

Eric surveyed the area with a touch of suspicion, a familiar instinct. In his mind, it was quite crowded by the standards of a typical capital city he'd encountered in the 2000s. Although there was some pollution, it was far better than the Lower Hive. There were no homeless people or drug addicts sleeping on the streets.

(Writer's note: The ironic reason for this is that the homeless and drug addicts might have all been captured and imprisoned by the arbitrators.)

He walked along the sidewalk until he reached a relatively clean-looking residential building, despite having gotten lost quite a while on his way. But with the help of locals, he was able to reach the building, where Eric clutched the key tightly in his hand and climbed the spiral staircase step by step.

 

The exhaustion from climbing to the fifth floor made him sigh. He stood up to catch his breath and gently stroked the recently healed wound on his abdomen.

Finally, he stopped in front of a room numbered on the key and documents he possessed. Eric stood still for a moment, his heart pounding with a mixture of excitement and nervousness. He wondered what his room would be like. Would it be in good condition? What furniture would be inside? How cramped would it be? At the same time, he glanced left and right with a touch of apprehension.

Click…

The metal doorknob unlocked before the door slowly opened. Eric stepped inside, his heart still racing, but then he froze, standing motionless in the doorway. His blue eyes widened slightly before his lips tightened into a straight line.

He silently examined the scene before him… A narrow, rectangular room, approximately 5x8 meters, with empty, dull gray concrete walls. There was no bed, no desk, not even a chair. Only a dim light flickered from a single bulb on the ceiling.

"It's alright..." Eric thought to himself, sighing wearily. He gazed at the empty room, thick with dust clinging to the corners, with a hint of weariness. But then he remembered the cramped rooms he'd lived in before—the one in the Lower Hive and the incredibly cramped, shared rooms in the refugee camp. This was clearly better than all those.

"Well... at least it's better than the rooms in the refugee camp and the Lower Hive," Eric reassured himself. He knew this room was significantly better than the ones before. At least it looked nicer and seemed much sturdier. Plus, there wasn't as much rust or dirt.

He began to explore the empty room, until his eyes landed on the bathroom... incredibly, it was fully equipped with a sink, toilet, and a shower that looked to be in good condition.

"At least... at least I have my own bathroom, without having to share with anyone outside," Eric murmured softly. The tension on his face eased slightly, but right now he needed to find a bed or something similar; otherwise, he wouldn't be able to sleep tonight. But it wasn't that he couldn't sleep on the cold, flat floor like this. He just didn't want to sleep on the floor again. That short battle felt like hell to him. And he couldn't understand how he'd managed to sleep on such a rough, dusty, and dirty surface.

And how much money did he have now?
He hadn't counted it yet.

Thinking this, Eric picked up his bag and rummaged through it, finding the check he'd taken from Raoul. He counted it for a moment and found it was worth about 3 million Kalf, a considerable sum that could change his life and provide for emergencies. Buying furniture or decorating the room probably wouldn't significantly impact his finances.

Just as he was about to leave the room, he heard something. Eric understood that it was curfew time and that leaving the residence was forbidden under any circumstances, or there would be punishment.

Eric's face turned expressionless again. He was extremely annoyed at having to sleep on the cold floor, but he didn't dare risk it. He hadn't thought there would be a curfew in a place like this, but since there was, he didn't resist. He knew how severe the punishment would be, and he could endure just one night.

Eric nervously locked the door to his room, a habitual gesture. Luckily, there were spare clothes and a towel inside. He quickly showered and changed. He had nothing to do now, and rest was the best thing.

After changing, Eric turned off the light before slumping against the empty wall. The coldness of the metal or whatever material made the wall seeped through his clothes, making him shiver slightly. He hugged his knees, scanning the dark room, before closing his eyes and falling asleep.

 

_____________________________________________

Vann sat behind an intricately carved wooden desk. His face, now cleansed of the shave, was handsome and dignified, befitting a high-ranking military officer. The blindfold covering one eye only added to his imposing and thought-provoking appearance.
His gaze was fixed on a blue holographic map displaying the structure of Hive City. Flashes of light reflected on his face as he analyzed strategic points to prevent a potential second rebellion.

The Geenstealer uprising had tragically claimed many lives in the lower hive. His ill-tempered older brother had even resorted to buying workers from neighboring hive cities to meet his delivery deadlines.

But his biggest headache was that his brother was making these workers work 15 hours a day—far exceeding the usual 12 hours. This was a very risky decision.

Vann knew that the harder these working-class citizens were to work without adequate compensation or benefits, the more dissatisfied and rebellious they would become. And the more discontent there is, the greater the risk of these citizens rebelling. He warned his wretched brother, but Valen wouldn't listen.

That guy only cares about taxes.

But he should care about himself too, Vann thought to himself. His successful application to use tax revenue to fund the war, and his ability to utilize tanks and armored vehicles originally intended for tax revenue, had undoubtedly angered many.

And when the war ended and those tanks and armored vehicles were reduced to less than 10% of the total, it further infuriated many. However, with the help and influence of Inquisitor Korvin Hale, he managed to survive, but he wasn't completely safe.

There were many nobles and rivals who sought to undermine him in every way, but he was prepared. He wouldn't be a passive victim.

He sighed softly before remembering that he had just received very good news that day, news confirming that his investment hadn't been in vain. The young woman had survived.

By the time he reached her... He thought she wouldn't survive. Erica was severely injured, to the point where her chances of survival were practically zero. But by a miracle, or some other means, he managed to save her just in time, even though he was hit by shrapnel in the eye, blinding him in one eye.

Furthermore, the medical expenses and surgery were quite expensive, even for someone like him. But Vann didn't regret using his own money to pay for almost all of her treatment.

For Vann, having a versatile assistant or subordinate—helping with management, sharing tasks, an assassin, even a spy—was already worthwhile. But deep down, he feared she wouldn't survive and that all his investment would be in vain. Fortunately, that wasn't the case.

Now, he's just waiting to see if she follows his plan and overcomes the obstacles. If she does, he'll accept her as his assistant and begin utilizing her for his missions.

For now, he has to wait and see the results.

 

____________________________________________

Atop the Spire, overlooking the entire Hive City, the hum of the small cogitator's ventilation fan competed with the rhythmic tapping of Valen Korvax's fingers. He sat stressed, his new, enormous desk made of solid black stone, before him a holographic map of the city dotted with red dots.

Damage warnings and demands for repairs and resources filled the air. While the situation was better than a year ago, it remained critical and a major headache.

"Lord Korvax..." a deep, resonant voice boomed from the doorway.

Valen didn't look up from the pile of documents reporting on the ammunition factory's production.

"Come in, Arch-Deacon Malachai. My time is as precious as promethium right now." A stout figure in the burgundy, gold-trimmed robes of the Ecclesiarchy entered, followed by a follower carrying a smoke-filled incense burner. Malachai smiled a (false) benevolent smile before gesturing for an entrance. "I come in the name of the Holy Emperor, Lord Valen... The Cathedral of Saint Drusus and other churches have suffered heavy damage from the attack. The domes have crumbled, the altars are stained with dust. The people need spiritual solace. Therefore, I request approval for an emergency budget of 50 million Kalf, and the right to disburse military-grade Plasteel and a large quantity of gold to restore the Cathedral that honors the Emperor to its former glory." Arch-Deacon Malachi spoke in a loud, inviting, and boastful tone. Valen immediately stopped signing documents. He looked up, his cold, gray eyes staring at the religious leader with an empty expression, as if observing a malfunctioning machine—a malfunction that was already repulsive.

"50 million Kalf... and military-grade Plasteel?" Valen repeated in a flat tone.

"Do you think we're in the midst of a celebratory festival, Arch-Deacon?" Valen retorted.

"This is a matter of faith!" Malachi began to harden.

"Faith is the strongest shield. Without the church, the people will despair." Valen slowly rose to his feet. The tall, imposing figure, now clad in a robe that was both luxurious and simple at the same time, looked formidable. He walked around the table to face the priest. He knew the truth: the majority of the people were desperate, and that faith was merely a deception. But faith wasn't that necessary.

"Faith doesn't power food and goods production machines. Faith doesn't filter the toxic sewers. And faith doesn't stop enemy bullets... It's people and energy that power food and goods production machines. It's water filters that make the toxic sewers drinkable. It's guns and walls that do that," Valen said in a decisive and emotionless tone, pointing to the holographic map.

"The metal smelting plant in Sector 4 is still under repair. The air purification system in the middle residential areas is about to fail. If I were to use some of the Plaster to build a beautiful dome for you... within a week, ammunition production will decrease by 40%, not to mention the armor and tank factories, and skilled workers in the middle residential areas will die of suffocation," Valen explained calmly.

"But the villagers in the Lower Hive... they have to work harder every day. They need light!" Malachi tried to argue. Valen merely chuckled. A mocking smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.

"Those below need light? They only need synthetic food (Corpse-starch) and enough water to survive, along with a little money… I don't care about their hopes. I care about efficiency," he said indifferently.

"How dare you insult the Church!?" Malachi's face flushed with anger.

"Watch your words, Valen. The Korvax family may be powerful, but no one is greater than the Emperor's shadow!" Arch-Deacon Malachi said sternly. Hearing this, Valen rose from his chair and advanced towards the priest, forcing Malachi to recoil in fear at the menacing aura emanating from him.

"And in this Hive City, besides the leader of the Thalric family… I am the one who holds the pen to approve the budget on behalf of the Emperor," Valen said in a cold but clear voice. Although his words sounded somewhat heretical, they were the truth now.

"I refuse your request. The entire budget will be used to repair the public utilities and weapons factories for the stability of the city…" "And to ensure the stability of the chair you are sitting on,"

"Your Highness..." Arch-Deacon tried to speak.

"I will approve some tiles and stained glass... That's all," Valen cut him off cruelly.

"No gold, no stained glass, and if I hear you inciting the crowd to riot because of this... I will consider you an undermining of stability, and I will deal with you with the same disciplinary punishment I use on deserters. Or if you think you can use the Sisters of Battle forces you currently possess to threaten me, you are mistaken." Valen spoke in a menacing voice, his gaze fixed on Malachite. It was the gaze of a predator seeing through its prey. Some of the Sisters of Battle forces stationed in the church were quite powerful, but they were few in number and fought by faith, not by a highly efficient system. Therefore, he wasn't too worried, as his own private army was almost equally well-equipped, if slightly inferior in equipment, but definitely superior in coordination and efficiency, unless there were any technical errors.

 

"Do we understand each other, Archdeacon?" Valen repeated. Malachi could only grit his teeth. He knew Valen wasn't threatening him. He'd ordered the purging of an entire district for a small protest without hesitation, and he wouldn't hesitate to eliminate these obstacles either.

"Understood... Lord," Archdeacon said in a trembling voice before leaving the room.

Once the large door closed, silence returned to the office. Valen showed no sign of satisfaction or anger. He simply took a deep breath and tried to calm himself. Then he immediately turned back to the holographic map.

"Assistant," he called calmly.

"Yes, sir," a voice from the loudspeaker replied.

"Cut the budget we allocate to the Church by another 10%... and reallocate that funds to veterans' welfare and repair the magnetic levitation system. Proceed immediately."

"Understood."

______________________________________________

Writer's Note: Okay, it seems things are starting to get tense, conflicting, and fighting again, after a year since the battle with the Geenstealer.

Chapter 35: 35

Summary:

"This is your last chance. I hope you'll make the most of it."

Day 340 of the 987th year of the 41st millennium

 

Upper Hive

 

The atmosphere in the once opulent office suddenly became stifling when Valen Korvax entered. His older brother, with a face almost identical to Vann's, but with a more elegant, arrogant aura of the upper class, and most importantly... he still had both eyes, unlike Vann who had lost one eye and shaved his face clean-shaven.

 

Vann glared at his brother with deep hatred. The memory of 15 years ago, when he was banished from his family by his father and his beloved sister was assassinated—all part of Valen's scheme—was still vivid. He had to struggle to survive in the filthy slums of the Lower Hive, fighting his way up to become a general through his own efforts.

 

"The planet Governor has been executed, Vann," Valen said in a deep, soft voice, yet laced with control. He waited patiently to see what his brother wanted and what was about to happen.

 

The previous governor of the planet was executed by Inquisitor Korvin Hale for trading with the Rouge Trader and acquiring potentially dangerous Xenos technology. Following the governor's execution,

 

the nobles and various families on the planet immediately began vying for power, hoping to claim the high position of governor—a position granting absolute control.

 

He hoped his brother wasn't planning on becoming the new governor.

 

Otherwise, things would only get worse.

 

"The nobles from the other Hives are sharpening their swords, preparing to seize power. This city will soon be engulfed in flames. You should return to my side... return to the Korvax family so we can control the situation together and manage the damage," Valen explained calmly.

 

"No," Valen replied with a cold smile.

 

"You never listen to me, Valen. Whether it's about reducing working hours to lessen pressure, or managing human resources more efficiently instead of wasting them, you always ignore my warnings." "And now I am the General commanding the PDF forces. I report directly to the Governor of the Star, not the Korvax family, and I will not take sides." He looked at his brother with an expressionless face. There was no blatant anger, only coldness and deep-seated hatred.

 

Valen stared at his younger brother with an unreadable gaze. He was silent for a moment before slowly rising to his feet. His imposing presence made Van seem like a dark shadow moving in the corner of the room.

 

Valen reached into his expensive silk robe and pulled out an object, placing it on the metal table with a clink. It was a sleek, black steel pistol, resembling the legendary M1911 from antiquity, meticulously preserved. It looked simple yet powerful and steeped in history. Valen slid the gun towards Van and uttered a sentence that shattered the silence in the room.

 

"This is your last chance. I hope you'll use it wisely."

 

With that, Valen turned and walked out of the room without waiting for a reply, leaving Van sitting motionless behind the table, his remaining eye staring at the gun with an indescribable emotion. His heart pounded with utter confusion and shock.

 

Memories flashed back 15 years, to a time when the Corvax mansion still stood majestically. The young Vann wasn't the tall, muscular, scarred man he was today. He was a portly young man with pale, almost sun-kissed skin, his face puffy from heavy drinking and a life of debauchery.

 

He sprawled on an expensive velvet sofa in a room filled with the pungent scent of perfume and leftover scraps of luxurious food. He was surrounded by bottles of expensive drinks and littered with silk garments.

The door was forcefully pushed open. Valen burst in, his usual dignified and sharp demeanor. He glared at his younger brother with undisguised pity and disgust.

 

"Vann... get up now," Valen said sternly. "Go do something useful for the family. I gave you the opportunity to help manage the 64 bp area, but you sent a representative and are wasting precious time indulging in pleasure in this filthy room?"

 

 

Vann looked up at his older brother. He chuckled softly, taking a nonchalant sip from his drink.

 

"Oh... Valen, why are you so stressed?" Vann replied in a drawn-out, arrogant tone, like a spoiled nobleman.

 

"Our family has enough money to last ten lifetimes. You should just be the 'model son.' As for me... I was born to find happiness, not to sit around sniffing old papers in that office. It's a waste of time." He shrugged, his excess flesh rippling.

 

"Besides... Dad loves me to death. Even if I do nothing, he'll never let me starve. You should worry about yourself. Working so hard will age you faster, brother *burp*." He let out an unashamed burp after he finished speaking. Valen stood still, his fists clenched, veins bulging. He stared at his younger brother, who was laughing heartily, completely lacking in intelligence and responsibility. Silence fell over the room for a moment before Valen spoke in a voice so cold it sent shivers down Vann's spine.

 

"Is that your answer?"

 

"Yes! And now, please leave. I'm going to call the girls in for more partying. Don't interrupt my fun!" Vann waved him away like a fly. Valen said nothing more. He turned and walked out of the room, leaving his portly younger brother laughing mockingly amidst the crumbling wealth that would soon collapse.

 

Valen looked even more weary then than he did now. His older brother had offered reason and warnings time and again, but he chose to laugh and walk away. Until the mysterious death of their older sister (which was Valen's doing) changed everything. Power fell into Valen's hands, and just a few days later, he was thrown from the mansion into the depths of the Lower Hive by servants, on the orders of their father who had heard the disgusting "truth" about him from Valen's own lips.

 

Vann remembered the feeling well. He was a pathetic coward. Noss curled up amidst the garbage, the stench of sewage, and the pollution, about to give up and starve to death like a dog. Amidst his hazy consciousness and the ringing of hunger, a shadowy figure approached and stopped beside him. What he heard then was a whisper he thought was a voice from hell…

 

"This is your last chance. I hope you'll make the most of it."

 

The icy touch of a metal gun handle was thrust into his trembling hand before the figure vanished into the shadows of the slum. That gun was what transformed him from victim to hunter; it was what paved his way from the mud to the rank of general today.

 

And now… seeing that same gun before him again, hearing the same words spoken by Valen, Vann realized the most terrifying truth.

 

The person who forced that gun into his hand in the slums 15 years ago… the person who pushed him into hell only for him to climb back up as a better version of himself… was none other than his older brother, the one he had hated his entire life.

 

Why would his brother do this?

 

(Writer's note: Vann's past is also the reason why many nobles and others don't trust or have confidence in his advice.) Even though the advice was good and helpful.)

 

 

_____________________________________________

 

 

Upper Hive (Lower Section)

 

"Finally," Eric, dressed in a long-sleeved shirt and trousers, muttered to himself, sighing deeply before wiping the sweat from his forehead. He had just finished assembling a thin metal chest of drawers.

 

His room now had the necessary furniture, which he had bought that morning. Most of it was foldable furniture that he could move alone, such as a temporary wardrobe, folding chair, small folding table, and a folding bed.

 

He wanted to ask for help from others or staff, but he felt strangely nervous and apprehensive, so he didn't ask for help or use a moving service. But it didn't really affect him much, since he managed to move everything into the room himself. He didn't know if he was being overly paranoid... but at least it was better than being completely careless.

 

And now, even though he couldn't move the heavy, high-quality furniture, his room looked better and more livable, even though the walls were currently gray. The store didn't sell any paint or wallpaper, which was strange, but maybe it was normal. Eric picked up a bottle of water and took a drink. In his opinion, the water and food in the upper hive were far superior in quality to those in the lower hive, and the prices weren't exorbitant considering the income of those working there. It was heaven. Most importantly, there was a much wider variety of food, although most was canned goods and starch bars. He also happened to pass a bar while browsing for furniture.

 

Suddenly, he realized something was missing.

 

Was he missing a large mirror?

 

No, he'd just bought one, and it was hanging on the wall.

 

He only had about four or five pieces of clothing, all quite old and not quite fitting the upper hive residents' attire—too plain, too plain, even his plain t-shirts and underwear. He needed new clothes. With that thought, he grabbed his bag, prepared some money, and left his room.

 

Eric walked along the street for about ten minutes until he reached the shopping district, a collection of shops selling various goods, from household items to food.

 

Seeing a bookstore, he didn't hesitate to go in and buy a guidebook on using low gothic language before quickly leaving.

 

_Because if anyone saw him, they'd surely laugh at him,_ Eric thought to himself.

 

Eric walked into a clothing store, which was elegantly decorated inside and had a wide variety of clothes, from short-sleeved shirts and shorts to lingerie, various types of robes, and even a counter offering custom-made clothing.

 

Eric immediately went to the section with simple yet stylish long-sleeved trousers and work shirts. He wanted something inconspicuous, modest, and not too luxurious that he would be uncomfortable. The problem was:

 

Should he buy a dark gray or a black-gray shirt?

 

 

Three hours later,

 

Eric, now dressed casually, sat motionless on the edge of his room bed. The light from the lamp illuminated his confused and flushed face. He hesitantly picked up a small object, as if it were a ticking time bomb.

 

It was just a pair of light pink underwear.

 

"...What have I done?" Eric muttered to himself, his voice trembling with disbelief. He raised one hand to his forehead.

 

He'd just gone to the clothing store to buy four or five more outfits, and he'd ended up with quite a few—mostly long-sleeved shirts, pants, and coats, mostly modest and healthy-looking clothes, along with some spare undershirts and underwear.

 

After about an hour of deliberation, he'd settled on a dark gray long-sleeved shirt and dark gray pants, which matched perfectly. He spent another hour shopping for other items like t-shirts, shorts, and underwear.

 

But standing in front of the underwear section, his thoughts raced. He remembered needing to buy more personal hygiene products because he was running low. He'd chosen the best quality, breathable fabrics. The seams didn't chafe, but why... why did it turn out to be such a "sweet pink"?

 

"What was I thinking buying this color?" Eric argued with himself inwardly. He stared at the pink fabric in his hand with a slightly wary, but mostly embarrassed, expression. He touched the fabric... honestly, it was very soft, and the stitching was excellent for the price. In terms of value and usability, it was a pretty worthwhile choice.

 

"But pink! I'm a man... I mean... I'm still a man inside!" he groaned inwardly. A surge of shyness and insecurity welled up, making him want to disappear into the ground. If anyone else, even Livia, saw this, he wouldn't know where to hide his face. Eric quickly spun around to check if the door was locked (even though he'd checked three times already) before hastily folding the problematic pink fabric and stuffing it into the deepest part of the drawer.

 

_Just a backup... an emergency backup, I guess._ "No way would I wear that on a normal day! No way!" He tried to rationalize it, but then remembered how expensive the lingerie was. Throwing it away would be a bad idea.

 

He flopped down on the bed, even though it wasn't time to sleep yet. He sighed deeply, exhausted. Not from work, but from dealing with his own habits and tastes that seemed to be changing little by little without him realizing it.

 

"Tomorrow... I have to look for a job. I need to focus on work. Forget about that pink, Eric. Forget it." He tried to distract himself and force himself to sleep.

 

But after much hesitation, Eric finally decided to try it on... He slowly opened his eyes before getting up and changing into the pink lingerie. He wasn't very confident while changing because it was pink, and he didn't know what he would look like in it.

 

It would be so embarrassing.

 

After putting it on completely, his first feeling was how incredibly embarrassing it was to wear something like that, and he felt unsafe wearing it, even though he was alone in his room. The next sensation was surprise; the feel wasn't much different from regular underwear, just more comfortable.

 

However, when he saw his reflection in the new mirror he'd bought that day, Eric froze for a moment, bewildered by the feeling that welled up inside him. Instead of disgust or resistance, he found that... the image before him looked strangely "good."

 

 

 

 

"This isn't so bad," the thought popped into his head unexpectedly. He didn't usually look in the mirror, but as he examined his body, his perspective changed. Previously, he'd just glanced at it with discomfort—because his appearance made him seem like a target, a victim, and made life difficult.

 

Today, however, he saw surprisingly perfect proportions. A waist that complemented his shapely hips, smooth yet strong thighs, and a flat, toned stomach. Everything seemed balanced. Even… well… those two lumps of fat on his chest strangely suited his overall physique. And the color of his bra suited him surprisingly well.

 

His gaze and right hand drifted down to the faint scar on his left abdomen, and the numerous other scars from the brutal surgery performed by that psychotic Tech-Priest. Eric lightly touched the scars on his stomach and frowned slightly in displeasure.

 

"These scars… they don't fit at all," he muttered to himself, slightly annoyed that his perfect physique was being ruined by them. But he didn't make a big fuss about it, because these scars were from surgery. If he was correct, judging from the details the tech priest had written on the receipt, he'd had a kidney transplant, 25% of his liver, and part of his intestines. The treatment was incredibly expensive, and he still couldn't find the person who paid for it. He desperately wanted to thank them.

 

However, suddenly, Eric jolted as if he'd been electrocuted. He realized he was standing in front of a mirror, twisting and turning, scrutinizing his figure in pink lingerie with a dreamy look in his eyes—a look he absolutely shouldn't be having on himself!

 

"Ugh..."

 

A burning sensation shot up his face, spreading to his ears, turning them bright red. Eric quickly raised his loosely clenched left hand to his blushing cheek, trying to hide his embarrassment that no one could see. But he couldn't bear to look at himself in the mirror any longer.

 

"Enough! Stop staring at yourself in the mirror, you idiot Eric!" Eric muttered to himself, his eyes darting away nervously. He held his loosely clenched left hand close to his cheek. Then he draped his right arm across his body, covering his chest

 

(Illustration by the writer, who has now solved the problem of drawing body proportions.)

 

.

Eric hastily grabbed a gray t-shirt and shorts, putting them on with trembling hands. His heart pounded from sheer shame at himself.

He shouldn't have done this, and he shouldn't look at himself like this. What he had done was awful.

 

 

Eric settled back down at his bedside table, trying to compose himself. He took deep breaths to clear the images from his mind. He shifted his attention to the pile of Low Gothic books he'd bought that morning, along with the furniture in front of him.

 

"Yes... work is more important," he murmured softly, reminding himself. He was confident his language skills were good enough to communicate; reading and writing were much more fluent. However, there were still some sentences and words he didn't understand. He needed to study more and find a job as soon as possible. Staying cooped up in his room living off his savings wasn't good in the long run.

But suddenly, a thought popped into his head.

 

_What would he look like in lace lingerie?_

 

Slap!

 

Eric slapped himself across the face before continuing

to read. He would never do something like that!

 

______________________________________________

 

Writer's Note: Now we've learned more about our two main characters.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 36: 36

Summary:

"Um... excuse me," Eric tried to make his voice as polite and gentle as possible.

Day 341 of the 987th year of the 41st millennium

Location: "Spires' Edge" Reception Room

Atop the skyscraper, at the midpoint between the Korvax and Thalric family territories.

Valen Korvax stood elegantly sipping exquisite Amazec. Today, he was dressed in a sleek, all-black, semi-military nobleman's attire, devoid of any extravagant ornaments, with only a small family crest on his chest. In reality, his physique was well-proportioned and robust, unlike most nobles who were either obese or emaciated from indulgence.

Opposite him stood Lord Thalric, a stout man in an unnecessarily cumbersome silk robe embroidered with gold thread. His face was damp with sweat, and his eyes darted around constantly. He sighed softly before taking out a hologram projector and placing it on the table, revealing an area within the Thalric family's territory adjacent to his own in the lower hive.

It was clear that the lights from the machinery and factories in his territory were still almost constantly on. He had already begun repairing the factories and started reallocating some of the budget intended for upper hive repairs to expedite the repairs to the majority of the factories in the lower hive.

However, he had indeed increased the workers' working hours to 20 hours a day, which was like hell. At least the factories were still operating, and he would gradually reduce working hours once they met their production quotas for this cycle. Then, those workers would return to their usual 12-hour workdays.

As for the rebellion, Valen wasn't overly concerned. He had implemented decisive measures to ensure a future rebellion, using his private army to closely monitor the areas and suppress any instigators before they escalated.

On the other side, the factories in the Thalric family's territory were pitch black, with only scattered lights, indicating that the area hadn't undergone any repairs or restoration since the war. Valen took a moment to pause before the scene shifted to the new temple being built in the Thalric family's upper hive. It was a rather magnificent temple, decorated with gold and marble, and included statues of saints still under construction.

"Isn't it magnificent, Valen?" Thalric pointed proudly at the golden dome.

"Arch-Deacon assured me that as soon as that 50-meter-tall statue of the saint is completed, the light of faith will dispel the discouragement of the laborers, and productivity will skyrocket!" Thalric said with a proud tone. Valen raised one eyebrow, glancing at the dome and then at the figures in his hand. He thought the doctor must have been tricked by Arch-Deacon.

 

"Thalric... I don't mean to be disrespectful, but do you know that the money you donated to the Church yesterday was enough to completely repair the air purification system in Sector 4, your jurisdiction?" Valen asked in a cold, questioning tone. He was extremely frustrated with the inefficiency and absurdity of the massive budget being wasted. What's wrong with his rival today? From being a cunning, overweight guy, he's now completely stupid. He wonders if his rival has been brainwashed or perhaps manipulated by some woman the Church sent as a concubine.

"Oh, Valen, you're such a materialist," Thalric laughed shrilly.

"Air to breathe is important, but a pure spirit is even more important! If the workers have faith, they'll work their hearts out." Thalric continued nonchalantly.

"Dead workers can't pray, my friend, and corpses can't be unscrewed," Valen said with a feigned tone, slowly setting down his wine glass before walking closer to Thalric. An aura of power radiated, forcing the portly lord to take a step back.

"Don't call me nosy... but look at these numbers," Valen scrolled through another image and pointed to a blood-red holographic graph.

"The death rate of workers from lung disease in your territory has skyrocketed by 300% in a single month. You're building a golden temple in the middle of a graveyard, Thalric... If all your workers die, who will produce ammunition for the Administratum? Do you think the central tax authorities will accept 'prayers' instead of 'war machines, guns, and armor'?" Valen questioned.

"B-but Arch-Deacon said..." Thalric tried to argue, but the mere mention of that priest's name caused Valen to frown in frustration and interrupt him.

"That fat Arch-Deacon isn't the one getting punished for not meeting his quotas," Valen cut him off with a harsh but true statement.

"Listen, I'm not saying this because I'm a good person." "Or are you worried that I also exploit my people? But I provide them with food and air so they can have the strength to work for me until the day they die... That's called sustainable resource management," he explained.

"But this is my family's money! You have no right to interfere!" Thalric's voice grew harsher. Valen sighed deeply, a terrifying smile playing on his lips, more frightening than a shout.

"Suit yourself... But let me tell you something. If next year our Hive City's production plummets because your district fails, I won't be the one to suffer the consequences. I'll write a report to the new stargazing governor stating, 'Lord Thalric, the devout, chose to create golden statues instead of producing weapons for the Emperor's army, and I, Valen Korvax, have absolutely no involvement in the declining production.'" Thalric's face instantly turned pale, his hand holding the wine glass trembling.

"You... what would you gain from doing that? We should be allies."

"There are no useless allies in this world, Thalric. Think about it, and if I become your ally..." "I'll only stand to lose and suffer the consequences," Valen said in a cruel voice, brushing invisible dust from his shoulder.

"Go fix the air filter and sewer pipes, and stop wasting money on the Church... or prepare yourself, because if your territory collapses, I will send my soldiers to 'take over' it... and I assure you, I'm far better at managing than you." Valen finished speaking, turning and walking out of the room, leaving Thalric trembling. Thalric knew that if a fight broke out, he would surely lose, and his entire family could be wiped out.

 

______________________________________________

Day 341 of the 987th year of the 41st millennium

Eric pushed open the door to his still empty room, his strength almost completely gone. He leaned back against the closed door and let out a long, weary sigh. Exhaustion gnawed at him, a feeling that penetrated to the bone. He'd spent the entire day scouring offices and factories in Lower Upper Hive for job applications. He hated it.

In this futuristic world with some incredibly advanced technology but no internet and terrible public relations, he had to search for jobs on bulletin boards or walk into factories and offices, only to be rejected most times.

He pursed his lips in frustration at the condescending stares of the recruitment officers, simply because they knew he'd previously lived in Lower Hive before being granted Upper Hive citizenship. But he was starting to get used to it; these people always discriminated against those from Lower Hive.

"Damn it," he muttered to himself, slumping down onto the gleaming floor of his room. He painstakingly removed his constricting dark brown boots.

But then, amidst the weariness, a faint smile slowly appeared on his weary face. Eric reached into the pocket of his blue uniform and pulled out a piece of paper with an official seal, looking at it again.

He had gotten the job!

Even though it was a large machinery parts factory located almost at the edge of the lower floors, the position he'd been given was "Warehouse Accountant," a miracle for someone with his background. And it wasn't beyond his capabilities at all; he could handle far more complex tasks, and do them well. He could use his management skills from his previous life to score well on the initial test, even earning the foreman's acceptance, albeit reluctantly.

"At least I won't have to stand hunched over machines for 12 hours a day," he thought, feeling immense relief. Memories of the first two months in this strange world still haunted him. The time he had to endure eating 'Corp Starch,' those bland, slightly rancid-smelling flour bars, for every meal in the lower slums was a nightmare he never wanted to repeat. Now, all he would be doing was paperwork. And there's a variety of food to eat every day, even if it's canned food. It's not corp starch, Eric thought as he sat down and leaned back in his chair.

He changed into comfortable clothes and began to relax, a habit he followed when alone in his safe space. He examined his ink-stained fingertips from writing on his application, thinking about a future that seemed to be starting to look brighter and more stable.

"Tomorrow, I need to wake up earlier... and dress impeccably." Eric began to plan systematically, falling back into the habits of his former life as an office worker.. He wasn't sure what the dress code would be there, but he would dress as neatly and professionally as possible. Even though this world seemed crazy, dark, and full of rules he didn't understand, sitting in a private office, dealing with numbers and documents, seemed like the best option for someone like him.

But he felt the pain in his stomach again. Damn!

He gently stroked his stomach near the scar. He wasn't sure if something strange had been inserted during the surgery, but the pain began to subside as a feeling of relief replaced it.

"Tomorrow... what will my work be like? Surely it'll be better than my previous job," he whispered to himself, before walking to the cupboard and taking out tonight's dinner—just bread and ready-to-eat canned grox meat.

While he was still chewing his food, he was thinking. He actually liked the taste; it was much better than corp starch, but it was still less delicious than sausages or any other food he'd eaten in the present day, around the year 2000. In his opinion, the texture and taste of the creature called grox were quite similar to beef.

Or maybe he should buy a microwave oven to make his food taste better. As he walked past an appliance store, he wasn't sure if it could even be called a microwave; it was a rectangular box decorated with the Mechanicus symbol, seemingly with the functions of a standard microwave, but its shape was unfamiliar, even though it was also rectangular.

After that, he showered, changed clothes again, and went to bed immediately.

 

__________________________________________

Day 342 of the 987th year of the 41st millennium

The next morning

Eric woke up and prepared himself enthusiastically. Today was his first day at his new job. He quickly showered and got dressed, choosing a rather formal and neat outfit, and meticulously styled his hair. He even stood in front of the mirror, adjusting his hairstyle several times before making sure it looked good.

"That's enough, Eric... don't worry about it so much," he said, stopping his hair-styling.

He also tried to practice his poses, as he wasn't very confident. He packed his necessary items into a small bag, which contained only a few things, including a notebook with a vocabulary of low gothic words that he had written down for emergencies because he didn't remember every single word.

Once everything was ready, he locked his room before walking to the train station to go to the area where his workplace was located. The atmosphere Eric encountered was quite familiar—the crowded trains with people all working the same way as him, rushing to get to work on time. He squeezed into the train with the others, trying to make himself as small as possible.

A large train stopped at a station, and Eric quickly stepped out, heading straight for his workplace—a machinery manufacturing plant.

Eric stepped onto the factory grounds on his first morning, trying to suppress his nervousness. Surely no one was looking at him specifically... he was dressed in his well-provided formal attire, and his white hair was neatly styled. Yet, his eyes remained wary, glancing left and right as he walked along the factory corridors.

He walked to the check-in area before heading to his desk. The initial corridors still bore traces of oil and soot on the thick steel walls. The smell of metal and industrial chemicals filled the air, making him clench his tongue. It wasn't as bad as the factory in the Lower Hive where he used to work to make a living. There, he had to wear a gas mask at all times and thick suits to protect against the heat and chemicals; it was stuffy, smelly, and incredibly hot. From the outside, this factory certainly looked better than the one downstairs, but he wasn't a worker there.

But as he walked deeper into the office area, the environment became noticeably cleaner. Despite the stale smell of recycled air and the strange, incense-like scent of the tech priests wafting through the air, he walked past a large office with its door slightly ajar. Inside, he noticed a seemingly eccentric tech-priest engrossed in a futuristic-looking, glowing green holographic screen displaying three-dimensional images of ancient-looking machine parts. Eric gazed at the image with a mixture of amazement and curiosity.

_Okay... at least technology these days has some cool stuff,_ he thought hopefully to himself. He wondered what might be on his own desk; maybe a computer, or something similar.

 

_Laser guns, plasma guns, and holograms are already everywhere, so why wouldn't there be computers?_Eric tried to think positively, because honestly, he couldn't predict anything that would surprise him in this future world. It had always been like this—crazy, deranged, perverted people, three-armed, bald mutants, aliens—everything he encountered was quite unexpected.

As for technology, he thought this future world was quite advanced. The medical technology was quite sophisticated (though they might not care much about the feelings of those receiving treatment). The weapons technology included laser and plasma guns, artificial limbs, and perhaps, if they weren't lying about being able to travel in space, one day he might get to see a spaceship. But judging from the style of the residences and government buildings of the Imperial of Man, he didn't even want to imagine what their spaceship would look like.

"Maybe there'll be a church mounted on top," Eric thought jokingly. But no one would do that, would they? Attaching a large church to a spaceship arm? He stopped his fanciful thoughts and focused on what was in front of him right now.

But as he reached his assigned desk… Eric stopped short, a mixture of disbelief and surprise on his face.

In front of him, on a dull gray iron desk, lay a massive metal machine covered in keys engraved with Gothic lettering. It was a heavy-duty, old-fashioned mechanical typewriter. Beside it lay a stack of papers, presumably production reports from the factory.

"Wait a minute…" Eric murmured softly, touching his forehead. Something must be wrong. Had he come to the wrong desk?

He sighed, gazing at the metal, monstrous-tooth-like keys. His thoughts were being challenged. He inwardly grumbled about the unreliable contradictions of this futuristic technology.

_If there were orcs or elves in this future world, it wouldn't be so strange._

"Well, Eric… you don't have to write everything with a pen," he reassured himself, pulling out his chair and sitting down. Amidst the deafening roar of the machinery outside the factory, he tried to see this desk as his small, safe space. He didn't have the right to complain much anyway; his job was to work and get paid, not to whine about trivial things like this.

According to the job description, all he had to do was record the numerical data into a table for easy checking. He picked up the first sheet of the report and read it before carefully placing his fingertips on the typing keys and recording the data into the table. Otherwise, he'd have to start typing from the beginning again. Despite his frustration with the device in front of him, he was determined to do his best, because this was his only chance to avoid having to eat those awful-tasting snacks in the slums again.

 

The clacking sound of the typewriter began to echo in the silence of his private office. It was a signal of the start of a new life as an accountant, a life he had longed for since entering this crazy future.

The clacking sound continued in the cramped office. Eric was gradually adjusting his typing pace to the typewriter, but his brows remained furrowed as he glared at the stack of reports from the factory's inventory counters. The handwriting was illegible, and some numbers seemed to have been completely overwritten.

"Damn it, is this really the space age?" he muttered to himself as he struggled to decipher the handwriting of whoever had recorded the information on these papers.

_Why is this data management system so disorganized? If this were the company I used to work for, these reports would have been rejected on the first page._ As he tried to type the 'S' key, it jammed and squeaked, a truly irritating sound. Eric sighed, considering the internal mechanism. He suspected something was wrong.

"The oil's completely dried up... If I keep using it, the machine's going to break in my hands," he muttered to himself. Not wanting to delay work on his first day, he decided to pick up the empty oil container and head out of the room towards the maintenance department next door.

He stopped in front of a room with a skull and gear symbol, his heart pounding with apprehension as he recalled his bad experience with the Tech-Priest at the hospital. He took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

"Um... excuse me," Eric tried to make his voice as polite and gentle as possible.

"My typewriter's stiff, I was wondering if I could borrow some lubricant..." A figure in a dull red robe slowly turned around. Eyes behind crimson cybernetic lenses glared at him. The Tech-Priest had tubes protruding from his neck and held an iron scroll, muttering softly.

"You have interrupted a prayer to the spirits of machines..." A emotionless, synthesized voice boomed from the speaker embedded in his throat.

"Holy oil is not something to be given without ritual," the tech priest said with a voice full of respect. Eric stood stunned for a moment.

“Just to ask for oil for my typewriter, do I have to pray?” he muttered to himself, questioning the situation. Outwardly, however, he maintained an innocent expression and nodded understandingly. It seemed he would have to learn to utilize this tech priest’s fanaticism and ritualistic nature.

As far as he could remember, they believed every machine possessed something called a “machine spirit,” and they revered it greatly, taking special care of their machines for fear of angering it and causing malfunctions.

He figured out what to say.

“Forgive me, sir… but I fear the machine spirit in my typewriter is ‘thirsty’ and might get angry if I continue typing without giving it oil.” Eric said in a calm voice. The Tech-Priest paused briefly, as if processing his words, before slowly nodding.

“Hmm… you understand the needs of machines… Take this. Sprinkle it on its joints while reciting Hymn 41.” The tech priest said, handing him a small container of oil. Eric accepted it with slightly trembling hands. To be honest, he'd never liked tech priests. Tech priest was rather strange, frightening, and emotionless, and other behaviors made him want to quickly escape from this creepy atmosphere. Except for Magda; she was relatively friendly and normal, even though he didn't know her well-being.

_And how do you even recite Hymn 41? Whatever._ Eric muttered. But then again, he shouldn't think too much about it; it was a waste of time. The next thing he needed to do was oil the gears/mechanism and get back to work.

However, just as he was about to turn around, he almost bumped into someone standing behind him.

"Oh... I'm sorry," Eric exclaimed, instinctively stepping back.

 

"Oh! Excuse me, new accountant," said a tall, thin young man in a shabby mechanic's uniform with an awkward smile. He held a large gear in his hand.

"My name is Carl. I'm an apprentice here... Don't mind Gestalt; he's quite the formality." Eric looked at Carl with a slight wariness, but seeing the friendly and seemingly "normal" look in Carl's eyes, his apprehension lessened a little, though he remained somewhat cautious.

"I'm... Erica. It's my first day," Eric introduced himself.

"Nice to meet you, Erica. If your typewriter has any more problems, let me know. Don't ask Gestalt for help. I can secretly put some ordinary oil on it. But don't tell Gestalt about that, or I'll be in big trouble," Carl whispered, chuckling softly. Eric gave a strained smile in return. Although making his first new friend seemed strange and somewhat unsettling, deep down he felt a little relieved.

"Thanks for your help, but I can do it myself. I know a little bit," Eric replied before hurrying to his desk and lubricating the stiff and jammed parts of his typewriter before continuing his work.

Three hours later

CRACK!!!

_Damn it! Why is this happening?!_ Eric screamed inwardly as a sheet of paper summarizing the total number of machine parts produced in Factory No. 1 for the day, which he was almost finished writing, was completely messed up by a single typo. He had to retype it all.

On a computer, a typo was a trivial nuisance—a simple backspace away from nonexistence. But on this mechanical beast, there was no undo button. A single mistake meant starting over.

Eric sighed deeply, carefully picking the sheet of paper from the roller. The paper screeched against the machine with a "zip!"

...He thought, scanning the contents of the sheet. Luckily, it was just a short summary sheet of numbers, not a report or anything similar; otherwise, he would be even more frustrated.

"Well, Eric..." "Calm down, it's just my first day of work," he reassured himself, crumpling the paper and tossing it into the metal trash can beside him.

He took a deep breath to calm his troubled emotions before picking up a new sheet of paper and inserting it into the machine with more concentration.

He placed his fingertips on the Gothic alphabet keys once more. This time, he wouldn't make any more mistakes. But he had to hurry because lunchtime was almost here. He wouldn't miss this precious moment!

 

 

_____________

 

 

Author: Vann Korvax in his current appearance, and Vann when he was cosplaying as a radio operator.

Chapter 37: 37

Summary:

" Planetary Governor , huh?"

Day 348, Year 987, 41st Millennium

Hive Spire

The atmosphere along the long marble corridor leading out of the Hive Spire was silent. Only the sound of Valen Korvax's steady and graceful footsteps could be heard, followed by his personal guards in copper-colored iron armor in orderly fashion. But then his footsteps halted as a tall figure in a general's uniform emerged from the dark corner of the corridor. Vann stood there, his single remaining eye staring at his hated brother with an expression too complex to describe. A pistol was tucked into his waist.

"You made your decision sooner than I thought, Vann," Valen said, his voice flat but with a deep sense of satisfaction. Vann, hearing his brother's words, merely chuckled softly.

"I didn't do it for you..." "Valen, I just don't want to see this city reduced to ashes by the foolishness of those greedy nobles," Vann said in a voice that was almost hoarse and full of a hint of coldness as he stepped forward and stopped in front of his hated older brother. Valen thought that his younger brother couldn't possibly be so naive as to not know what might happen—that those greedy nobles might seize the position of Planetary Governor. No, that was impossible, because his brother was too cunning.

"I'll temporarily side with the Korvax family to maintain peace... and the citizens of Hive City. But tell me honestly, brother," Vann narrowed his eyes, staring at Valen's handsome and cold face.

"All these plans... pressuring me, forcing that gun on me 15 years ago, and now this—are you just paving the way to become the new Planetary Governor? Is the power over everyone on this planet really that tempting?"
Vann asked, his voice clearly demanding an answer. Hearing this, Valen frowned slightly, a faint wrinkle appearing on his forehead before quickly disappearing. To be honest, he didn't hate his younger brother that much. Even though fifteen years ago his brother had been a dissolute, fat, spoiled brat, he still loved him a little. Back then, he'd decided to give him a gun.

" Planetary Governor , huh?" Valen repeated, shaking his head slowly. He wanted to laugh at his brother. If he wanted to be the new Governor of the Stars, he would have openly offered himself. Besides, it wouldn't benefit him at all.

"Don't underestimate me like that. You're either overestimating me or underestimating the situation, Vann. In this dark world, that position isn't just a throne; it's a huge target mounted on your forehead." He moved closer to Vann, whispering with a decisive tone.

"I'm doing all this for stability. If bloodshed occurs from the power struggles of those brainless nobles, the Korvax family and Hive City must suffer the least possible impact... As for the governorship? Hmph. I've only managed to recover half of my territory from the war. Bearing the burden of the entire star right now would be foolish of me to do." Valen patted Vann's shoulder lightly. It was a touch that reminded Vann of the chilling coldness of gun handles in the slums years ago.

"Take good care of your PDF soldiers, Vann. Prepare for the 'storm' that's coming. I don't know what will happen after the governor election... As for power? Let's wait until this city has clean water and all the factories are fully operational before we discuss that." Valen said with a smile. Anyway, he now indirectly had an increased military force, even if it wasn't entirely his. Vann looked at him as if he had something important to say or a request.

"Brother, please listen to me about the risk of a workers' rebellion. According to my intelligence, there's a high risk of further unrest. Could you reduce the workers' working hours by one or two hours?" Vann asked pleadingly. Valen carefully considered his brother's request.

In about a year, it would be time to pay taxes, and he didn't want the production of armored vehicles and weapons to drop. Reducing working hours by one or two hours might cause production targets to fall. He wanted to keep the working hours at the normal 12 hours, of course. Because it would reduce the stress on the workers and the chances of resistance and rebellion. But he couldn't do it... not now.

"I'll think about this... take care of yourself," Valen said, then led his guards past his younger brother, heading towards his mansion, leaving Vann standing alone in the hallway.

 

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Day 348, Year 987, 41st Millennium

Upper Hive

A week had passed with a schedule so packed that Eric barely had time to breathe. When it was time to leave work, he wasted no time heading to the flat area on the edge of the Upper Hive where Livia's small hair salon was located.

When he first saw her shop, he found it quite similar to any other hair salon he had ever seen, nothing particularly remarkable.

Eric stood in front of the shop, adjusting his coat collar. His eyes peered through the frosted glass into the interior, where Livia was busy arranging bottles of hair products on the shelves. He hesitated for a moment, wondering whether to go in, but finally decided to push the door open.

_But were his shoes stained with oil?_ Eric thought, pausing to check his shoes. Some areas in the factory where he worked were inevitably oily, and he had to walk through them. He didn't want to stain his friend's shop floor. As he bent down to check the floor for oil on his shoes...

"Boo!"

"Ah!!!" Eric cried out, jumping and almost losing his balance when a heavy, cold hand grabbed his right shoulder. Instinctively, Eric whirled around, wary, only to find Livia grinning behind him. Her metallic left hand still rested on his shoulder.

"Don't get startled so easily~" Livia laughed, pulling her hand back. The sound of her omatic arm's joints clicking softly echoed.

"Livia! Don't do that! Don't do that!" Eric grumbled, clutching his rapidly beating chest. His face flushed with embarrassment, but deep down, he felt good seeing Livia happy.

_If Maria and Rosa were still alive, everything would be so much more colorful_ Eric thought to himself with a touch of sadness before shaking off the thought. There was no point in dwelling on the past and the dead.

He glanced at her omatic left arm again. It looked simple and inexpensive enough for her to handle. Although it was a bit bulky, it made Livia seem... "Completely restored" after seeing her with one arm missing, Eric felt an overwhelming sense of relief. At least he didn't have to fear his friend becoming disabled and living a difficult life anymore.

"New arm... looks good, doesn't it? How is it? Is it alright?" Eric asked, moving closer to examine the prosthetic arm. At first glance, it looked like a typical prosthetic arm used by tech priests, but Eric could immediately tell the difference.

The cybernetic limbs used by tech priests were much shinier and more complex than Livia's prosthetic arm. And importantly, their prosthetic arms smelled of incense and spices.

"It's good, even though it's a bit heavy and unbalanced, and it makes a lot of noise at night. But it helps me cut hair again," Livia lifted the metal arm, wiggled her fingers, and rotated it.

"And you? How's the accounting job at the factory? I heard it's incredibly strict there, isn't it?" Livia asked, sounding slightly skeptical about him getting a job as an accountant at a factory. Eric sighed and walked over to sit on one of the metal chairs in the shop. Even his friends were puzzled. Why were the people in the upper hive so prejudiced against those in the lower hive?

"Ugh... don't even get me started, Livia. Everything has to be 'perfect' there. Even a single decimal place error and my boss practically kills me. But... at least it's much better than the job I used to do in the lower hive," Eric said, thinking of his extremely strict, meticulous, and fussy department head. Two days ago, he made a single decimal point error and was lectured for three hours, even threatened with dismissal. He was afraid of losing his job, but luckily, the head seemed hesitant to fire him, whatever the reason.

This work environment reminded him of when he was a new accountant and had a similar boss. Back then, he was just a freshman, but he didn't get scolded much before his salary was slightly cut.

Since then, Eric has been more careful at work. He's started opening up to her more, though he still maintains a somewhat insecure demeanor. Livia has told him about the strange customers who come to the shop. The two chatted casually.

For Eric, sitting and talking with Livia like this was a moment that made him feel safe and secure. He didn't have to worry about what she might do to him, and besides, she understood him to some extent.

He should find something fun to talk about with her, and he had an idea.

"And you know, don't you, those Arbites who patrol around here…?" Eric moved closer to Livia, lowering his voice. Livia, hearing this, immediately knew who he was talking about. She smiled slightly before replying with a laugh:

"Arbites who keep repeating the same phrases in a funny voice. They're hilarious…" Livia giggled, lightly tapping the table with her mechanical arm.

"Hahaha! We're here to uphold the law and collect taxes, not to please the people or the nobles!" Eric mimicked the Arbites' voice, maintaining a straight face. Livia just chuckled softly. They were chatting animatedly until Eric glanced at an old metal clock hanging on the shop wall. He froze for a second before his eyes widened in shock.

"Hey! Livia! What time is it!?" Eric yelled, jumping up from his chair.

"Uh... curfew is in ten minutes. Why?" Livia replied in a low voice.

 

"Ten minutes! Oh no!" Eric was on the verge of losing his mind. His paranoia was through the roof. He pictured himself being arrested by those arbitrators for breaking the law, simply for gossiping and making fun of one of them. If he were actually caught saying those things, it would be utterly ridiculous and unacceptable. What if he had to be photographed and subjected to a body search for evidence?

_Just thinking about it was terrifying_ Eric thought anxiously, picturing the three arbitrators examining him when he arrived at the refugee camp to confirm he wasn't an outcast or a mutant.

"Wait, Erika! Your bag!" Livia shouted, but it was too late.

Eric grabbed his bag, held it tightly, and ran out of the shop, the shop bell jingling rapidly. He quickly decided that running through the narrow alley was his only way out. And it was the only way for him to get back to his accommodation on time.

“Why did it have to be like this? If I had known, I should have finished everything sooner so I wouldn’t have to run like this,” he grumbled to himself, trying to maintain some composure as a normal woman, but at this moment, fear had completely overshadowed him.

Cityers who were gradually returning to their accommodations saw the slender figure running past them quickly. Eric ran, panting heavily, praying that he wouldn’t encounter anything that would force him to stop or delay him too long. He finally arrived in front of his apartment building at the last minute, just before the announcement sounded and the streets instantly deserted.

When the third-floor lock clicked and the peaceful silence of his room enveloped him, Eric let out a long sigh and tried to breathe slowly, catching his breath.

To be honest, Eric really liked the time he spent in his room because he didn’t have to pretend to be a woman in front of others, or worry about what others thought of him or any inappropriate thoughts… now he could be himself.

He took a shower to wash away the sweat and fatigue from running. Once his body was clean and refreshed by the water… He grabbed a tank top made of fabric so soft it was practically stretched out and some shorts, throwing his bra aside carelessly in the laundry basket. For him right now, comfort was far more important than appearance.

Eric stretched a little in the middle of the room, twisting left and right until his bones cracked softly, before slumping into the armchair beside the bed, completely exhausted.

"Ah... so good," he whispered, lifting his legs onto the bed and beginning to massage his shins and thighs, which were tense from his recent frantic run. His fingers kneaded the muscles that had become firmer from work and travel.

 

Although the silence made him feel safe, he couldn't help but grumble about work in his head.

"Damn it, there's so much paperwork... Don't people these days know how to use computers to manage information?... And that person checking the machinery count is still writing reports by hand." He muttered to himself, massaging his calves. Despite his complaints, he didn't want to quit; the salary was quite good. But he was afraid of being fired for those small mistakes that still gnawed at his mind.

Wait... he almost forgot, he just bought this.

Eric walked to his bag and pulled out the canned fruit he'd just bought from the store. It was quite expensive compared to bread or canned meat, but he wanted to try it. He hadn't eaten fruit since waking up in this future world, and he really wanted to.

He walked to the storage cabinet, picked up a spoon, and used the handle to pry open the can, revealing the white fruit soaked in syrup. A faint aroma of fruit and syrup wafted to his nose.

A faint smile appeared on his face. As he walked back to his usual chair, seated with a spoon in hand, he didn't hesitate to scoop up a piece of the syrupy, juicy fruit, bringing it to his lips before slowly taking a sip.

He chewed slowly, savoring the semi-crisp, semi-soft texture that burst in his mouth. The intense sweetness of the syrup spread across his tongue, mixed with its unique aroma. While it wasn't as refreshing as the fruits he knew from his old world, compared to most of the foods eaten in Hive City, like corpe starch, this canned fruit was considered quite luxurious.

"It tastes... like a peach mixed with something with a slightly metallic smell..." he murmured to himself, analyzing the texture.

"But it's alright..." He took a sip of the intensely sweet syrup. The sweetness was very soothing to the fatigue from his paperwork. Eric relaxed in his thin tank top and shorts. He didn't have to worry about anyone staring at his face or body, which he wasn't very confident about, like when he went out of the room.

His gaze fell on the closed window, reminiscing about his past life as an ordinary office worker. His job was simply to work, not to struggle for survival day by day like when he lived in the Under Hive, Lower Hive, and during his military service. He chuckled to himself, a dark sense of irony at how far fate had brought him.

"Heh heh..."

From someone who woke up in the Under Hive, gradually survived and overcame obstacles to finally sit on a chair and live a happier life in the Upper Hive, he felt incredibly lucky. Lucky to have gotten through everything.

He took the last piece of fruit, closed his eyes, and savored the taste and texture calmly. Right now, tasting this sweet treat made him feel wonderful. But he also felt he needed to stop eating this canned fruit...

...No... he wouldn't stop eating this canned fruit, just occasionally, otherwise his wallet would be empty.

______________________________________________

 

Day 348, Year 987, 41st Millennium

Somewhere in the Lower Hive

Amidst the dim light and the heavy, musty air filled with the stench of waste and sweat at the lowest level of the Lower Hive, the rhythmic clanging of metal from the tireless machinery gradually faded. Now, the poor workers finally had their meager rest.

A group of workers, dressed in tattered, dirty clothes, sat in a circle in a secluded corner of the slum area of the armor factory. Their faces were smeared with soot, exhaustion, and the accumulated anger of the past week.

"20 hours... They've only given us four hours of rest a day for three weeks now!" a thin man whispered, his voice trembling with weariness.

"Valen Korvax isn't human. He's a demon in nobleman's attire." "They see us as nothing more than coal to throw into the smelter!" shouted one man who knew a little about their rulers, before grabbing a bar of corp starch, the only food they had left.

"At my old Hive, at least they let us rest and pray," another added, clenching his fist.

"But here... here in Kathion, it's all exploitation. We're being moved around like cattle to replace those who died in the War of Xenos. I didn't come here to die under a machine!"

"We have to do something..." the ringleader said, his eyes fixed on the sewer map spread on the floor.

"I don't think we should do anything like this. There's very little chance these plans will work," a woman tried to object, but her opinion was quickly dismissed.

"Maybe we should just endure it," another man suggested.

"Cowardly," a voice retorted from one of the men.

"We need to prepare ourselves and find the right moment, when the patrol changes shifts." "We'll storm the Sector 7 arsenal and liberate ourselves from this tyrant! If we don't fight, we'll die anyway!" The curses and rebellion plans, spewed out in pent-up frustration, echoed through the cramped room. They were unaware that death was imminent.

Outside the thin iron door, an unusual silence enveloped the hallway. Normally filled with the sounds of its inhabitants, now only the faint murmurs of shotgun reloading and the checking of weapons and listening devices by the Korvax family's private purging unit remained. Their copper-colored armor blended into the darkness, helmets concealing their faces, green lenses reflecting a faint light.

These soldiers carried not only riot control batons, but also assault shotguns and fully loaded flamethrowers. The unit leader signaled calmly, every movement silent and precise, like professionals who had eliminated countless enemies and resistance fighters.

For Lord Valen Korvax, having learned from the devastating losses caused by the Geenstealer Cult and Chaos Rebellion, his master knew that past strictness and decisiveness were far too little. Normally, they were only tasked with suppressing workers who were demonstrating or rioting, which wasn't very frequent—only about once or twice a month.

But this time, their superior didn't want the damage to escalate and ordered them to constantly eliminate any resistance to prevent it from becoming a significant threat to the stability of the Lower Hive's production.

One soldier stood at the door and yanked it open with all his might. The door instantly came undone from its hinges before he entered first, followed by the others.

(Illustration)

 

Bang!!!

The first shotgun blast rang out, and the headless body of a man fell to the ground. The workers turned to look at the source of the sound in panic and fear, but they didn't have time to scream or do anything more as two more soldiers entered the room.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Several shotgun shots rang out before everything fell silent. The people in the area tried to keep quiet and hoped that these cruel and cold-hearted soldiers wouldn't notice them.

Now, the dilapidated room was filled with the lifeless bodies of workers lying in pools of blood. The unit leader ordered his men to dispose of the bodies immediately. Subordinate soldiers dragged the bodies out of the room one by one before piling them up in the hallway outside and using flamethrowers to incinerate them.

Whoosh!!!

The sound of flames from the flamethrowers illuminated the dimly lit hallway of the Lower Hive, filling the air with a pungent, musty smell from the surrounding environment.

 

The first soldier to enter the room was Staff Sergeant Kazian, leader of the Korvax's 65th Cleanup Unit, a veteran of the Genestealer forces. He stood silently, watching the orange flames engulf the bodies of those plotting the rebellion. He slowly lowered his assault shotgun, making the eagle salute on his chest with his free hand, mourning the unfortunate workers—just a few of the many groups they had cleared out over the past ten years.

In his ten years of maintaining peace in the Korvax territory, he had never worked this hard. Normally, riots or protests occurred only once or twice a year, but now their masters did not want it to escalate into a full-blown rebellion—a risk they could not accept now.

The Genestealer rebellion and attacks proved they needed to be even more ruthless to eliminate the threat that could destabilize their masters' power and threaten the Hive City. And that threat lay among these seemingly harmless workers and citizens.

"May the Emperor, seated on the golden throne, please receive these pitiful souls into his light..." Kazian murmured through his air-filtering mask. His voice was hoarse, filled with weariness and pity.

His soldiers began dragging the remaining bodies into a pile to destroy the evidence and prevent the spread of disease. Kazian looked at his hands, stained with black soot. He wasn't cold-blooded by nature, but he was a product of the cruelty that Hive City had molded and created.

He knew what he was doing was inhumane and unspeakably cruel. But as a well-fed soldier under the Korvax family, his children ate well and went to school, his wife lived in a clean and safe area. He had to become "blood on his hands" so that his wife and children could live comfortably and safely.

He knew that his lord, Lord Valen Korvax, wasn't someone who wanted to overwork people for 20 hours a day without reason. But with the central government's equipment quotas pressuring them, if armored vehicle production failed, it wouldn't just be these workers who would suffer, but the entire Hive City would be affected.

"If only they would have worked a little longer... they would have seen their families again, and perhaps lived on. But impatience always leads to death," Kazian sighed, adjusting the assault shotgun in his hand.

He ordered his men to quickly clear the area so they wouldn't waste time patrolling other areas. Kazian tried to shake the image of the terrified face of the foreman from his mind, and he easily did, returning to his duty as a faithful "cog" in Lord Valen Korvax's killing machine.

But as they trudged through the deafening silence of the underground corridors, broken only by the dripping water, Sergeant Kazian led his team through narrow alleys filled with rubbish and soot. The flashlight beam from his rifle darted cautiously around the dark corners.

"Damn it, Sergeant... the smell of burning is still lingering," one of the newly recruited soldiers grumbled over the radio. He was a flamethrower tasked with burning corpses.

"Normally we only do raids on the resistance once or twice a month, but lately, for some reason, we have to do it far too often," another soldier complained.

"Shut up and keep going," Kazian replied calmly. In his heart, he agreed with his subordinates. Such violent raids reflected the workers' extreme limitations; their patience was rapidly wearing thin, leading them to plot resistance, and they were tired of it.

The group stopped at the boundary between the two powers. Kazian gazed towards the Korvax family's side, where a faint light still lingered. And the sound of machinery rumbled rhythmically, like a pulse, signaling the revival of life in the heavy industrial plant, which was now half-recovered. Though brutal, it still seemed alive.

But as he peered over the steel barricades to the Thalric family's side, a sense of despair gnawed at him. That side was pitch black, devoid of any light. Even the sound of gears that should have been turning was silent, like a graveyard.
The air on that side seemed stagnant and more foul-smelling than before, likely because the ventilation system had been damaged during the war and remained unrepaired.

"Look at the Thalric side... it's like a ghost town. I heard the workers there are starting to starve because the family leader is busy building statues for saints to pray for blessings, instead of repairing the power plant. I heard it's just a rumor, but I don't know if it's true," another team member whispered, narrowing his eyes. Even with his helmet and mask covering his face, he could tell immediately that his subordinate must be feeling this way.

Kazian observed the contrast with a complex expression. He felt an inexplicable unease. One side was a dictatorship that overworked its workers to the point of near madness. But on the other side is another dictatorship, but one with inefficient governance that lets people die silently in the darkness.

_Either way, it's bad._

"At least our master knows the machines can't function without someone controlling them. Let's continue patrolling. Don't cross over to that side. Our duty is only to maintain order in our territory... As long as nothing goes wrong, everything will continue as normal," Kazian said softly, comforting himself and his team. They didn't want to get involved beyond their orders and duties. They had a job to do and people waiting behind them.

It would be incredibly foolish to overstep their assigned boundaries.

The cleanup unit turned their backs, walking away from the dark rift, heading back towards the harsh but orderly light of Korvax, unaware that the shadow of failure from the Thalric side was slowly creeping closer to their territory, in a form they might not expect.

___________________________________________

Writer's Note: When a rebellion occurs... Overt resistance or discontent among the civilians under the rule of the Korvax family arose in the aftermath of the war with the Genestealer.

The Korvax family's private soldiers, who were skilled not only at dealing with unarmed civilians, upon learning this,

Chapter 38: 38

Day 350 of the 987th year of the 41st millennium

Hive Alpha

Hive Spire

The atmosphere in the opulent Grand Stratos, constructed from rare woods and adorned with exquisite paintings and chandeliers made of rare jewels, was tense.

It was now permeated with the scent of expensive incense and the murmuring of gears from the Tech-Priests of Adeptus Mechanicus, who stood in rows around the room like iron statues. A holographic light from the center of the table cast a soft blue shadow on the faces of the powerful figures about to decide the fate of the stars.

Valen Korvax, dressed in sleek black, sat motionless in his position. His impeccably tailored, almost menacing, black uniform swept over the "circus" before him with a contemptuous expression hidden beneath his emotionless face.

"Lord Korvax... you are unusually quiet," said the cold, synthesized voice of Magos Juris, the representative from Mechanicus. From what Vann knew, this Magos was succeeding the previous Magos who died mysteriously. It was highly probable that it was an internal assassination, but he wasn't too concerned about it.

"While other lords are presenting their 'visions,' you sit motionless like a switched-off machine,"
Magos Juris continued. Valen merely raised an eyebrow at that statement. He didn't intend to comment much, at least not now.

"I've come to hear the facts, not to listen to fairy tales... Please continue with your visions. I don't want to interrupt the entertainment." He swept his gaze around the table where many nobles from various families were seated and conversing.
Lord Baron Hest of Hive Borders, a tall, thin man who maintained a clearly neutral demeanor, but his darting eyes indicated he was waiting to reap the benefits from the winner.

Baroness Vex, a haughty middle-aged woman, ruler of Hive Gocilix. She held her head high, her gaze sweeping over everyone in the room. Her expensive gown was adorned with rare alien furs worth enough to buy a Leman Russ tank.

Lord Gammos, a portly nobleman in jeweled attire, sat unrefined, munching on candied grapes. The ruler of the Hive Calusix reeked of alcohol, a sound that was sickening. He was there only to pressure the new governor to lower import taxes on entertainment.

Or even Lord Thalric, his rival… the diminutive, stout man trying to appear the most cunning in the room. He even had the audacity to attend the meeting today, his fingers laden with gold rings, laughing and nodding in agreement with the high clergy.

And many others, whose names he didn't know, were also in the meeting, each with their own distinct personality, some he liked, some he disliked.

"As a devout believer!" Thalric shouted, lightly tapping the table.

"I propose that the new governor increase the budget for the central temple." "May the Emperor's light protect us from the ravages of the recently concluded war!" Thalric proposed something that caused many to frown and burst into laughter at its foolishness.

Valen glanced at the numbers on his personal screen... Thalric's territory had seen another 15% drop in production this morning. The rebellion rate in that guy's Lower Hive was nearing a critical point, yet this idiot was suggesting building more temples. He didn't know if the Church had blown him in the head or brainwashed him.

 

"Thalric..." Valen interrupted with a cold, emotionless voice that silenced the entire room. "You know, don't you, that the 'Emperor's Light' won't help you solve your problems. And have you managed your own territory yet?" Valen asked, simultaneously revealing the truth to everyone, which was like rubbing the foot in Thalric's face.

"You faithless fool, Valen! You only care about gears and numbers!" Thalric's face flushed with shame and anger.

"I care about 'the truth'..." Valen replied, leaning back in his chair. "And this governor selection meeting is becoming a pipe dream. Whoever becomes governor is up to you, as long as that person doesn't ensure the planet's equipment export quota is met, otherwise we'll all be punished by the central government."

He adjusted his black sleeve. The ruthlessness of his actions made many nobles gasp, while others who were equally ruthless remained largely unfazed. Valen wasn't here to seize power. He was there to save face for his family and for the sole purpose of pretense. Besides, he didn't want a fool to be a leader.

At that moment, his gaze fell upon Lady Annes sitting in another corner. She continued to stare at him with a mysterious smile, a smile that made Valen feel that this tedious meeting might just be a facade for a more dangerous game.

Valen secretly sighed... His mind raced with thoughts of the reports he needed to reread and the permits he needed to approve. He didn't trust those officials at all. He understood the nature of the imperial bureaucracy.

For the most part, they were quite dedicated to their duties, but the imperial bureaucracy was incredibly inefficient, coupled with some nobles who sought illicit gain.

It was something he couldn't tolerate since he took office, leading him to intervene to improve things.

But suddenly, the atmosphere in the meeting room became increasingly tense as the debate shifted back to the "nomination" of the new governor. The holographic production graph, blood-red in several administrative districts, reflected on the cold metal table, seemingly exposing the failures of the nobles seated around it.

The production at Hive City, under each of the governing districts, as demonstrated by the conference participants, was very satisfactory. They were still able to produce weapons, armor, and other products according to their assigned quotas.

The Valen district, too, despite suffering heavy damage, was still able to manage its factories and district to produce weapons, armor, and other products according to quotas (by increasing the working hours of the workers in the Lower Hive from 12 hours to 20 hours).

 

Only a few had experienced such a drastic drop in production, and one of them was Thalric.

But anyway, Lord Thalric adjusted his clothes, puffing out his chest confidently. He wiped the sweat from his hairline before speaking in a voice he tried to sound powerful:

"Since the country demands a leader with 'spirit' and an understanding of faith... I, Lord Thalric of the Thalric family, offer myself as my own, to restore our planet with the light of hope!" The ensuing silence was more terrifying than the insults. Valen Korvax sat still, his yellow eyes staring at his rival with a sense of amazement... amazed by the audacity and baseless confidence of this man. He looked at the dark, failed hologram of Thalric's territory, then at the man himself, alternating between the two.

"Lord Thalric..." Magos Juris of Mechanicus's synthesized voice, sounding like a saw scraping against metal, "according to probability calculations, production in your territory has dropped to a level that..." "Unacceptable," and besides, we shouldn't be promoting the Church so much. That's not necessary right now."

"I agree with you, Lord Magos," the arrogant Baroness Vex said, fanning herself with a feather fan irritably. "You can't even manage your own territory properly. If you were governor, I fear we'd need all the incense on the planet to mask the stench of your failure. I don't support you."

Even the seemingly incompetent Lord Gammos shook his head.

"Sorry, friend, but if you were governor and ordered a ban on wine imports to fund the creation of more gold statues, I truly couldn't accept it."

Even the nobles supporting the Church began to tremble uncomfortably. They knew that if they elected an incompetent person leading to the planet's downfall, they would no longer have a "tax base" to exploit.

"Lords," Valen said in a calm but authoritative voice that made everyone turn to look at him, "we've wasted enough time nominating someone who can't even fix the sewers in their own house. Selecting a governor now is a wasteful undertaking..." "This planet is still in a 'semi-dead' state. Our duty isn't to find a crownee, but to get the gears turning again," Valen said with a steady voice, meeting the gaze of the other nobles who maintained a neutral stance.

"I propose that we postpone the election of the governor and establish a joint committee to monitor production quotas to avoid punishment from the Administratum. Anyone who fails to meet their targets... should have their nomination rights permanently revoked." Valen's words were like a blade cutting into the heart of Thalric, a portly man whose face alternately turned pale and red. He tried to argue, but facing Valen's cold gaze and the contemptuous looks from those around the table, he could only slump back into his chair.

"Agreed..." Two or three other neutral nobles nodded in agreement. They didn't want to risk a gamble with a fool, and they didn't want to start a war with Valen, who had a force of veteran soldiers backing him.

While the meeting became chaotic with discussions about numbers instead of dividing positions, Valen sighed deeply. He didn't want to think about how chaotic things would become if anyone decided to resort to military force.

After the tense and inconclusive meeting, Valen Korvax hurried out of the central hall. He wanted to escape the atmosphere filled with greed and the empty lies of the nobles. However… before he could reach the high-speed elevator, the rhythmic and elegant sound of high heels clicking on the marble floor echoed from behind him.

"Where are you rushing off to, Lord Korvax? Your work surely hasn't run away," a gentle female voice said. Valen paused and turned around out of politeness. He found Lady Anne approaching with an unreadable smile. Her youthful eyes swept over him from head to toe. Although she appeared to be a woman in her early twenties with flawless skin, Valen knew that beneath that appearance lay a woman over 200 years old, nurtured by the incredibly expensive Juvenat technology.

"I simply need to return to settle some unfinished business, Lady. It's not good that while other nobles are fortunate that their territories remain largely unaffected by the attacks of these heretics..." "But the territories under the Korvax family's rule still require considerable time to recover," Valen replied calmly. Lady Anne's voice was sweet and clear, yet laced with coldness.

"How similar your humility is... You know, Valen? Your keen vision and work ethic today are so much like 'Vorius Korvax'—a man who is quite visionary, decisive, ruthless, dedicated, and charming, especially those eyes." She stepped closer, and Valen could smell the rare fragrance of flowers as she gazed deeply into his eyes.

 

"Seeing you, I can't help but reminisce about the old days... when our families were much 'closer'," Lady Annes smiled mischievously, chuckling softly. A normal person would have been charmed by her, but he felt something different.

Valen felt a shiver run down his spine. He recalled the rumors he'd heard in the family archives—that Lady Annes had been his grandfather's former fiancée before political negotiations changed course. If the rumors were true, that meant this young woman had almost become his grandmother! And she was terrifying.

"Thank you for the compliment, Lady, but I must take my leave," Valen cut her off as quickly and politely as possible. He tried to avoid eye contact with the gaze that treated him like a mere virgin. That kind of look made him feel unsafe. "But I fear my abilities are not even half as good as yours. If you have no further business..." "I must excuse myself to attend to my pending matters."

"That's a pity. It would have been better if we could have continued talking... and let me tell you something, don't be so careless in my presence... it doesn't suit your demeanor." She remarked, watching Valen bow slightly before turning and walking away quickly.

Valen stepped into the elevator and immediately closed the doors. He felt a chill like never before. Managing everything after a crisis seemed easier than dealing with a 200-year-old woman whose eyes were connected to his family's past. He tried to shake off the distracting thoughts; he still had work to do.

____________________________________________

 

Day 350, Year 987, 41st Millennium

Hive Kathion

Upper Hive

Eric woke up to a bright new morning as usual. He stretched, shaking off the aches and pains from sleeping with his pillow in an awkward position, before getting up to attend to his personal hygiene in the bathroom and in front of the mirror.

"Okay... my hair's neat, no wrinkles on my shirt," he murmured to his reflection, adjusting the collar of his work shirt. He checked his gray accounting uniform again to make sure it looked as good and tidy as possible.

The commute to work today was... tedious, and nothing had changed except the journey to the train and then the walk to the factory where he worked.

The clatter of metal typewriter keys echoed throughout his small office. Eric sat hunched over, repeatedly entering numerical data for various product reports onto sheets of paper. A pile of documents containing the data that the auditors had checked lay beside the typewriter.

This work environment reminded him of his old world.

_Damn... whether it's the 2000s or the 40,000s, being an office worker is exactly the same. The only difference is that now I'm not using a computer, I'm using a printer instead._ He grumbled to himself, sighing deeply. Deep down, he was relieved; this job didn't require much physical exertion, paid well, and was safer. He'd initially wanted to enjoy his work, but it was starting to get boring. Despite the boredom, he was still happy with this kind of job.

When the bell rang signaling the end of his shift, Eric quickly packed his things into his bag. He blended in with the crowd leaving the factory and heading back to his accommodation.

The evening atmosphere (or what was called evening in Hive City, where the sun wasn't visible) was quite lively. Many people were returning from work to their homes. Eric walked, hugging his bag to his chest, his eyes instinctively scanning left and right cautiously. But inwardly, he was humming a happy tune.

_What should I eat tonight? Another can of fruit? Or maybe some cheap liquid food?_ Eric pondered his dinner plans. In his opinion, and in reality, the food here was much better than downstairs, but he didn't need to eat that much, even if he wasn't full. From what he'd read and studied, these foods were quite high in energy and nutrients, even in small portions. Therefore, eating until he felt completely full wouldn't be good.

_He'd definitely gain weight if he ate carelessly._

But his thoughts of a delightful dinner were interrupted when he turned the corner on the street leading to the residential area.

Amidst the bustling crowd, Eric noticed someone leaning against a lamppost on the other side of the street. The familiar figure and demeanor that stood out from the crowd made Eric stop in his tracks.

His eyes widened slightly as he felt a strange sense of familiarity, a sense of who it was, but he wasn't entirely sure.

Eric squinted at the tall, slender figure in well-dressed civilian clothes (but not overly extravagant like nobility). The face and build were very familiar... even without the short mustache. When the person turned their face to the side, Eric recognized them instantly.

 

"Vann?" Eric exclaimed inwardly. Vann's face was clean-shaven, revealing sharp features that were... well... quite handsome.

_Wait... stop that thought, Eric,_he quickly retorted, battling the thought in his head. _You're still a man inside! Complimenting another man on his looks is just... just a critique of appearance! I'm not attracted to anyone!_ Eric tried to push away the awkward feeling.

He was overjoyed that his other friend had survived. He didn't have many friends, and since waking up, he hadn't heard from Vann. Livia had told him that Vann had saved his life. Eric smiled before deciding to shout out to his friend with relief.

"Hey! Vann!... Hi! I haven't heard from you! Where have you been?" Vann paused slightly upon hearing his name called. He slowly turned towards the source of the voice, and the moment his face became clear to Eric, the wide smile on Eric's face slowly vanished, replaced by shock and unease.

Vann's right eye was covered by a completely black blindfold. Around the edge of the blindfold was a large, deep burn scar that stretched down to his cheek. Even more shocking was his right arm, now a sophisticated, sturdy, matte silver augmented arm—more intricate and powerful than Livia's.

"Hey... Erica," Vann greeted softly, his smile still warm. But to Eric, it was inexplicably sad. Eric walked towards his friend with heavy footsteps, his shy demeanor from earlier vanishing, replaced by worry and concern.

"Vann... your eye... and that right arm..." Eric asked, his voice trembling, his gaze fixed on the scar with guilt and despair.

"What happened? Why..." Eric spoke in a slightly shaky, low voice. Vann raised his left hand to scratch his cheek, embarrassed, and shrugged as if it were a minor matter.

"Oh... this? This eye? Just a memento from the battlefield. I got hit by shrapnel." "That's when I ran in to save you, severely injured near the wreckage of that giant tank," Vann said in a friendly tone, not at all concerned about his own injuries. He spoke as if it were another joke.

"Huh...?" Eric's face turned pale. "When you saved me...?" Eric asked in disbelief. At first, he thought Vann might have lost an eye in the battle or some other reason, but Eric never expected Vann to risk his life to save him and lose his eye in the process.

"Yes," Vann chuckled softly and stepped closer, looking at Eric with admiration, with only one eye left.

"It was chaotic then, but you were amazing, Erica. I saw with my own eyes you run through a hail of bullets... and throw that anti-tank grenade at that huge tank, making it explode into a giant fireball. If it weren't for your reckless bravery then, the PDF forces wouldn't have won that battle, and we would have lost." Vann spoke with admiration, causing Eric's face to flush immediately, a mixture of embarrassment and guilt.

 

"Brave? What nonsense... I just panicked and ran forward because I was terrified of dying!" Eric argued inwardly, but couldn't speak. Explaining now would be pointless. In that situation, retreating might mean being killed by his own side. Running forward, running into the horde of mutants fighting the PDF forces, seemed like the more promising option for survival.

"And because you destroyed the tank, they were stunned by the loss of a potentially life-threatening vehicle. They started losing their unity and began to flee. That's how I managed to pull you out," Vann continued, demonstrating his prosthetic arm. Eric noticed the arm; it was quite sophisticated and luxurious compared to some of the prosthetic arms he'd seen on tech priests.

Or was Vann's inability to install a prosthetic eye because he'd spent all his money on a prosthetic arm?

"It cost me one eye... but it was worth it to see you standing here safe." Eric lowered his head, a lump forming in his throat. A feeling of indebtedness overwhelmed him. He never realized that his current happiness was due to Vann saving him, at the cost of losing an eye.

"Thank you, Vann... and... I'm sorry. It's all my fault that you had to..." Eric whispered, unaware that tears were welling up in his eyes.

_Why am I so strangely sensitive?_ Eric thought irritably to himself.

"Hey, don't make that face like you're about to cry... What I did wasn't any braver than what you did back then. Back then, no one charged into the mutant ranks with only a pistol and an anti-tank grenade. You were braver than me," Vann quickly interrupted, trying to comfort the young woman in front of him.

"I'm a soldier. Wounds are a mark of honor... Besides, this metal arm is cool. It can open soda bottles without a bottle opener," Vann tried to lighten the mood with a joke, but Eric knew (or thought) that beneath that smile lay the pain Vann was carrying. He silently promised himself that he would be kind to this man... At least as a friend who saved his life.

But Eric's gratitude, which had almost overflowed moments ago, vanished in an instant as Vann's gaze swept over his work attire. Eric's thick gray coat and neatly tailored trousers were viewed with a slightly teasing look.

"So, what do you do now? You're dressed much better," Vann asked, raising the eyebrow without the eye patch. His voice, which had been warm, was now playful and friendly again.

"I'm a warehouse accountant at a factory," Eric replied, trying to maintain a polite tone, even though he sensed danger from the other's smirk. Vann nodded slowly before chuckling softly.

"An accountant, huh? I hope you haven't accidentally fallen asleep at your desk. Remember your first day fighting on the front lines? Even with all that fighting, you still managed to fall asleep," Vann teased, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Eric froze for a moment, his face turning red with embarrassment mixed with a touch of anger. He had been grateful, but now he wanted to punch this guy in the face. If it weren't for the fact that Vann saved his life.

 

"That's because I'm too stressed and exhausted, damn it!" he yelled inwardly. The fear of what might happen if he acted out kept him gripping his bag strap tightly.

"And besides... can you read and write now? Low Gothic... the last time we met, you couldn't even read or write it," Vann added fuel to the fire.

This pointed remark about his language skills upon arriving in the future caused Eric's temper to rise instantly. He was seething, baring his teeth slightly, glaring at Vann accusingly. But given his relatively pretty face and physique in this body, his expression wasn't threatening at all; it was more like a cat puffing up its fur at its owner.

Vann found Eric's expression "trying to say I'm angry now" amusing and chuckled.

"Erica, do you know why, when you make that face? It's not scary at all. It's... funny." Vann almost said "cute," but quickly changed his mind.

"I-read-those-books!" Eric gritted his teeth, answering each word slowly, trying to adjust to the situation and suppress his anger.

"And I never fall asleep at work either! Stop bringing up old issues, Vann!" Eric said, raising his voice slightly and crossing his arms. Although he grumbled and made a sour face, Eric didn't walk away because it wasn't that serious and he could tolerate it. His close friendship forced him to let Vann tease him, even though inwardly he was cursing him:

_That foul-mouthed, one-eyed, one-armed jerk!_

Vann patted Eric's shoulder lightly (with his bare hand).

"Okay, okay, I won't talk about this anymore. Let's go get something to eat, my diligent accountant. I'll treat you as a bribe for reading Low Gothic and for your bravery. And I know a few hidden gems." Vann said casually, shrugging.

"Hmph!" "At least you know you started all this nonsense," Eric grumbled, but his eyes gleamed with barely concealed delight. He slowly uncrossed his arms and carefully considered the invitation.

He didn't know if he'd be bullied or not, and he was afraid he wouldn't make it back to his accommodation in time. Or, worst of all, he might be tricked and abandoned somewhere. Or even...

_Stop being so paranoid, Eric,_ he told himself. He knew how rare it was to find trustworthy people in this future world, and he was terrified of betrayal or abandonment (like Raul's case). But if he kept being so paranoid, he wouldn't have any friends and wouldn't dare do anything.
Going out for dinner probably wouldn't be a big deal, right? Eric gathered his courage before agreeing.

"Okay... for your generosity," Eric replied, trying to keep his voice as calm as possible. Vann smiled and nodded slightly before leading Eric away.

"You won't be disappointed," Vann said confidently.

30 minutes later...

 

The triple-locked door clicked open. Eric walked into his room, sighing deeply. He'd narrowly escaped the arbitrators waiting to capture those who hadn't made it to their accommodations in time. A faint smile played on his lips as he placed his bag on the newly purchased, collapsible hanger and slumped into his folding chair, relaxing.

In his hand was a bag of sugar-coated crackers that Vann had bought him before they parted ways. He'd expected them to be dinner, but they were just sweets—a slight surprise, but he didn't mind too much. He was only slightly bothered by the somewhat complicated route to the shop, and he'd noticed a strangely close friendship between the shop owner and Vann.

_But he wouldn't pry into his friend's personal life._

Eric took a bite of the cracker. The crunchy texture and sweet flavor spread across his tongue.

"Mmm... delicious," he murmured, chewing the cracker and recalling his conversation with Vann that day. Despite being teased about sleeping on duty or about his illiteracy, deep down, Eric felt inexplicably relieved to know Vann was still alive. Even though the missing eye and the metal arm still made him feel guilty, it was better than having to mourn his friend on the battlefield.

"Vann is still the same... still has that sharp tongue," he frowned, thinking of that annoying grin. Then, one of Vann's words popped into his head, like a needle pricking his enthusiasm.

"Hey Erika... have you mastered High Gothic yet? If you master those languages, you could get a job higher than this warehouse accountant job. Maybe even get into a high-level spire!" Vann had even bought him a High Gothic textbook.

Erika paused, his gaze fixed on the pile of old books he'd bought and stored in the corner of his room. One of them was a history of astronomy book he'd wanted to read for a long time, but it was written in complex High Gothic, full of religious and academic jargon.

"A better job, huh…" He stroked his chin thoughtfully. To be honest, his current job paid him enough to live comfortably for the rest of the month. It wasn't that complicated, just a little tiring, and he felt this job was the best he could have had.

"Interesting, even though my work is already good, learning something new wouldn't hurt," Eric muttered, deciding to get up from his chair immediately. He took care of his personal needs, like showering and changing clothes; he didn't want to smell bad when he went to bed.

Then, Eric, dressed in a thin tank top and light gray shorts, picked up the High Gothic language textbook that Vann had bought him and unfolded it on the folding table. The light from the lamp reflected off the slightly aged paper, and he couldn't read the High Gothic script.

"Alright... let's begin," he took the last bite of his snack and began studying the book, muttering to himself about why this futuristic language was so difficult to understand. Luckily, the book also had a translation written in Low Gothic.

Eric quietly studied the language for about an hour before stopping. Every second of rest was precious, and he didn't want to waste any valuable time.

 

Eric closed the book and put it back on the bookshelf, letting out a long sigh. A soft hum of music escaped his throat, a rare sign of relaxation. He wasn't really putting that much pressure on himself regarding advanced language studies; his current life as an accountant was "balanced" and secure enough for an ordinary person seeking a peaceful life.

He stood up beside the bed, put the book away, stretched, and yawned to relieve the fatigue from a long day at work. As he stretched his arms, the strap of his thin tank top slipped down and rested on his upper arm.

"Oh ..." Eric quickly grabbed the strap back in, his face flushing with embarrassment. Even alone in his room, he felt awkward, but he tried to shake off the awkwardness and smiled at himself in the mirror before preparing to lie down on his comfortable bed.

But then… he felt a strange pain in his abdomen. Eric stopped in his tracks. At first, he thought it was just a side effect of the surgery, the kind that had caused him pain many times before. But the damp feeling at the base of his thighs made him quickly look down.

"Oh... no," he murmured softly, a mix of frustration and weariness in his voice, when he saw blood staining his light gray shorts.

______________________________________________

Writer's Note: Okay, this chapter deals with the fierce political climate of this planet. This kind of content isn't something I'm very good at writing, so it might seem a bit strange.

Chapter 39

Day 351, Year 987, 41st Millennium

 

Hive Kathion

 

Upper Hive

 

On the streets of the Lower Hive, the ceiling lights flickered on, signaling the start of a new day in Hive City. Each person working the shift went about their normal lives.

 

But for Eric, this morning was completely different from yesterday.

 

He opened his eyes with a furrowed brow. The bright, energetic feeling from yesterday had vanished as if it had never existed, replaced by a heavy feeling in his lower body and a dull, irritating ache in his lower abdomen.

 

"Ugh..." Eric groaned, slowly turning over. He felt like there was a heavy weight on his stomach. It wasn't unbearable pain, but a mild, rather annoying ache.

 

_Damn it... Why do women have to endure this every month?_ he grumbled to himself, frustrated by his male mind struggling to reconcile with this body's natural processes. Normally, he would just wake up, go to the bathroom, and get dressed, but this... was such a hassle! Groaning, Eric struggled to haul himself out of bed. He spent a little longer than usual in the bathroom, and luckily, the bleeding had stopped.

 

"Okay... clean, tidy, safe," he murmured in front of the mirror. His face looked a little paler than usual, and there were faint dark circles under his eyes from a lack of sleep.

 

When choosing his clothes, he dressed for work as usual: a gray coat and gray trousers. Eric decided to loosen the belt of his gray slacks by one hole to reduce the pressure on his stomach, even though it made the trousers look a little baggy. But who cared? Today, comfort came before neatness.

 

He walked out of his room with heavier footsteps than usual, clutching his usual shoulder bag tighter to his chest, as if he needed a personal shield from the outside world.

 

Arriving at the train station, the atmosphere that had once been just "boring and uncomfortable" in his eyes had now become inexplicably "annoying."

 

The smell of engine oil, rusty metal, and the sweat of thousands of people crammed together waiting for the train—something he didn't usually like, but he was used to it and didn't feel much about anymore. But today, Eric felt a pang of nausea. The usual noisy chatter, which he could usually ignore, sounded like a buzzing of flies in his ears.

 

_Why are there so many people today? And why does that guy have to act so annoying?_ Eric swept his gaze around irritably, his usually calm face concealing his displeasure.

 

As the giant train pulled into the station, Eric squeezed into a corner, trying to make himself as small as possible to avoid being bumped into. He sighed deeply, leaning his head against the shaking train wall.

 

Hang in there, Eric… Just go to work, fill in the numbers, and then come back to sleep… That’s all. You can do it. You’ve been through bullets, hardship, and battlefields. A stomach ache and a crowded train can’t affect you.

 

 

He closed his eyes, trying to concentrate, humming a tune to drown out the surrounding noise, and praying for the factory to arrive soon so he could sit down in his chair and not have to move for a long time.

 

Eric stepped off the train feeling like his body was falling apart. The churning in his stomach was still as faithful as the machinery in this Hive. He walked, clutching his bag, through the crowd towards the accounting and warehouse department with the most expressionless face he could muster, even though inwardly he wanted to lash out at everyone who got in his way.

 

On his way to his desk, he had to pass the department's sub-maintenance room, the area of the Gestalt Tech-Priest where he was responsible for maintaining the machinery.

 

_Doesn't the gestalt ever close the door properly?_

 

The door was slightly ajar, as usual. Eric paused for a moment, his eyes catching sight of the gestalt in a dark red robe standing upright. His robotic arm was rhythmically swinging an incense burner, chanting in a binary language that sounded like radio interference. He was performing a ritual in front of him. A holographic projector was displaying a vivid green image of the factory's detailed circuit diagram—ancient and futuristic at the same time.

 

Eric stared at the flashing hologram, his eyebrows twitching as he thought of the equipment he used every day.

 

_It's unfair,_Eric sarcastically muttered, his lips pressed together. The frustration from his stomach ache mixed with resentment.

 

_Those machine priests get to use holograms to pray, while I, the accountant, have to sit here with my fingers cramping, typing on that heavy, Stone Age typewriter? Fair enough, 41st millennium! Why haven't those old computers left behind at the back of the factory been repaired and used yet?_ He exhaled sharply through his nose, the stray strands of hair framing his face fluttering , as he recalled the remains of the computer-like machinery he'd seen at the back of the factory. He hurried past the room, not wanting the gestalt to notice him and start taunting him with technical jargon he couldn't understand.

 

Reaching his familiar desk, Eric slammed his bag onto his chair with slight frustration. His gaze fell upon the imposing black metal typewriter sitting on the desk. It looked sturdy, durable, and… incredibly outdated for someone from the 21st century like him.

 

"Don't complain any more, Eric. At least you're lucky you don't have to write everything down with a pen," he muttered to himself, sitting down and preparing to work as usual.

 

He pulled a dictionary from his emergency dictionary bag, picked up a sheet of paper, inserted it into the typewriter, and began reading from the list of notes. He then started typing, the clattering sound echoing loudly in his throbbing head. Eric gritted his teeth, trying to shake the gestalt hologram from his mind.

 

_If I don't meet my sales target today,I'll smash this typewriter against that hologram ,_ he grumbled sarcastically to himself, while his fingers continued to accurately type numbers onto the paper. However, he would never actually do what he had just said. Because he knew the horrifying truth that anyone who offended the mechanicus, or committed an unforgivable crime, would be turned into a servitor—a pathetic, terrifying, and depressing cyborg.

 

Time passed. As the clock on the wall ticked slowly, Eric began to feel the throbbing pain in his lower abdomen subside somewhat. Perhaps it was because he was so engrossed in typing on the metal keyboard that he momentarily forgot the pain, or perhaps his body was simply getting used to it.

 

But then, the dreary peace was shattered.

Eric's eyes caught sight of a figure in a red cloak darting past the doorway of his office. He wasn't the calm, composed Gestalt; just another Tech-Priest, one that seemed more "strange" than usual. His robotic arm was supporting a bizarre spherical machine with tangled wires and spinning gears, and most chillingly, a happy, giggling laughter emanated from the speakers embedded in his throat.

 

_What is that now…_ Eric muttered to himself, pausing his typing on the typewriter. He secretly thought that the Mechanicus were just abnormal people who liked to modify themselves with machines, and believed that every machine and invention, even a pen, had a mechanical soul. But seconds after that tech priest disappeared around the corner...

 

BOOM!!!

 

 

A deafening explosion shook the floor of the room, followed by a bright blue flash that illuminated the office. Eric jumped in fright, almost falling off his chair.He nearly hit the deck, a reflex from his days as a conscript , as he used to do as a conscript in the army when faced with an ambush, but he restrained himself.

 

"What happened!" he whispered, his heart pounding painfully in his chest. But before he could decide what to do, the same figure in the red robe shuffled back. This time, he looked terrible. The beautiful red robe was covered in large burn marks, and his metal face and mechanical tentacles were covered in black soot. His once energetic demeanor was gone, replaced by slumped shoulders and an utterly dejected walk.

 

The tech priest paused briefly in front of Eric's doorway. He stared at the now-burnt, charred machine in his hand before letting out a synthesized, mournful sigh and silently walking away.

 

Eric watched the soot-covered back, blinking in disbelief. The apprehension from a moment ago turned into a throbbing headache.

 

"Damn it... Are there really so few normal people in this future world?" He slumped back in his chair, rubbing his temples.

 

He sighed heavily, trying to refocus on the pile of documents in front of him. Although he felt a little sorry for the Tech Priest who seemed so excited and focused on that "toy," he couldn't help but curse inwardly for the lack of safety measures in bringing such a dangerous item into the factory. What if a fire broke out?

 

Eric tried to calm himself and resumed typing, but this time he glanced at the door more frequently... because he wasn't sure if another unexpected incident might occur.

 

Time passed quickly. The bell signaling the end of his shift rang like a heavenly sound. Eric quickly stuffed his dictionary and other miscellaneous items into his bag. He felt so relieved that he unconsciously hummed a tune to himself, because today had been a long and frustrating day—the stomach ache that had just subsided, and the incident with the Tech Priest's equipment or machinery exploding.

 

_Finally... I can go back to hugging my pillow._ "Eat some crackers, take a shower, and snuggle under a warm blanket..." he thought as he hurried down the narrow factory corridor at a steady pace. No matter the time, showering was his favorite; it made him feel relaxed and happy.

 

But then... it seemed he was having bad luck today.

 

BANG!!!

 

The heavy metal door of the administrative office next to the corridor was flung open violently and quickly before Eric could react. The hard door slammed into his forehead and chest!

 

"Ouch!"

 

Eric's body tumbled to the floor of the corridor, completely incapacitated. Pain shot through his face and his delicate chest (which he was still not used to the pain in). He clutched his forehead, which was beginning to swell, and his chest, which ached terribly from the impact. Tears welled up in his eyes from the pain and shock.

 

While he was dazed and trying to take deep breaths to suppress the pain, a male employee (presumably from the clerical or document department) carrying a stack of documents rushed out of the room in a hurry.

 

"Get out of the way! Urgent documents for Tech Priest Gestalt! They need to reach the boss within five minutes!" the employee yelled frantically. He dashed past, nearly trampling Eric, without even stopping to look or apologize, as if Eric's fallen body were just an obstacle or trash.

 

Eric froze on the floor, covered in dust and engine oil, feeling immediate resentment and hurt by the behavior. What was wrong with these people? nursing his aching chest"

 

"Terrible!" he cursed inwardly, rubbing his forehead. "Damn it... not even a glance. At least some help to get up or an apology would have been nice." He gritted his teeth and quickly stood up. He wasn't going to sit there sulking and attract attention. He brushed the dust off his neat gray uniform, which had been polished since leaving home until the end of the workday, but was now wrinkled.

 

The annoying and irritating stomach ache and unusually strong irritability were bad enough today, and this added to the problem. His patience was wearing thin. Right now, he wanted to drag that employee over, teach him a lesson, and make him apologize properly with a couple of punches.

 

_"Whatever... it's just a small thing, Eric. You've been through wars. A door slamming in your face won't kill you..."_ He tried to calm himself and reassure himself. He'd been punched in the face before, and he'd been punched in the stomach so hard he couldn't move or speak. He could handle this easily. He walked towards the factory exit, trying to ignore the pain.

 

_"But damn it, why is this soft flesh so fragile?""_ Eric thought as he felt intermittent chest pain with every breath. He must have internal injuries. Maybe he needed some painkillers.

 

"Today was awful."

 

 

_____________________________________________

 

 

Day 351, Year 987, 41st Millennium

 

Kathion Hive

 

Lower Hive

 

Sergeant Major Kazian stopped abruptly. The silence that enveloped the boundary between the zones wasn't a peaceful one; it was an unnatural silence. The thumping of machinery from the Korvax side behind him continued, like a heartbeat, but ahead—in the Thalric territory—it was like a dead world. They had tried to ignore what was happening many times, but this time they couldn't bear it.

 

To be honest, this area used to be under the rule and control of the Malvernis family. It was rife with crime and problems, including the rebellions of the Genestealer and Chaos Cultists, which led to a great war a year ago. The area was divided into 24 zones, alphabetically, and the zone they were standing in was Zone Z (the zone where Eric lived at the beginning of the novel), a zone that Lord Valen had ordered to be conquered by force.

 

Led by his right-hand man, Malvic. The Lord's close confidant had mysteriously disappeared and was presumed dead.

 

He had also heard that the reason the Malvernis family was wiped out was because their own family was contaminated by the Genestealers, and they may have been complicit in allowing them to stockpile weapons and instigate a rebellion that caused such widespread destruction.

 

After the war ended and everything settled down, the territory under the Malvernis family's control was divided equally between the Korvax and Thalric families. This increased the Korvax family's territory and influence, as well as their responsibilities.

 

"Sergeant... isn't it too quiet? I mean... normally we'd see something going on on that side, even if there weren't many people around. And it's been quiet for a day now," the same flamer specialist. His voice, shaky and tinged with unease, came through the radio, audible only to them.

 

Kazian didn't reply. He adjusted the lenses in his armor to thermal detection mode. He looked through the iron grates separating the territories. All he saw was the cold blue of the iron walls and ventilation shafts, devoid of any visible heat or life. That showed how cold and uninhabitable the area was.

 

"Are those Thalrics so busy praying they forgot to power their security system... or what if something happens to the people on the other side, Sergeant?" another subordinate grumbled, tightening his grip on his rifle. He looked slightly uneasy.

 

"Shut up. We'll continue our patrol, but don't be careless. Check every nook and cranny... If you see anything moving across from the other side, fire immediately without waiting for orders," Kazian ordered sternly, though inwardly he was beginning to worry at his subordinate's words. There was a high chance something terrible had happened to the people living in the lower hive, in an unguarded and uninsured area.

 

At that moment, a faint "click" sound came from the darkness on the Thalric side. Kazian swung his assault shotgun towards the source of the sound. The muzzle flash illuminated the darkness, revealing a figure huddled behind a large water pipe.

 

"Stop right there! Stand up and show yourself!" Kazian shouted. The figure moved slowly, the light focusing on its face revealing its features. Kazian swallowed hard behind his mask. It was a Thalric worker in a horrifying state. His skin was pale and emaciated, his eyes sunken and yellowed from the polluted air. He was gnawing at something that looked like a rat… or perhaps pieces of a decaying corpse.

 

The worker stared into the light with a mindless gaze, consumed by an insatiable hunger. He hissed like a wild animal before attempting to crawl back into the darkness of the Thalric territory.

 

"Are there still some drug addicts left?" one of his subordinates asked, his voice trembling.

 

"Sergeant… that’s not human anymore," another crew member interrupted, his voice shaking. "That’s… a complete mess, like someone infected or on the verge of becoming a heretic."

 

Kazian slowly lowered his gun. His unease intensified. What he saw wasn't just starvation; it was "despair" rotting and transforming into something far worse. Despair that would turn these people into followers of a forbidden religion.

 

It was chaos. Heretics.

 

"Report to command center," Kazian ordered, his voice more decisive than before. What they were facing was extremely dangerous. From his ten years of experience, he knew that such situations were common, and he understood the severity and destructive consequences of such events.

 

"Report that signs of high-level unrest have been detected in the Thalric border area. Increase security checks on personnel and barricades, and prepare a cleanup unit... We may have to deal with cult members."

He turned his back, leading his team back to a more suitable and well-lit area for a defensive position. Even with the cleanup and bloodshed here, it was still a "order" he understood. Unlike the other side... which was becoming a nightmare that even his shotgun blasts might not be enough to contain.

 

The uncomfortable silence was broken by an unintelligible murmur. A frail figure, gnawing at a rat carcass moments before, looked up. Empty eyes reflected the flashlight for a fleeting moment before vanishing into the darkness with unusual speed.

 

 

Suddenly, a cacophony of footsteps echoed from the dark, ruined slums of the Thalric district. When some of them activated their night vision goggles, they saw a horde of monstrous figures in human form emerging from the shadows. Their clothes were filthy and covered in strange, forbidden symbols carved into their skin. Their charging movements were devoid of fear; only primal instinct and madness flickered in their eyes.

 

Kazian immediately recognized them as chaos cultists. The situation was far worse than he had initially imagined. He had initially thought the workers might starve to death, but it was far more serious.

 

"wouldn't send reinforcements in time; otherwise, they would all be killed" otherwise, they would all be killed, and the workers and factory machinery would suffer immense damage.

 

As the radio operator shouted information over the approaching footsteps, Kazian and the rest of his team quickly moved into tactical positions. They formed a semicircle, gripping their pistols and assault shotguns tightly, their masks fixed on the chaotic cultists charging frantically.

 

"Stay calm, everyone... Don't pull the trigger until they're within effective range," Kazian said in a voice that contrasted sharply with the surrounding situation. His index finger rested on the trigger, ready.

 

"Wait for my signal... We'll make them understand the price for crossing the line in Korvax." The flashlight beam swept across the dozens of figures closing in. In the heightened tension, Kazian took a deep breath, preparing to unleash a barrage of attacks to stabilize the Hive, a order he had been entrusted with his entire life.

 

When the horde of cultists entered range where their weapons were most effective and the flashlight beams clearly illuminated their targets, the operation began. Sergeant Major Kazean's voice boomed, "In the name of the Emperor, may the souls of these unfortunate souls find peace and forgiveness from Him!!! Open fire!"

 

Bang! Bang! Bang!

 

The assault shotgun blasts from the entire platoon echoed in unison. The force of the bullets brought the front line of the heretics to a standstill, causing them to fall like stalks of rice being harvested. Their bodies were torn apart by the buckshot, but their shotguns had limited ammunition capacity and a low rate of fire. Combined with the heretics' overwhelming numbers, this allowed them to close in.

 

Just as the heretics were about to close the gap, the unit's flamer specialist stepped forward, pulling the trigger and unleashing a torrent of bright orange flames upon the invaders.

 

"Blood for the blood go---"

 

Whoosh!

 

The flames blazed brightly, illuminating the dark corridor. Many heretics were incinerated and fell within seconds by the heat from the promethium fuel used in the flamethrower. Many ran around screaming in pain before collapsing. Several rushed towards their comrades, clinging to the flames. Some pathetically tried to roll away the fire to extinguish it, but to no avail. The flamethrowers pushed back many of the heretics, temporarily halting the attack at that point, but their numbers were far too great for bullets and flames to stop them all. Taking advantage of the flamethrower shutdown to cool down, the remaining frenzied heretics charged through the flames and smoke, closing in on the patrol unit.

 

 

"Watch out! Close range!" Kazian shouted, lowering his rifle and drawing his high-energy electric baton.

 

The clang of metal against copper armor echoed loudly. The heretics attempted to attack with daggers, iron rods, and immense brute strength, but their armor was so tightly fitted and robust that light weapons only managed to create scratches or annoying clattering sounds, unless they were lucky enough to pierce the armor's joints.

 

The situation escalated into a chaotic melee. Kazian's soldiers used shields and rifle butts to push back the frenzied horde of barbarians. Despite the armor's superior protection, the overwhelming force of their numbers began to shake the front line of the 65th Cleanup Unit.

 

"Hold them! Don't let them surround us!" Kazian roared, swinging his baton at charging figures. He hoped his distress signal would reach command center before his team's strength ran out.

 

He was disoriented by one of the heretics using a crudely made knife before being immediately overwhelmed by others, leaving him little chance to retaliate.

 

The situation escalated into a crisis as the overwhelming numbers of heretics began to erode the discipline of the patrol. More than half of Kazian's soldiers fell in the chaos. Their once strong armor was being torn apart by the force of the onslaught. While Kazian was swinging his electric baton at the frenzied incoming figures, barely able to breathe...

 

RURRRRRRRR!

 

The roar of a heavy engine shook the steel floor. Large spotlights pierced through the smoke, blinding the heretics and disrupting their formation. Kazian used this opportunity to push aside the figure in front of him and turned to look in the direction of the sound. What he saw was the colossal shadow of the legendary Leman Russ Punisher (the new crowd control weapon they had received from Lord Valen) approaching menacingly. Its turret was fitted with the Punisher Gatling Cannon, a six-barreled automatic cannon ready to crush anything in its path.

 

Atop the turret and rear of the tank, a group of Corvax family's personal guards in full armor, armed with hot-shot lassguns, lined up. When the tank stopped, they jumped down to reinforce the line and immediately opened fire with pinpoint accuracy.

 

But what momentarily stunned Kazian, making him forget his fatigue, was the figure of one officer who stepped steadily from the tank. He had separated himself from the reinforcement group. His copper-colored armor looked scratched from countless battles, but the most striking and intimidating feature was the green beret on his head—an attire with seemingly insignificant defensive power that only a fool or an arrogant person would dare to wear.

 

 

His pale face was half-covered by a skull-shaped gas mask, one red visor gleaming coldly, and the other eye wrapped in a tattered white bandage. Most chillingly, a faint purple light emanated from beneath the bandage, strangely glowing in the slum's darkness.

 

His presence instantly made the surrounding air heavy, as if the power and ruthlessness of the Korvax family had arrived in person.

 

But amidst the roar of tank engines and the chaos of the clashes, a soldier in a green beret stepped forward coldly. He didn't wield a pistol or chain sword, but instead raised his gloved hand, pointing directly at the horde of heretics charging forward like a human wave.

In that instant, the atmosphere changed drastically. The temperature plummeted, creating a faint condensation in the air. A strong, cold ozone filled the air, masking the smell of blood and smoke.

 

Crack-Thoom!

 

A burst of indigo-purple lightning shot from his fingertips. Spreading out like bloodthirsty roots, these lightning bolts shot through the air, striking their targets with precision and ferocity. Hundreds of heretics who had stormed in were electrocuted by the immense energy currents, their bodies convulsing. Flashes of light reflected off the slum's iron walls before their bodies fell, burnt corpses billowing from the smoke, leaving only the stench of charred earth and a terrifying silence.

 

And Kazian, miraculously, had survived.

 

The previously critical situation had been instantly subdued by the supernatural power of this psychic.

Kazian, near death and narrowly surviving, froze. A static electricity tingled his spine, and a faint crackling sound emanated from his armor. He slowly lowered his weapon, letting out a long, drawn-out sigh of relief.

 

"That was close..." Kazian murmured to himself, his heart still pounding erratically. He watched the decisive action of the reinforcements who had just saved him, a deep awe in the psychic's power. But now his whole body ached.

 

Kazian stood breathing slowly, trying to calm himself as he looked at the purple lightning that had left burn marks on the floor and walls. He sheathed his electric baton at his waist, his gaze fixed on the figure of the green-bereted soldier who was skillfully giving orders to the reinforcements.

 

"Form a second defensive line! And be on alert in case it returns. The other team, prepare your flamethrower and sufficient fuel to eliminate these remnants completely. Leave no evidence behind!" The man's voice was deep and steady. His soldiers acknowledged the orders quickly, yet with a mixture of fear and trepidation.

 

 

Kazian felt a shiver run down his spine. This man wasn't an ordinary soldier... If the rumors among the security forces were true, this was Lord Valen Corvax's "Left Hand," a living and enigmatic secret weapon.

 

 Imperiam of Man, those with psychic powers without proper recognition and binding by Adeptus Astra Telepathica and Scholastia Psykana were called 'wizards' or 'witches' and were usually eliminated as threats or heretical mutants. But rumors said Lord Valen found this man and chose to "keep" him instead of handing him over to the authorities, to refine him into his most powerful tool in battle and for use in emergencies.

 

_No wonder... why did I never see him during the war with the Genestealers?_ Kazian thought to himself, secretly observing the flickering purple light still emanating from beneath the bandages. _If he had shown himself before the Inquisitors, even those from Order Xenos, he would have been burned alive._ Or perhaps they'll send him aboard a submarine to pay tribute to the Golden Throne.

 

 

Lord Valen's willingness to risk keeping someone of this caliber alive shows that the situation in Hive Kathion is too fragile to rely solely on regular military force. The beret-wearing officer whirled around towards Kazian, one of his red goggles gleaming in the light.

 

"Sergeant Kazian, report the initial situation... Your information will determine whether we need to seal off the entire area, eliminate only the source of the problem, or simply wipe them out completely." He called his name in a tone that made Kazian quickly stand at attention and salute.

 

Kazian swallowed hard, his throat dry. He knew this man's words were a direct command from Lord Valen. After that, he immediately recounted everything he knew.

 

___________________________________

 

Writer's Note: A rough image of Valen Korvax's right-hand man.

 

And yes, he is an uncertified, seemingly trustworthy user of psychic powers.

Chapter 40

Day 351, Year 987, 41st Millennium

Hive Kathion

Upper Hive

On the streets of the Lower Hive, the ceiling lights flickered on, signaling the start of a new day in Hive City. Each person working the shift went about their normal lives.

But for Eric, this morning was completely different from yesterday.

He opened his eyes with a furrowed brow. The bright, energetic feeling from yesterday had vanished as if it had never existed, replaced by a heavy feeling in his lower body and a dull, irritating ache in his lower abdomen.

"Ugh..." Eric groaned, slowly turning over. He felt like there was a heavy weight on his stomach. It wasn't unbearable pain, but a mild, rather annoying ache.

_Damn it... Why do women have to endure this every month?_ he grumbled to himself, frustrated by his male mind struggling to reconcile with this body's natural processes. Normally, he would just wake up, go to the bathroom, and get dressed, but this... was such a hassle! Groaning, Eric struggled to haul himself out of bed. He spent a little longer than usual in the bathroom, and luckily, the bleeding had stopped.

"Okay... clean, tidy, safe," he murmured in front of the mirror. His face looked a little paler than usual, and there were faint dark circles under his eyes from a lack of sleep.

When choosing his clothes, he dressed for work as usual: a gray coat and gray trousers. Eric decided to loosen the belt of his gray slacks by one hole to reduce the pressure on his stomach, even though it made the trousers look a little baggy. But who cared? Today, comfort came before neatness.

He walked out of his room with heavier footsteps than usual, clutching his usual shoulder bag tighter to his chest, as if he needed a personal shield from the outside world.

Arriving at the train station, the atmosphere that had once been just "boring and uncomfortable" in his eyes had now become inexplicably "annoying."

The smell of engine oil, rusty metal, and the sweat of thousands of people crammed together waiting for the train—something he didn't usually like, but he was used to it and didn't feel much about anymore. But today, Eric felt a pang of nausea. The usual noisy chatter, which he could usually ignore, sounded like a buzzing of flies in his ears.

_Why are there so many people today? And why does that guy have to act so annoying?_ Eric swept his gaze around irritably, his usually calm face concealing his displeasure.

As the giant train pulled into the station, Eric squeezed into a corner, trying to make himself as small as possible to avoid being bumped into. He sighed deeply, leaning his head against the shaking train wall.

Hang in there, Eric… Just go to work, fill in the numbers, and then come back to sleep… That’s all. You can do it. You’ve been through bullets, hardship, and battlefields. A stomach ache and a crowded train can’t affect you.

 

He closed his eyes, trying to concentrate, humming a tune to drown out the surrounding noise, and praying for the factory to arrive soon so he could sit down in his chair and not have to move for a long time.

Eric stepped off the train feeling like his body was falling apart. The churning in his stomach was still as faithful as the machinery in this Hive. He walked, clutching his bag, through the crowd towards the accounting and warehouse department with the most expressionless face he could muster, even though inwardly he wanted to lash out at everyone who got in his way.

On his way to his desk, he had to pass the department's sub-maintenance room, the area of the Gestalt Tech-Priest where he was responsible for maintaining the machinery.

_Doesn't the gestalt ever close the door properly?_

The door was slightly ajar, as usual. Eric paused for a moment, his eyes catching sight of the gestalt in a dark red robe standing upright. His robotic arm was rhythmically swinging an incense burner, chanting in a binary language that sounded like radio interference. He was performing a ritual in front of him. A holographic projector was displaying a vivid green image of the factory's detailed circuit diagram—ancient and futuristic at the same time.

Eric stared at the flashing hologram, his eyebrows twitching as he thought of the equipment he used every day.

_It's unfair,_Eric sarcastically muttered, his lips pressed together. The frustration from his stomach ache mixed with resentment.

_Those machine priests get to use holograms to pray, while I, the accountant, have to sit here with my fingers cramping, typing on that heavy, Stone Age typewriter? Fair enough, 41st millennium! Why haven't those old computers left behind at the back of the factory been repaired and used yet?_ He exhaled sharply through his nose, the stray strands of hair framing his face fluttering , as he recalled the remains of the computer-like machinery he'd seen at the back of the factory. He hurried past the room, not wanting the gestalt to notice him and start taunting him with technical jargon he couldn't understand.

Reaching his familiar desk, Eric slammed his bag onto his chair with slight frustration. His gaze fell upon the imposing black metal typewriter sitting on the desk. It looked sturdy, durable, and… incredibly outdated for someone from the 21st century like him.

"Don't complain any more, Eric. At least you're lucky you don't have to write everything down with a pen," he muttered to himself, sitting down and preparing to work as usual.

He pulled a dictionary from his emergency dictionary bag, picked up a sheet of paper, inserted it into the typewriter, and began reading from the list of notes. He then started typing, the clattering sound echoing loudly in his throbbing head. Eric gritted his teeth, trying to shake the gestalt hologram from his mind.

_If I don't meet my sales target today,I'll smash this typewriter against that hologram ,_ he grumbled sarcastically to himself, while his fingers continued to accurately type numbers onto the paper. However, he would never actually do what he had just said. Because he knew the horrifying truth that anyone who offended the mechanicus, or committed an unforgivable crime, would be turned into a servitor—a pathetic, terrifying, and depressing cyborg.

Time passed. As the clock on the wall ticked slowly, Eric began to feel the throbbing pain in his lower abdomen subside somewhat. Perhaps it was because he was so engrossed in typing on the metal keyboard that he momentarily forgot the pain, or perhaps his body was simply getting used to it.

But then, the dreary peace was shattered.
Eric's eyes caught sight of a figure in a red cloak darting past the doorway of his office. He wasn't the calm, composed Gestalt; just another Tech-Priest, one that seemed more "strange" than usual. His robotic arm was supporting a bizarre spherical machine with tangled wires and spinning gears, and most chillingly, a happy, giggling laughter emanated from the speakers embedded in his throat.

_What is that now…_ Eric muttered to himself, pausing his typing on the typewriter. He secretly thought that the Mechanicus were just abnormal people who liked to modify themselves with machines, and believed that every machine and invention, even a pen, had a mechanical soul. But seconds after that tech priest disappeared around the corner...

BOOM!!!

 

A deafening explosion shook the floor of the room, followed by a bright blue flash that illuminated the office. Eric jumped in fright, almost falling off his chair.He nearly hit the deck, a reflex from his days as a conscript , as he used to do as a conscript in the army when faced with an ambush, but he restrained himself.

"What happened!" he whispered, his heart pounding painfully in his chest. But before he could decide what to do, the same figure in the red robe shuffled back. This time, he looked terrible. The beautiful red robe was covered in large burn marks, and his metal face and mechanical tentacles were covered in black soot. His once energetic demeanor was gone, replaced by slumped shoulders and an utterly dejected walk.

The tech priest paused briefly in front of Eric's doorway. He stared at the now-burnt, charred machine in his hand before letting out a synthesized, mournful sigh and silently walking away.

Eric watched the soot-covered back, blinking in disbelief. The apprehension from a moment ago turned into a throbbing headache.

"Damn it... Are there really so few normal people in this future world?" He slumped back in his chair, rubbing his temples.

He sighed heavily, trying to refocus on the pile of documents in front of him. Although he felt a little sorry for the Tech Priest who seemed so excited and focused on that "toy," he couldn't help but curse inwardly for the lack of safety measures in bringing such a dangerous item into the factory. What if a fire broke out?

Eric tried to calm himself and resumed typing, but this time he glanced at the door more frequently... because he wasn't sure if another unexpected incident might occur.

Time passed quickly. The bell signaling the end of his shift rang like a heavenly sound. Eric quickly stuffed his dictionary and other miscellaneous items into his bag. He felt so relieved that he unconsciously hummed a tune to himself, because today had been a long and frustrating day—the stomach ache that had just subsided, and the incident with the Tech Priest's equipment or machinery exploding.

_Finally... I can go back to hugging my pillow._ "Eat some crackers, take a shower, and snuggle under a warm blanket..." he thought as he hurried down the narrow factory corridor at a steady pace. No matter the time, showering was his favorite; it made him feel relaxed and happy.

But then... it seemed he was having bad luck today.

BANG!!!

The heavy metal door of the administrative office next to the corridor was flung open violently and quickly before Eric could react. The hard door slammed into his forehead and chest!

"Ouch!"

Eric's body tumbled to the floor of the corridor, completely incapacitated. Pain shot through his face and his delicate chest (which he was still not used to the pain in). He clutched his forehead, which was beginning to swell, and his chest, which ached terribly from the impact. Tears welled up in his eyes from the pain and shock.

While he was dazed and trying to take deep breaths to suppress the pain, a male employee (presumably from the clerical or document department) carrying a stack of documents rushed out of the room in a hurry.

"Get out of the way! Urgent documents for Tech Priest Gestalt! They need to reach the boss within five minutes!" the employee yelled frantically. He dashed past, nearly trampling Eric, without even stopping to look or apologize, as if Eric's fallen body were just an obstacle or trash.

Eric froze on the floor, covered in dust and engine oil, feeling immediate resentment and hurt by the behavior. What was wrong with these people? nursing his aching chest"

"Terrible!" he cursed inwardly, rubbing his forehead. "Damn it... not even a glance. At least some help to get up or an apology would have been nice." He gritted his teeth and quickly stood up. He wasn't going to sit there sulking and attract attention. He brushed the dust off his neat gray uniform, which had been polished since leaving home until the end of the workday, but was now wrinkled.

The annoying and irritating stomach ache and unusually strong irritability were bad enough today, and this added to the problem. His patience was wearing thin. Right now, he wanted to drag that employee over, teach him a lesson, and make him apologize properly with a couple of punches.

_"Whatever... it's just a small thing, Eric. You've been through wars. A door slamming in your face won't kill you..."_ He tried to calm himself and reassure himself. He'd been punched in the face before, and he'd been punched in the stomach so hard he couldn't move or speak. He could handle this easily. He walked towards the factory exit, trying to ignore the pain.

_"But damn it, why is this soft flesh so fragile?""_ Eric thought as he felt intermittent chest pain with every breath. He must have internal injuries. Maybe he needed some painkillers.

"Today was awful."

 

_____________________________________________

 

Day 351, Year 987, 41st Millennium

Kathion Hive

Lower Hive

Sergeant Major Kazian stopped abruptly. The silence that enveloped the boundary between the zones wasn't a peaceful one; it was an unnatural silence. The thumping of machinery from the Korvax side behind him continued, like a heartbeat, but ahead—in the Thalric territory—it was like a dead world. They had tried to ignore what was happening many times, but this time they couldn't bear it.

To be honest, this area used to be under the rule and control of the Malvernis family. It was rife with crime and problems, including the rebellions of the Genestealer and Chaos Cultists, which led to a great war a year ago. The area was divided into 24 zones, alphabetically, and the zone they were standing in was Zone Z (the zone where Eric lived at the beginning of the novel), a zone that Lord Valen had ordered to be conquered by force.

Led by his right-hand man, Malvic. The Lord's close confidant had mysteriously disappeared and was presumed dead.

He had also heard that the reason the Malvernis family was wiped out was because their own family was contaminated by the Genestealers, and they may have been complicit in allowing them to stockpile weapons and instigate a rebellion that caused such widespread destruction.

After the war ended and everything settled down, the territory under the Malvernis family's control was divided equally between the Korvax and Thalric families. This increased the Korvax family's territory and influence, as well as their responsibilities.

"Sergeant... isn't it too quiet? I mean... normally we'd see something going on on that side, even if there weren't many people around. And it's been quiet for a day now," the same flamer specialist. His voice, shaky and tinged with unease, came through the radio, audible only to them.

Kazian didn't reply. He adjusted the lenses in his armor to thermal detection mode. He looked through the iron grates separating the territories. All he saw was the cold blue of the iron walls and ventilation shafts, devoid of any visible heat or life. That showed how cold and uninhabitable the area was.

"Are those Thalrics so busy praying they forgot to power their security system... or what if something happens to the people on the other side, Sergeant?" another subordinate grumbled, tightening his grip on his rifle. He looked slightly uneasy.

"Shut up. We'll continue our patrol, but don't be careless. Check every nook and cranny... If you see anything moving across from the other side, fire immediately without waiting for orders," Kazian ordered sternly, though inwardly he was beginning to worry at his subordinate's words. There was a high chance something terrible had happened to the people living in the lower hive, in an unguarded and uninsured area.

At that moment, a faint "click" sound came from the darkness on the Thalric side. Kazian swung his assault shotgun towards the source of the sound. The muzzle flash illuminated the darkness, revealing a figure huddled behind a large water pipe.

"Stop right there! Stand up and show yourself!" Kazian shouted. The figure moved slowly, the light focusing on its face revealing its features. Kazian swallowed hard behind his mask. It was a Thalric worker in a horrifying state. His skin was pale and emaciated, his eyes sunken and yellowed from the polluted air. He was gnawing at something that looked like a rat… or perhaps pieces of a decaying corpse.

The worker stared into the light with a mindless gaze, consumed by an insatiable hunger. He hissed like a wild animal before attempting to crawl back into the darkness of the Thalric territory.

"Are there still some drug addicts left?" one of his subordinates asked, his voice trembling.

"Sergeant… that’s not human anymore," another crew member interrupted, his voice shaking. "That’s… a complete mess, like someone infected or on the verge of becoming a heretic."

Kazian slowly lowered his gun. His unease intensified. What he saw wasn't just starvation; it was "despair" rotting and transforming into something far worse. Despair that would turn these people into followers of a forbidden religion.

It was chaos. Heretics.

"Report to command center," Kazian ordered, his voice more decisive than before. What they were facing was extremely dangerous. From his ten years of experience, he knew that such situations were common, and he understood the severity and destructive consequences of such events.

"Report that signs of high-level unrest have been detected in the Thalric border area. Increase security checks on personnel and barricades, and prepare a cleanup unit... We may have to deal with cult members."
He turned his back, leading his team back to a more suitable and well-lit area for a defensive position. Even with the cleanup and bloodshed here, it was still a "order" he understood. Unlike the other side... which was becoming a nightmare that even his shotgun blasts might not be enough to contain.

The uncomfortable silence was broken by an unintelligible murmur. A frail figure, gnawing at a rat carcass moments before, looked up. Empty eyes reflected the flashlight for a fleeting moment before vanishing into the darkness with unusual speed.

 

Suddenly, a cacophony of footsteps echoed from the dark, ruined slums of the Thalric district. When some of them activated their night vision goggles, they saw a horde of monstrous figures in human form emerging from the shadows. Their clothes were filthy and covered in strange, forbidden symbols carved into their skin. Their charging movements were devoid of fear; only primal instinct and madness flickered in their eyes.

Kazian immediately recognized them as chaos cultists. The situation was far worse than he had initially imagined. He had initially thought the workers might starve to death, but it was far more serious.

"wouldn't send reinforcements in time; otherwise, they would all be killed" otherwise, they would all be killed, and the workers and factory machinery would suffer immense damage.

As the radio operator shouted information over the approaching footsteps, Kazian and the rest of his team quickly moved into tactical positions. They formed a semicircle, gripping their pistols and assault shotguns tightly, their masks fixed on the chaotic cultists charging frantically.

"Stay calm, everyone... Don't pull the trigger until they're within effective range," Kazian said in a voice that contrasted sharply with the surrounding situation. His index finger rested on the trigger, ready.

"Wait for my signal... We'll make them understand the price for crossing the line in Korvax." The flashlight beam swept across the dozens of figures closing in. In the heightened tension, Kazian took a deep breath, preparing to unleash a barrage of attacks to stabilize the Hive, a order he had been entrusted with his entire life.

When the horde of cultists entered range where their weapons were most effective and the flashlight beams clearly illuminated their targets, the operation began. Sergeant Major Kazean's voice boomed, "In the name of the Emperor, may the souls of these unfortunate souls find peace and forgiveness from Him!!! Open fire!"

Bang! Bang! Bang!

The assault shotgun blasts from the entire platoon echoed in unison. The force of the bullets brought the front line of the heretics to a standstill, causing them to fall like stalks of rice being harvested. Their bodies were torn apart by the buckshot, but their shotguns had limited ammunition capacity and a low rate of fire. Combined with the heretics' overwhelming numbers, this allowed them to close in.

Just as the heretics were about to close the gap, the unit's flamer specialist stepped forward, pulling the trigger and unleashing a torrent of bright orange flames upon the invaders.

"Blood for the blood go---"

Whoosh!

The flames blazed brightly, illuminating the dark corridor. Many heretics were incinerated and fell within seconds by the heat from the promethium fuel used in the flamethrower. Many ran around screaming in pain before collapsing. Several rushed towards their comrades, clinging to the flames. Some pathetically tried to roll away the fire to extinguish it, but to no avail. The flamethrowers pushed back many of the heretics, temporarily halting the attack at that point, but their numbers were far too great for bullets and flames to stop them all. Taking advantage of the flamethrower shutdown to cool down, the remaining frenzied heretics charged through the flames and smoke, closing in on the patrol unit.

 

"Watch out! Close range!" Kazian shouted, lowering his rifle and drawing his high-energy electric baton.

The clang of metal against copper armor echoed loudly. The heretics attempted to attack with daggers, iron rods, and immense brute strength, but their armor was so tightly fitted and robust that light weapons only managed to create scratches or annoying clattering sounds, unless they were lucky enough to pierce the armor's joints.

The situation escalated into a chaotic melee. Kazian's soldiers used shields and rifle butts to push back the frenzied horde of barbarians. Despite the armor's superior protection, the overwhelming force of their numbers began to shake the front line of the 65th Cleanup Unit.

"Hold them! Don't let them surround us!" Kazian roared, swinging his baton at charging figures. He hoped his distress signal would reach command center before his team's strength ran out.

He was disoriented by one of the heretics using a crudely made knife before being immediately overwhelmed by others, leaving him little chance to retaliate.

The situation escalated into a crisis as the overwhelming numbers of heretics began to erode the discipline of the patrol. More than half of Kazian's soldiers fell in the chaos. Their once strong armor was being torn apart by the force of the onslaught. While Kazian was swinging his electric baton at the frenzied incoming figures, barely able to breathe...

RURRRRRRRR!

The roar of a heavy engine shook the steel floor. Large spotlights pierced through the smoke, blinding the heretics and disrupting their formation. Kazian used this opportunity to push aside the figure in front of him and turned to look in the direction of the sound. What he saw was the colossal shadow of the legendary Leman Russ Punisher (the new crowd control weapon they had received from Lord Valen) approaching menacingly. Its turret was fitted with the Punisher Gatling Cannon, a six-barreled automatic cannon ready to crush anything in its path.

Atop the turret and rear of the tank, a group of Corvax family's personal guards in full armor, armed with hot-shot lassguns, lined up. When the tank stopped, they jumped down to reinforce the line and immediately opened fire with pinpoint accuracy.

But what momentarily stunned Kazian, making him forget his fatigue, was the figure of one officer who stepped steadily from the tank. He had separated himself from the reinforcement group. His copper-colored armor looked scratched from countless battles, but the most striking and intimidating feature was the green beret on his head—an attire with seemingly insignificant defensive power that only a fool or an arrogant person would dare to wear.

 

His pale face was half-covered by a skull-shaped gas mask, one red visor gleaming coldly, and the other eye wrapped in a tattered white bandage. Most chillingly, a faint purple light emanated from beneath the bandage, strangely glowing in the slum's darkness.

His presence instantly made the surrounding air heavy, as if the power and ruthlessness of the Korvax family had arrived in person.

But amidst the roar of tank engines and the chaos of the clashes, a soldier in a green beret stepped forward coldly. He didn't wield a pistol or chain sword, but instead raised his gloved hand, pointing directly at the horde of heretics charging forward like a human wave.
In that instant, the atmosphere changed drastically. The temperature plummeted, creating a faint condensation in the air. A strong, cold ozone filled the air, masking the smell of blood and smoke.

Crack-Thoom!

A burst of indigo-purple lightning shot from his fingertips. Spreading out like bloodthirsty roots, these lightning bolts shot through the air, striking their targets with precision and ferocity. Hundreds of heretics who had stormed in were electrocuted by the immense energy currents, their bodies convulsing. Flashes of light reflected off the slum's iron walls before their bodies fell, burnt corpses billowing from the smoke, leaving only the stench of charred earth and a terrifying silence.

And Kazian, miraculously, had survived.

The previously critical situation had been instantly subdued by the supernatural power of this psychic.
Kazian, near death and narrowly surviving, froze. A static electricity tingled his spine, and a faint crackling sound emanated from his armor. He slowly lowered his weapon, letting out a long, drawn-out sigh of relief.

"That was close..." Kazian murmured to himself, his heart still pounding erratically. He watched the decisive action of the reinforcements who had just saved him, a deep awe in the psychic's power. But now his whole body ached.

Kazian stood breathing slowly, trying to calm himself as he looked at the purple lightning that had left burn marks on the floor and walls. He sheathed his electric baton at his waist, his gaze fixed on the figure of the green-bereted soldier who was skillfully giving orders to the reinforcements.

"Form a second defensive line! And be on alert in case it returns. The other team, prepare your flamethrower and sufficient fuel to eliminate these remnants completely. Leave no evidence behind!" The man's voice was deep and steady. His soldiers acknowledged the orders quickly, yet with a mixture of fear and trepidation.

 

Kazian felt a shiver run down his spine. This man wasn't an ordinary soldier... If the rumors among the security forces were true, this was Lord Valen Corvax's "Left Hand," a living and enigmatic secret weapon.

Imperiam of Man, those with psychic powers without proper recognition and binding by Adeptus Astra Telepathica and Scholastia Psykana were called 'wizards' or 'witches' and were usually eliminated as threats or heretical mutants. But rumors said Lord Valen found this man and chose to "keep" him instead of handing him over to the authorities, to refine him into his most powerful tool in battle and for use in emergencies.

_No wonder... why did I never see him during the war with the Genestealers?_ Kazian thought to himself, secretly observing the flickering purple light still emanating from beneath the bandages. _If he had shown himself before the Inquisitors, even those from Order Xenos, he would have been burned alive._ Or perhaps they'll send him aboard a submarine to pay tribute to the Golden Throne.

 

Lord Valen's willingness to risk keeping someone of this caliber alive shows that the situation in Hive Kathion is too fragile to rely solely on regular military force. The beret-wearing officer whirled around towards Kazian, one of his red goggles gleaming in the light.

"Sergeant Kazian, report the initial situation... Your information will determine whether we need to seal off the entire area, eliminate only the source of the problem, or simply wipe them out completely." He called his name in a tone that made Kazian quickly stand at attention and salute.

Kazian swallowed hard, his throat dry. He knew this man's words were a direct command from Lord Valen. After that, he immediately recounted everything he knew.

___________________________________

Writer's Note: A rough image of Valen Korvax's right-hand man.

 

And yes, he is an uncertified, seemingly trustworthy user of psychic powers.

Chapter 41: 41

Day 351, Year 987, 41st Millennium

Hive Kathion

Lower Hive

 

Valen’s Left Hand stepped expertly onto the tank treads and climbed atop the turret of the Leman Russ Punisher. He unclipped the Vox-caster, tuning it to the private frequency encrypted for the Korvax family’s high command.

 

"This is ‘Omega’ reporting to Command," he said, using the moniker given to him by the soldiers in a voice as cold as ice. "Confirming a Code Red situation at the border of the Thalric territory. Heretics have begun to manifest and are spilling across the sector. Immediate authorization for Maximum Purge Protocols is required. Handle everything swiftly and silently before the ‘Eyes’ of the Central Authority take notice. Report ends."

 

The name ‘Omega’ was a title the tank crews and inner-circle soldiers understood all too well. It signified the "End"—the finality of all things. It had quickly become his identity, a symbol of ruin and destruction. To Omega, the name felt fitting; he left nothing but catastrophe in his wake, making him as dangerous to his enemies as he often was to his allies.

 

Inside the cramped belly of the tank, a dry, raspy laugh crackled through the comms.

 

"Heh... Maximum Purge Protocols again?" the driver muttered, shaking his head. "Remember five years ago? We spent three days and nights ‘rooting out’ those cultists in the ventilation shafts until our treads were choked with gore. This time feels like it’s going to be even worse."

 

"At least we’ve got Omega at the helm," the gunner added with a touch of gallows humor. "Better us handling this quietly than letting the Inquisition find out and having them burn the entire Hive to kill a single ant."The veterans within the tank knew that in this brutal Imperium, keeping such bloody secrets was often the only way to keep millions of others breathing. They knew the devastation would be absolute if word of this ever leaked out.

 

The engine roared to life, spewing thick
plumes of black smoke as the tank began its journey back to the stronghold at the heart of the Korvax domain.

 

Within the narrow, vibrating cabin of the Leman Russ Punisher, the smell of engine oil mingled with the lingering scent of ozone around Omega. He sat apart from the others, tucked into a shadowed corner. His single glowing purple eye, visible through the gaps in his bandages, stared fixedly at the steel walls, yet his mind saw something else: a complex, three-dimensional schematic of the Hive City.

 

In his ears, a high-pitched whistling—inaudible to normal men—shrieked incessantly. It wasn't the engine. It was the cacophony of whispers from the Warp, that twisted dimension of madness.

 

"Release me... Omega... this power belongs to you... just a flick of your mind, and the world will kneel..."

The seductive, malevolent voices clawed at his psyche, searching for a crack to inhabit the flesh of this rogue psyker. A weaker man would have screamed or surrendered to insanity—or worse, become a living gateway for the Warp to spill into the physical world. But Omega simply brushed it aside, trying his best to ignore the itch in his soul.

 

"Just say yes... power is within your grasp. You will never have to be a fugitive or a ghost again..."

 

Shut up, you parasites, he thought with icy irritation. His mental wards were as unyielding as forged steel. I have a mission to do, and it doesn't involve listening to your nursery rhymes.

 

He pulled his focus back to tactics. Omega closed his eyes (though one remained perpetually covered) and began cross-referencing Corporal Cassian's report with his own observations.

 

The Thalric sector had been dark for a full day. That meant power was either cut, sabotaged, or—more likely—diverted. A massive energy draw could suggest a ritual, or perhaps it was just the sheer

incompetence of Lord Thalric, who refused to rebuild after the war, choosing instead to dump his wealth into the Ecclesiarchy to build statues and cathedrals. The latter seemed more plausible.

 

The enemies they had encountered were mere brainless heretics—decoys meant to bleed the Korvax of ammunition and focus. The real threat would be hidden in the deepest, most secure bunker. There were only a few locations in the Lower Hive strong enough to hold such a presence; likely the Great Lift area. However, that was usually heavily guarded. Given the state of things, it was doubtful any Thalric soldiers remained alive there. He felt a nagging suspicion—usually, during such outbreaks, civilians would be fleeing in terror, yet throughout their patrol, there hadn't been a single report of refugees.

 

"If they intend to open a rift to pull something through... they will need conduits and a massive amount of sacrifice," Omega muttered, tapping his armored knee rhythmically. He imagined the horrors awaiting the unfortunate civilians—torture, enslavement, or becoming playthings for the depraved before being offered as ritual fodder. Speculating further was useless; he needed a plan.

 

"You are clever, Omega. Accept my offer and you shall be transformed by true power," the daemonic voices hissed again. He ignored them.

 

Phase 1: Since the enemy numbers were currently manageable, containment was the priority. All entry points from Thalric to Korvax territory must be fortified with physical barricades, automated turrets, and heavy troop deployments.

 

Phase 2: Seal all ventilation systems. Let them choke on the stagnant, toxic air. He realized they might not even need to do this; the other side hadn't repaired their vents in a year, and the toxins from the ruined factories had likely already rendered the air lethal to normal humans.
Phase 3: Deploy the Purge Squads with heavy ordnance... or perhaps, seek Valen’s permission to use Forbidden Weaponry to resolve the matter with maximum efficiency, regardless of any remaining civilian life.

 

"Sir? We’re approaching the Command Base," the driver’s voice broke through his thoughts. Omega opened his eyes. The purple glow beneath his bandages dimmed slightly, but the ruthlessness in his gaze remained.
In the dim light and rumbling thunder of the tank returning to base, the exhaustion of overextending his psychic gifts began to take its toll. Omega could no longer resist the tide of memories rushing back. His eyelids grew heavy, and as he drifted, reality was replaced by a vision—a chaotic blend of a bitter past and a dark future.

Whoosh...

 

The smell of oil vanished, replaced by air charged with electricity, the scent of burning, and the copper tang of despair.
Suddenly, a vision of a chaotic future flashed before him. He saw the fires of war engulfing Cadia. Cadia was burning... not a normal fire, but a war more violent than any before. He saw the brutal struggle between the brave men and women of the Cadian Shock Troops and a tide of heretical traitors. He saw... a massive black silhouette falling from the sky. Cadia fell. A gargantuan rift tore the galaxy in two, accompanied by the silent scream of billions of souls.

"Gasp!"

Omega jerked awake in the tank, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Sweat soaked through his bandages. He clutched his head, which throbbed as if it might burst. His hands shook. He had just witnessed an apocalypse—a disaster that would shatter the galaxy. He felt utterly powerless, too weak to interfere, and yet he knew he had no business meddling in such cosmic fates.

 

"The future... is changing..." he whispered into the darkness. The final vision was blurred, but the feeling of horror was vivid. The coming war wasn't just about the petty politics of Hive nobles; it was a galaxy-level cataclysm.

 

"I must warn him... even if I cannot change much." Omega’s eyes hardened. His loyalty to the man who had pulled him out of hell drove him to do everything to ensure his master’s safety. He would find a moment to tell Valen.
But not now. He had to deal with the immediate threat.

 

As the Leman Russ moved through a narrow alley flanked by crumbling skyscrapers, the silence was shattered by the screech of an anti-tank rocket plunging from the shadows.

 

"AMBUSH!!!" a voice screamed amidst the sudden chaos.

 

Before the rounds or the rocket could strike the soldiers perched atop the tank, Omega’s eyes snapped open. He focused with every fiber of his being, the veins at his temples bulging. He thrust his hand forward, expanding his will to cover the area instantly.

 

Vringggg!

 

A dome of translucent, deep purple psychic energy erupted around the tank and the surrounding troops. Heavy stubber rounds and the rocket slammed into the barrier, detonating in a shower of sparks and fire. But they could not penetrate the mental wall, which stood as firm as a fortress bastion. Omega gritted his teeth, sweat trickling down his brow as he bore the weight of the impact.

 

"Hold the line! I can't keep this up for long!" Omega roared.

 

Seizing the opening, the Tank Commander popped out of the hatch, slapping his helmet and shouting with fury.

 

"You heretic filth! Turret to eleven o'clock! Use the Punisher Gatling Cannon—shred them all! Sweep the area, leave nothing but dust!"

 

Brrrrrrrttttt

 

The six-barreled cannon spun with a high-pitched hum before unleashing a torrent of massive shells capable of shredding light armor and infantry alike. Muzzle flashes lit up the darkness continuously, obliterating the buildings used by the snipers until they were nothing but perforated rubble. The screams of the heretics were drowned out by the thunderous, continuous roar of the gun.

 

"Does it hurt? Just give in. Say the word. Say 'Yes'. Accept my sweet offer," the daemonic voices echoed in his mind while he maintained the shield.

Omega bit his lip harder, forcing his concentration elsewhere.

 

Under the protection of Omega’s psychic shield and the devastating firepower of the Punisher, a losing battle was transformed into a slaughterhouse within seconds.

The heretics who survived the initial barrage fled into the shadows.

 

When the Punisher finally fell silent and the masonry stopped crumbling, Omega exhaled a heavy, ragged breath. The purple shield dissipated, and he slumped against the steel interior of the tank. His gloved hands trembled. He had to exert every ounce of willpower to suppress the shrieking of the Warp that tried to seep in while he was vulnerable.

 

He knew his power was a double-edged sword. As an unsanctioned psyker who had never undergone the Soul-Binding ritual before the Emperor on Holy Terra, he lacked the proper mental fortifications. Every time he tapped into his power, it was like screaming into the void for daemons to find him. It drained his life force far more than it would a trained Scholastica Psykana initiate. He knew that one slip, one moment of weakness, and he would become a walking disaster.

 

"Sir? Are you alright?" the loader asked, his voice laced with concern, though he didn't dare touch him.

 

"I'm fine... just the 'engine' running a bit hot," Omega replied hoarsely, wiping a trail of blood from beneath his bandage. If he told them the truth of what he faced, he would be met with even greater suspicion and fear, which served no purpose.

 

As he sat to regain his composure, a thought took hold—born of a survivor’s paranoia. The ambush had been too coordinated for mindless cultists. They knew the patrol route, the timing, and they had heavy weaponry that the lower classes shouldn't possess. After the war ended, Lord Valen had enforced draconian measures to control such arms; even the remaining gangs were stripped of so much as a stub-pistol.

 

"The Thalrics..." He gritted his teeth, staring into the dark. "It’s impossible for weapons of this grade to escape a Governor’s notice. Unless... they let them slip on purpose. Or handed them over themselves."

 

The possibility that House Thalric was "breeding" or supporting these heretics to undermine Korvax power grew heavier in his mind. This wasn't just a riot of the starving; it was a blood-soaked political betrayal.
Or perhaps just unforgivable negligence.

 

"When we reach base... I must speak with Lord Valen immediately," Omega whispered to himself, his gaze turning cruel. "I hope the situation isn't worse than I fear."

 

He hauled himself up, standing firm once more. Despite the physical toll of his psychic exertion, his vengeful spirit was wide awake. The tank rumbled onward through the gloom, heading toward the command center to report a truth that might soon set the Hive City ablaze.

 

As the Leman Russ Punisher rolled into the armored bay within the Lower Hive command center, the engine's roar died down to a low hum of cooling systems. Omega stepped off the vehicle with a steady stride, though the fatigue from the visions and psychic strain still haunted him.

 

He walked past the mechanics, Tech-Priests, and guards, who all lowered their heads and averted their gaze. None dared meet his eye. Omega headed straight for the communications hub at the innermost part of the base—a restricted area for high-level personnel.

Inside the hub, surrounded by the chirping of Vox signals and the glow of green monitors, Omega sat at a private data-slate station. He pulled off his leather gloves, revealing scars on his fingertips from psychic backlash. He began typing his summary of the day's events with cold, swift precision.

 

[CLASSIFIED REPORT: TO LORD VALEN KORVAX]
[FROM: OMEGA]
[SUBJECT: OPERATION RED PURGE AND THREAT ANALYSIS]

 

"Mission at the Thalric border partially concluded. Encountered a heretical incursion consisting of individuals who have entirely lost their humanity. They are not mere hungry laborers; they have been altered into weapons with a clear objective."

 

Omega paused, his single eye glinting with malice as he struck the keys to emphasize his suspicion.

 

"During an ambush on our return, I found evidence of heavy weaponry used against the tank. In our jurisdiction, such weapons could not have been obtained. The only logical conclusion is that House Thalric is complicit and arming these heretics. I am reporting a Priority One risk: I believe House Thalric is committing treason. They are fostering this rot as a tool to bleed your forces, or worse, they have joined the cult themselves."

 

"I believe their silence over the past year was not incompetence, but a cover-up. I propose we initiate 'Excision' protocols immediately, before what they are hiding grows beyond my ability to strike down."

 

He hit the Transmit button. The data was encrypted and sent directly to Valen’s private office.

 

Omega returned to his quarters and slumped into his chair. He removed his circular red glasses, revealing the glowing purple iris—the mark of a Cadian. His mind raced through countless plans, each more inhumane and ruthless than the last. His conscience had died long ago on Cadia. The only thing sustaining his twisted soul was being the most efficient tool for the man who had saved his life.

 

Later, he summoned the squad leaders of the Purge Units to the war room, bathed in the red light of a holomap. Omega stood tall before the digital planning table, surrounded by the Korvax military elite, including Corporal Cassian.

 

"Listen well," Omega’s voice was low and commanding. "What we encountered last night was not a riot. I believe it is a probing attack by heretics with backing. Though it is a grave accusation, the evidence of their weaponry speaks for itself. Our Lord requires his domain to remain secure and untouched by this filth."

 

He pointed to a red dot on the border.
"Squad leaders, adjust your deployments as follows: We will triple patrols in every sector bordering Thalric territory. No more six-hour rotations. Squads will patrol every four hours. Every unit must have a Vox-operator and high-frequency eavesdropping equipment active at all times."

 

"I am authorizing the deployment of Automated Heavy Sentry Turrets from the armory. Place them every 100 meters along the border gates. Establish anti-tank teams on the upper watchtowers. If anything moves across the border without the correct code... destroy it immediately. No reporting necessary."

 

Alert Level: "Raise to 'Maximum Alert.' Anyone found neglecting their duty or sleeping on watch will answer to me personally."
Several soldiers swallowed hard at the final sentence. The purple light beneath Omega’s bandage flared as if to remind them he wasn't joking.

 

"Most importantly," Omega stared at each of them. "Watch the Thalric side. If you see them evacuating resources or laborers deeper into their sector, report to me instantly. We will not let them prepare if war breaks out."
"Understood, sir!" the leaders shouted in unison.

 

"Dismissed... and remember: there is no mercy for the heretic."

 

Once they had left, Omega remained alone, staring at the map. He knew this deployment was just buying time. The real war was waiting behind the veil of silence in the Thalric sector. He would do whatever it took to ensure House Korvax was the one left standing.

 

In the dead silence of his dark, cold quarters, Omega collapsed onto his narrow steel bunk. His sigh echoed in the void—the sound of a man carrying a burden too heavy for any mortal.

 

The war to purge the Genestealers, which ended only a year ago, had left scars everywhere—not just on the planet's surface, but deep within his soul. Omega knew better than anyone that the current peace was a fragile illusion. If he or Valen hesitated, or if his report was ignored, a new, more twisted war would consume everything.

But as he tried to quiet his mind, his body began to betray him

The physical agony came first—a burning sensation racing through his veins as if a million ants were devouring him from the inside. The "craving" for the narcotics he once used to drown out the daemons during his time in the Cadian slums returned with a vengeance. His muscles spasmed, and a cold sweat soaked his back. Though he hadn't touched the substances in years, the hell in his blood never truly left.

And as his body weakened, the whispers from the Warp surged.

 

"Omega... look at you. So pathetic..." A thousand overlapping voices droned in his mind, raspy and screeching like metal on glass. "Just accept us... and you shall have pleasure beyond imagination. You won't have to carry the weight of this world anymore..."

 

"Just say one word. Say 'Yes'. And everything you desire is yours."

 

Omega gritted his teeth so hard he could hear them click. His throat was parched, his body shaking with conflicting desires.
Yet, he was still Omega... a man who had walked through hell on earth.
He sat as still as stone, taking deep breaths and utterly ignoring the voices. He let the agony gnaw at him without moving. He knew these voices were real, but he had ignored them his entire life, and he would ignore them until the end. The withdrawal was simply the penance he had to pay for his wretched past.
He sat in the dark for a long time, letting the pain peak before it slowly subsided, leaving only an exhaustion that bit into his bones. He wiped the sweat from his face with a steadier hand.

 

Suddenly, another vision struck him—more violent than the rest. It wasn't just a glimpse of the future; it was a memory so vivid he could smell the blood and the stench of decay.

 

It began with the purple eyes of a Cadian, but they were clouded and distant. He saw his younger self leaning against a filthy slum wall—one of the few places he could find on this world. His shaking hands held a vial of cheap narcotics. While the skies of Cadia were filled with the majestic drills of the Kasrkin, he was just forgotten trash—an addict with no future in a world that only valued soldiers.

 

The vision shifted to the moment his life ended and began anew. At first, he was being beaten by thugs. In that moment of terror, his power awakened for the first time. His younger self had slaughtered them brutally with psychic force without even realizing what he was doing. Someone reported the "incident," labeling him a psyker. He was hunted—not by local police, not by Witch Hunters, but by the Inquisition’s Ordo Hereticus, who sensed the massive, unstable energy erupting from him.

 

He fled until he was cornered in a dark alley. Two giant figures in gleaming silver armor appeared. At the time, he didn't know what they were, but he later learned they were Grey Knights—the Imperium’s ultimate daemon hunters. They stepped forward with power blades to eliminate the threat: an unstable, uncontrolled mutant like him.

 

Driven by absolute terror and the instinct to survive, the young Omega let out a scream that didn't come from his throat, but from his soul. Warp energy surged past the limits of human endurance. The air itself buckled into a vacuum.

 

CRACK!!!

 

In that split second, the two silver knights—warriors meant to be invincible—simply shattered into a spray of blood and shrapnel before him. The destructive force was so great it nearly tore the veil between reality and the Warp, almost pulling daemons through. Fortunately, his own fractured, maddened mind acted as a shield, preventing anything from possessing him.

 

The vision spun rapidly... ten years of being the hunted. Fleeing from planet to planet, hiding in the bowels of cargo ships, living like a rat in the vents to escape the tireless Inquisition. Finally, fate cast him to the edge of the galaxy, in Segmentum Ultima, on this very world.

 

He saw himself in a wretched state, working among the lowliest laborers of the Hive, his body skeletal and covered in scars from his flight.

 

Then, on the day he was ready to give up, Valen appeared. Valen’s retinue drew their weapons, sensing the strange aura around him, but Valen raised a hand to stop them.
Valen looked deep into the purple eye that wasn't yet bandaged. Valen’s gaze held no disgust, no fear of the "witch" he had encountered for ten years. It was a gaze that recognized Power.

 

"You are not a freak..." Valen’s voice echoed in the vision, firm yet full of intent. "You are the most potent resource I have ever seen. Come with me, and I will give you a place where you no longer have to run."

 

Omega snapped awake from the vision, his breathing heavy. He touched the bandage over his eye, noticing a slight smear of blood. He forced his eyes shut. He had to rest; if he didn't, he couldn't do his duty
___________________________________________

 

Day 352, Year 987, 41st Millennium

Hive Kathion

Upper Hive

 

The next morning in the residential district of the Lower Upper Hive, the light from the massive iron-mounted luminaries flickered on, signaling the dawn of a new day. Eric felt that today was the best day he had experienced since being stranded in this mad world. At the very least, the stomach pains that had plagued him were completely gone. A sense of freshness returned, giving him the energy to face his tedious job and continue his normal life with some semblance of happiness—save for his chest and forehead, which still felt tight and throbbed with a dull ache whenever he moved too suddenly.

 

After work, Eric decided to head to a small commercial district to purchase a "portable microwave." It might have seemed like a luxury in a world consumed by perpetual war, but for Eric, who craved the warmth of the Old World, the prospect of eating warm bread or heated canned meat was far better than enduring the daily grind of chewing on cold, bland rations.

 

However, he ended up with an electric oven instead. He didn't mind; perhaps he could use it to make biscuits or bakery items.

 

"Hmph... heavier than I thought," Eric muttered to himself as he cradled the oven box in both arms while trudging up the building’s stairs. Dressed in his work clothes, Eric struggled to balance the weight. Although his height of 175 centimeters gave him enough leverage to lift it, the narrow and steep staircase left him panting. He nearly tumbled down several times because the box blocked his view of the steps.

 

Upon reaching his room, he let out a long sigh of relief. He nudged the door open with his foot and carefully placed the oven on a folding table by the window.

 

"Phew... finally."

 

He stood with hands on his hips, breathing heavily as he wiped the sweat from his forehead. He scanned his room; it remained exactly as he had left it. Eric began to unbox the oven calmly. He used a clean cloth to wipe it down before setting it in its permanent place.

 

"If only I had some good flour and some jam, that would be perfect," he whispered to himself with a small smile.

 

He walked to the window and looked at the view below. There wasn't much to see beyond rows of buildings and the masses of people scuttling about. Though a part of him remained paranoid about how long this peace would last—especially given the strange rumors of troop movements in the Lower Hive he had heard that morning—he chose to ignore those worries for now. He was afraid of another war, but at this moment, he refused to let it consume him.

 

"Alright... let’s test this thing," Eric murmured. But first, he needed to change.
Eric changed into a loose t-shirt and soft fabric trousers, ideal for relaxing in his private quarters. He let himself unwind, no longer needing to worry about his appearance as he did when he was out in public.

 

He stood and examined the problematic "oven" on the folding table. Its appearance defied his Old World ideal of an appliance. It was a thick, rectangular iron box with a rough texture, stamped prominently with the cogwheel crest of the Adeptus Mechanicus. It looked like an antique from the Industrial Revolution mixed with religious superstition. Yet, in another sense, it possessed a strange, archaic high-tech charm.

"Alright, let's see what you can do." Eric attempted to press the large red start button that seemed the most straightforward... but it remained silent. There was no sound of a cooling fan, nothing.

 

"Eh? Is it broken?" Eric let out a small gasp of fear, considering he had paid quite a high price for it. He frantically inspected the device until he found a "manual"—a thick roll of parchment. He unrolled it to look for troubleshooting tips, and that was when he rolled his eyes toward the ceiling in sheer exasperation.

 

The manual stated clearly that before initiating the work of the Machine Spirit, the user must perform a 'prayer' and 'anoint it with sacred oil' (which came in a tiny included vial), followed by a chant of praise to awaken the machine from its slumber. This ritual had to be performed daily.

 

Are you serious? Just to turn it on? he grumbled internally. He found it absurd that in an age of lasguns, bionics, holograms, and starships, he still had to pray to a toaster. However, not wanting his credits to go to waste, Eric reluctantly complied.

 

He picked up the tiny oil vial, dabbed a bit onto the chassis, and began to mumble the prayer according to the manual. It was written in High Gothic, a language he didn't know, but fortunately, there was a phonetic guide.

 

"Uh... O Omnissiah, grant power to this machine. May its operation be smooth and protect it from all malice..." Eric chanted haltingly.

As he prayed, he felt an intense wave of embarrassment. He imagined how his friends from the Old World would laugh if they saw him like this. But here, this was likely perfectly normal

Click!

As soon as he finished the prayer, the oven's display panel flickered to life with a hum, as if the machine were satisfied with the ritual.
"Okay... so you don't just need electricity; you need attention too," Eric sighed, smiling at the dark irony of this world.

 

He turned the machine off temporarily and went to retrieve a tin of meat, arranging the pieces neatly on a tray. Eric carefully slid the iron tray into the bulky machine. He tried to gauge the heat by turning a knob marked with cogs and strange numerical symbols he didn't recognize, but he managed to find a setting that seemed close enough to what he wanted.

 

"Alright... this should do it." His hands shook slightly as he turned the dial and closed the oven door with a heavy clack. He pulled up a chair and sat directly in front of the oven, staring through the small, cloudy glass pane with a sense of excitement he couldn't quite describe. To anyone else, it was just heating food, but for Eric—who had spent his Old World life relying on convenience stores, microwaves, and fast food—this felt like a major step in "cooking" for himself.
Though, he couldn't quite call it "cooking" in good conscience; it was more like glorified reheating.

 

He watched the oven, trying to count down the five minutes he had set. One part of him feared the oven might explode or burn the food, but the other part was desperate for a warm meal.

 

"Only five minutes, Eric... don't get too excited," he told himself. He sat staring at the faint orange glow radiating inside the oven. The scent of the meat reacting to the heat began to waft out, making him feel a sudden pang of hunger.

 

When the five minutes were up, Eric used a thick towel to protect his hands and cautiously opened the oven door. A light steam accompanied by the savory aroma of meat hit his nose. He had been holding his breath, fearing it would be burnt to a crisp, but fortunately, the result looked better than expected. The Grox meat on the tray had darkened slightly, glistening with rendered fat. It wasn't dry or charred like he had feared.

 

"Excellent..." he whispered happily. He lifted the tray onto the table and carefully shut the oven according to the steps in the manual. Then, he grabbed his spoon and the bread he had bought.

 

Eric used the spoon to scoop up the warm Grox meat, eating it with the slices of bread he had laid out. The taste brought a gentle smile to his face. Grox meat had a firm, rich texture similar to beef from the Old World but with more chewiness. Although it was slightly salty canned meat, the heat from the oven elevated the flavor incredibly—it was incomparable to the flavorless nutrient gruel most workers ate, and certainly better than the dreaded "corpse-starch."

 

He chewed slowly, savoring this small moment of happiness. The warmth from the meat and bread spread through his body. The anxiety and exhaustion from his job in the warehouse accounts department seemed to melt away for a moment.

 

"Better than I thought... if only I had some pepper or spices to sprinkle on top, it would be amazing."

 

His words made his eyes spark with a bit of excitement. He began to plan: tomorrow after work, he would visit the local market to see if he could find a spice vendor or other ingredients to improve his meals.

Chapter 42: 42

Day 353, Year 987, 41st Millennium

 

Planet: Opell III

 

Today, everything remained exactly the same.
Eric woke up and went through his daily routine, just as he did every other day. There was nothing particularly special about the events of the day.

 

However, a thought suddenly struck him: Is this truly the best I can hope for right now? It had been approximately one year since he found himself in this dark future.

 

He felt that life here in the Upper Hive—the habitation layer for the middle class—was safe and stable. It wasn’t as physically grueling as the labor below, though everyone still had to dedicate themselves to their work. It was a stark contrast to the denizens of the Lower Hive, who toiled endlessly, facing toxic pollution, hazardous manufactorums, criminals, mutants, and gangers.

 

He actually liked this life. It was boring, devoid of excitement, and safe. He knew he couldn't expect much more from a world ruled by a totalitarian regime where access to information was strictly limited.

 

Some truths could not be spoken.

 

Indoctrination and the brainwashing of the populace through the Imperial Creed were absolute. Yet, it was still better here than down below. The enforcement of religion wasn't as suffocatingly intense here. The people in the Upper Hive were relatively reasonable, though they possessed plenty of cunning. There were also a lot of "normal" civilians here, which, paradoxically, was another reason why the Upper Hive could be terrifying and dangerous in its own right.
I shouldn't be thinking like this, or complaining, Eric thought. My living conditions are far better than they used to be.
Right now, he should be focusing on how to maximize the utility of the oven he had just bought, and what kind of meals he could conjure up from the ingredients available in the Upper Hive markets.

 

Cooking a Grox steak in the oven isn’t a bad idea. It might even turn out well... but... I can't cook.

 

Maybe just marinating it with salt and pepper will be enough?

 

But the next problem is: How do you actually cook a steak using an oven?

 

As Eric pondered this while walking along the walkway, flanking a road with light traffic, he heard someone shout a greeting.

 

"Good morning, Erica."When Eric turned around, he found Vann. Dressed in a neat uniform and looking sharply groomed, Vann walked toward him with a cheerful, friendly smile. Eric turned fully toward Vann, returning the smile and greeting him immediately.

 

"Good morning to you too! You look very sharp today," Eric greeted, adding a compliment.
Vann chuckled slightly before replying,

 

"Thanks for the compliment."Vann fell into step beside him, adjusting his collar and looking as if he wanted to discuss something. Eric prepared to ask how Vann was feeling about his new job; for Eric, having a casual, friendly conversation made him feel at ease.
Suddenly, Eric realized something—if he stood here talking, he would definitely miss the train. If he was absent or late, he would get an earful, or worse, have his salary docked. That was unacceptable.

 

"Uh... sorry, I can't talk right now. I have to go," Eric said softly, turning his back to walk away.
Vann, however, didn't stay put. He quickly caught up to Eric.

 

"Why the rush?" Vann asked curiously.

 

"I’m going to miss the train," Eric replied, a hint of frustration creeping into his voice as he wondered why Vann was following him.

 

"If my supervisor finds out I'm late or absent, I’m dead... And by the way, why are you following me? Shouldn't you be heading to the office?"

 

"Don't you remember? We take the same train station. There's nothing wrong with walking and talking, is there?"

 

"Right!! I completely forgot," Eric said, his voice laced with embarrassment. He noticed that Vann, with his longer legs, was easily matching his pace, chuckling softly at Eric's forgetfulness.

 

"You know, for someone so shy, you’re also quite forgetful. I wonder what you look like when you make a mistake and get scolded by your boss? And forgetting that I use the same station... or were you perhaps thinking about someone else?" Vann teased, tilting his head up slightly, looking annoyingly cheerful.

 

"Stop it right now... I have made mistakes before, and getting yelled at isn't funny! Also, I wasn't thinking about anyone. I was just thinking about... uh... trying to cook for myself, that's all," Eric retorted, his voice pitching higher in his flustered state.

 

How could he be thinking about anyone else? He barely had friends, let alone a lover. Vann’s insinuation felt like an insult. Being spoken to like this was incredibly irritating. Why did Vann enjoy provoking him so much?

 

"Cooking for yourself? ...I know the food in the Lower Hive is trash, I get it... Or maybe," Vann raised an eyebrow, wearing that smirk Eric hated the most, "are you practicing your housewife skills, preparing to cook for someone special?"

 

Eric’s face flushed red, and his hands balled into tight fists. He tried to restrain himself from punching Vann in the face, just like he had done when they met on the battlefield.
Regardless, he really wanted to drive an uppercut into Vann's chin and punch his remaining good eye out.

Why is this guy so damn annoying?!

 

"Stop talking nonsense, Vann. I am NOT practicing cooking for anyone! Get that through your head! I just want to eat good food," Eric snapped, his voice hardening as he ordered his 'friend' to shut up. He glared at Vann with anger and annoyance, his brows knitting together. Passersby glanced at the pair briefly before hurrying on.

 

"So scary!" Vann feigned fear, raising his hands in surrender before laughing softly at Eric's unamused expression.

 

"You know, you seem more lively today... But I’m still curious, has no one hit on you yet? You’re quite pretty, you know... Still single?" Vann grinned roguishly.

 

Hearing this, Eric felt goosebumps of pure rage, steam practically blowing out of his ears.

"VANN!!! THAT'S ENOUGH!!!"

 

______________________________________________

 

Day 353, Year 987, 41st Millennium

 

Location: PDF Command Center, Hive Kathion

Specific Location: General's Private Office

Time: Approximately Noon

Inside an office decorated with dark oak furniture and the faint scent of incense and spices, Vann enjoyed a moment of midday respite. He sat relaxed in a padded leather chair, holding a cup of expensive porcelain tea, sipping it calmly as he gazed out the window.

The political situation appeared calm on the surface, but he knew better. Beneath the veneer of peace, chaos churned. Many nobles were vying for the position of Planetary Governor, and the competition was constant.
He suspected that something drastic might happen soon—perhaps a noble attempting to use military force to seize the Governorship. The chances were slim, as the opposing factions constantly checked and balanced each other, ready to retaliate if anyone stepped out of line. It was a fierce, protracted stalemate, but not an impossible scenario for violence.

 

Vann had already chosen his side: his brother. It had taken a lot of pleading. Initially, he had no desire to join Valen—he despised his brother. But after being persuaded and listening to Valen's reasoning, he had softened and finally agreed.

 

He certainly wouldn't have joined if Valen had the ambition to become Governor himself. But right now, his brother had too many headaches to deal with to care about titles.
Which is good, Vann thought. He didn't want to imagine Valen as Governor; the administration was already authoritarian enough. Under Valen, it might become absolute tyranny.

 

BANG!

 

The office door was thrown open without permission. In walked the burly figure of Colonel Draco, a former slum ganger who had climbed the ranks with his fists and battlefield achievements. Draco swaggered into the room, rudely spitting synthetic gum into a wastebin.

 

"Hey, Boss!" Draco called out the old nickname out of habit.

 

"Your plan is truly wicked, you know. I saw you walking and talking with that pale-faced girl on the way to the train station this morning... Looking at how shy and innocent she is, I give it a week. She’ll be yours for sure," Draco laughed heartily, slapping Vann’s desk. BANG.

 

"Man... I forgot that our Boss was the number one 'Ladies' Man' of Sector D slums ten years ago. A girl who looks that weak and harmless... prime prey, right Boss?" Draco spoke loudly, showing zero respect or fear toward Vann.

 

Vann did not laugh. He set his teacup down on the saucer with a soft but resonant clink. He looked up at Draco with his single remaining eye. The gaze was cold and fierce, silencing Draco immediately. He hated when people spoke to him like that.

 

"Draco... I am not that womanizing gang leader chasing skirts anymore. Leave the past ten years in the past. And if you want to keep your tongue to speak nonsense, watch your mouth," Vann said in a low voice, his tone indicating his limited patience.

 

"Besides, if I were courting her, I’d use a different method. And if I were actually doing it, you would have seen me taking her to the bedroom already. Get that into your thick skull," Vann replied with irritation. He had no intention of romancing Erica; that would be foolish.

 

Just looking at her personality, he knew that pursuing her would only bring trouble.

 

Since being exiled and given a second chance by his brother, Vann had spent over five years fighting in the savage Lower Hive. He used brutality, cunning, and everything he had to build a gang and expand his influence until he was a powerful figure.

 

Back then, as a gang leader in Sector D (under House Malvernis territory), Vann was formidable, handsome, and powerful, but his womanizing habits had been unchecked. He was charismatic, charming, and involved with many women, even the daughters of some nobles.

 

Until he decided to enlist in the PDF and reinvent himself. He rose from a common private through merit and a bit of trickery, eventually becoming a young General known for his tactical creativity, looks, and composure—though still mistrusted due to his history.

 

Draco paled and immediately stood at attention, saluting.

 

"S-Sorry, General! I was just... just joking, sir."

 

"People like me are not for you to joke about," Vann said, leaning back. "Remember this: soon, she will be just like you... someone for me to use. No, actually... she will be worth more than all of you combined. She possesses a brain and a decisiveness that you lack. Do not underestimate her just because you haven't seen her true capabilities."

 

Draco shifted nervously but couldn't help asking the question that had plagued all the subordinates.

 

"But Boss... permission to speak freely," Draco scratched his head. "Is it really worth it? Risking your life to save one woman in the middle of a battlefield? You lost men, spent a fortune on medical bills—hell, you spent so much you couldn't afford a high-grade bionic eye to replace that eyepatch. You could have left her there..."

 

Vann went silent for a moment. He touched the eyepatch over his right eye. A faint smile appeared—Draco couldn't tell if it was self-pity or pride.

 

"Draco... my investment wasn't just money or an eye," Vann said smoothly. "That day, when everything collapsed in the chaos... remember? When we were fighting to retake the sector from the Genestealers. We were pinned down between the PDF lines and the advancing Xenos. That giant tank—a Leman Russ—appeared, and the tide of battle shifted. Everyone panicked. Some cowed on the ground waiting for death. But that shy girl... the one you called innocent..."Vann paused, taking a final sip of tea.

 

"I was a tanker back then, Boss. I didn't see anything but that big tank," Draco interrupted.

 

"How many times have I told you not to interrupt? It's rude," Vann snapped, reaching for the pistol on his desk and pointing it idly at his subordinate.

 

"In that moment, I saw her. She might have been terrified, yes. But she made a decision no one expected. She grabbed an anti-tank grenade and sprinted through a hail of hybrid-xenos gunfire with a courage that would shame a veteran. She threw that grenade, destroyed the tank suppressing us, and stopped them from taking the giant elevator."Vann stood up and walked to the window, looking down at the view outside the Hive City—a landscape choked with toxic dust and smog, obscuring the massive mountains a kilometer away.

 

"She has rare qualities, Draco. Rare for someone from the Lower Hive. She has precise management knowledge, pistol skills that are sharp as if trained by a professional, and her appearance... most importantly, that courage hidden beneath the shy, insecure demeanor. It is the perfect mask. Think about it. Would you be worried about someone harmless like her? If, during a banquet, a beautiful, shy, insecure woman walked past you or approached you, what would you feel?"

 

"Two things, Boss. I wouldn't pay attention to her, or I'd be interested in her looks," Draco answered.

 

"Exactly. And then she would end you. Even though she looks timid, her marksmanship is excellent. She doesn't want to kill, but she will not hesitate if her life is threatened." Vann recalled seeing Eric in combat. He knew instantly: kind, shy, paranoid, reserved... but with a very low tolerance for being threatened.

 

"...Saving a life this valuable... for me, it is worth far more than the cost. When she is ready to 'work' for me properly, you will understand that my eye was a small price to pay."Draco fell silent, stunned. He had never seen Vann value anyone this highly.

 

"Understood, General. I will order the boys to keep an eye on her... uh, from a distance, sir."

 

"Don't let her face everything alone. Time will prove everything," Vann replied without turning back. "Now get out. I have a precious lunch break and paperwork to finish." He waved his hand, dismissing his subordinate.

 

___________________________________________

 

Location: Hive Kathion

Opell III

Hive Kathion was one of the smaller Hive Cities of the Hive World Opell III. Its spire reached only about 200 meters above the cloud layer, unlike the massive Hives elsewhere on the planet that pierced the upper atmosphere.

 

And this Hive City was facing a crisis.
The jet engines of a private Aquila Lander whined down as its wheels touched the private runway atop the Hive Spire. High-altitude winds whipped Valen’s expensive long coat as he descended the ramp.

 

Valen’s face was etched with exhaustion. The Council of Nobles meeting to select the new Governor had lasted over 12 hours and ended in emptiness. The nobles argued over conflicts of interest; no one yielded. That fat pig Thalric proposed nonsense, and Lady Annes stared at him as if he were a maiden to be devoured. The meeting had been a massive waste of his valuable time.

 

"Welcome back, My Lord!" a shaky voice called out in relief. Ignatius, the loyal elderly butler, hurried over to bow, his face full of anxiety.

 

"You were gone so long. I feared negotiations had failed, or something terrible had happened... I could barely eat or sleep."
Valen sighed softly, waving away the concern.

 

"Just old people arguing about nonsense, Ignatius. Nothing to worry about. The meeting dragged on because there was no conclusion... boring as hell."Valen walked into the grand hallway of Palace Korvax. Towering walls adorned with stained glass and marble statues of ancestors and Imperial legends looked down upon them. The polished floor reflected his steady stride. Despite his fatigue, his posture remained elegant.

 

"I have prepared a warm bath and dinner, sir. And the fine wine from Necromunda that you like... Oh, right," Ignatius paused, remembering something. He pulled out a Dataslate with a blinking red seal and handed it to Valen.

 

"An urgent message from the Lower Hive, from your 'Left Hand'... sent 2 days ago with high-level encryption. I dared not open it."
Valen took the Dataslate, his brows furrowing. Omega was not someone who sent

messages frivolously. If he was reporting directly, it was a matter of life and death.
Valen’s fingers unlocked the gene-code on the screen, and the classified report appeared.

 

[CLASSIFIED REPORT: TO LORD VALEN KORVAX]

[FROM: OMEGA]

[SUBJECT: OPERATION CLEANSE - CODE RED & THREAT ANALYSIS]

 

"The peacekeeping mission on the border of House Korvax and House Thalric territories is partially complete. We encountered an incursion of heretics. They have lost their humanity completely. These are not just starving workers; they have been biologically altered into weapons with clear objectives."
Valen scanned the text with the eyes of an analyst until he stopped at a crucial paragraph. His eyes narrowed.

 

"From the ambush during our exfiltration, I found critical evidence: heavy weaponry used to engage tanks. I am declaring a Maximum Level Risk: I suspect House Thalric is betraying the Imperium... or is compromised. I propose you initiate a preemptive strike immediately. Before what they are hiding grows beyond what my lightning can stop."
Valen lowered the Dataslate. He stopped in the middle of the silent hallway. His brain processed the situation like a cogitator.

 

Fear formed deep in his heart, hidden under a cold mask. His Lower Hive territory had just recovered its infrastructure. He had poured massive funds into it. If he let these heretics—born of Thalric's negligence or treachery—spread, the damage would be catastrophic. The fragile production lines, the manufactorums he spent a fortune repairing—all would be destroyed.

 

And more importantly... Sanguinala was coming in two weeks. He needed this to be a perfect time to display his governance capabilities. He had even been benevolent enough to grant the workers a 3-day holiday and reduced their shifts from 20 hours to 19—a mercy he could barely afford.

 

Thalric... that irresponsible fool, Valen thought. I don't know if he is a traitor or just incompetent enough to let a Genestealer Cult infestation fester.

 

He had no time for committees or diplomats. The risk was too high. One slip, and the planet falls. They must be purged.
Valen turned to Ignatius, his face emotionless, but his eyes sharp as a power sword.

 

"Ignatius. Cancel dinner. Prepare the strategic comms room." His voice was simple, not shouting, but commanding absolute authority.

 

"Sir? Is it serious?" the butler asked, trembling.

 

"Just a minor urgency," Valen replied flatly, typing an authorization code into the Dataslate to reply to Omega immediately.

 

[COMMAND REPLY: TO OMEGA]

[FROM: LORD VALEN KORVAX]

[STATUS: AUTHORIZED]

"Permission granted to execute 'Operation: Nip in the Bud' as you see fit. Purge every location suspected of hosting the threat. No ID confirmation required. No negotiations. Do not limit the collateral damage—just ensure the heretics are annihilated. Use any method necessary. Finish it before Sanguinala begins in two weeks."

"The Emperor Protects."

He hit send, then walked toward his private office to plan for the political fallout. The opposition would ask questions, and they wouldn't let this go easily.

Chapter 43: 43

Date: 353.987.M41

Location: Hive Kathion

Sector: Lower Hive

In the dark corner of a silent quarters, Omega sat motionless as a stone, enduring the seductive whispers of daemons from the Warp. Throughout this time, he had been monitoring the situation closely, gathering intelligence from patrols and soldiers on the defensive line. The situation remained calm—too calm. No incidents had occurred, which was highly irregular. Unless someone or something was planning this, it didn't add up. These heretics possessed no grand strategy; they were usually unintelligent, rabid, and savage. This suggested someone was pulling the strings from the shadows—perhaps high-ranking cultists who still retained their sanity.

 

 

Heretics are unpredictable and should never be underestimated.

 

He let out a small sigh as his physical exhaustion slowly abated. The roaring in his head began to subside, leaving only the low hum of the air circulation system to remind him that he was alive in the present, not in that filthy past.

 

Beep!

 

A short alert tone from his personal vox-caster snapped Omega's eyes open. The purple light in his exposed eye shone with alertness. He immediately grabbed the device. The message displayed on the screen caused his cold heart to skip a beat.

 

[AUTHORIZATION CODE: RED PURGE - SIGNED: VALEN KORVAX]

 

A wave of relief washed over him, and he let out a soft breath. The two days of waiting, which had felt like an eternity, were over. His master was safe. And more importantly... Valen still trusted his instincts. He had been given the order to purge by any means necessary, provided that no target remained and the total elimination of the heretics was guaranteed.

 

Omega stood up. Under the gas mask that covered half his face, he was smiling. It was not a smile of joy, but one laden with cruelty. The fatigue from moments ago was discarded as if it had never existed. He donned his round red spectacles and leather gloves, concealing the signs of a rogue psyker beneath the guise of a cold executioner and the commander of the Korvax private military—second in power only to Valen.

 

He stepped out of his quarters, heading toward Central Command of the Lower Hive base. The sentries standing guard along the corridor straightened their posture and lowered their heads as he passed. The atmosphere around him was so frigid it was palpable.

 

When the blast doors of the command room opened, Omega walked straight to the main cogitator console, sweeping his gaze over the high-ranking officers awaiting his decision.

 

"Orders confirmed from Lord Valen," his voice rang out, resonant and decisive. "We have been granted permission. We are going in to wipe them out. Nothing survives—not a single life. Prepare yourselves. Summon 5,000 troops of the Korvax Household Guard to station here within four hours, and prep the heavy armored units for mobilization. In approximately five days, we will sweep the area to collect whatever remains after the chemical weapons have done their work."

 

While the officers scrambled to execute his orders, Omega's mind began to calculate furiously. He did not underestimate the enemy like common nobles did. He knew that if the heretics Thalric was harboring were truly disciples of Chaos, the danger would multiply exponentially.

 

'5,000 men... veterans with the best equipment money can buy,' Omega thought, staring at the strategic hololith. 'They handle riots perfectly. They slaughter low-level heretics like cattle... but what if they summon something worse? Like a Daemon? How much Warp energy can these soldiers withstand?'

 

He knew these soldiers were Valen's most powerful weapon, but they had limits. They could not fight everything. If it were low-level daemons, he could handle them. He wasn't sure if he could handle the stronger ones, but against any other enemy, there would be no problem.

 

Omega turned to Sergeant Kasian standing nearby. "Sergeant... order the sniper units and the chemical weapons division to be on high alert. We are not going into that zone to negotiate. We are going in to bury them under the rubble. And get Engineer 65-A to me. I want him to seal every vent and air duct connecting to that sector. Isolate our area from theirs completely. We will only enter after we are certain the chemicals have killed everything that cannot withstand them."

 

Omega paused for a breath before continuing, realizing that the controls for the ventilation and various systems of the Lower Hive were located here at this command base.

 

"Or if possible, override the controls for their ventilation and all exits on that side. Seal every way out. Trap them inside. It will make dealing with them much easier."

___________________________________

Date: 354.987.M41

Location: Hive Kathion

Sector: Upper Hive

Eric was resting in the cafeteria during his lunch break—a time that, whether in the future or the old world, was always precious. Lunch today was nothing special; just bread and canned meat as usual. He had heard the news that Gestalt had transferred to work elsewhere, and a new Tech-Priest would be coming to take over the maintenance duties for their department's machinery.

 

He didn't really care who the new handler of the machine spirits would be, as long as this newcomer didn't cause problems or impact their work.

 

Suddenly.

 

The sound of metallic footsteps, which usually sounded heavy, had a softer rhythm than expected. A figure in the crimson robes characteristic of the Cult Mechanicus stopped in the middle of the cafeteria. She slowly lowered her hood, revealing a face that made Eric forget to breathe for a moment.

 

"Greetings, everyone. I am Enginseer Lira. I will be overseeing the maintenance of your machinery in place of Tech-Priest Gestalt," Enginseer Lira introduced herself. Her voice was soft and resonant, pleasant to the ear, not dry and synthesized like most Tech-Priests Eric had encountered. The other employees simply nodded and gave short acknowledgments before returning to their meals with indifference.

To them, whoever came was just another mechanic, and the Mechanicus were generally unapproachable—everyone knew they were usually
eccentric and cold.

 

But for Eric... it was completely different.
He sat frozen, his eyes glued to Lira, unable to look away. Her crimson Mechanicus robes were tailored to fit her form, revealing curves that were incredibly attractive—a stark contrast to the typical disciples of the Machine God who often abandoned their human form for cybernetics. Some modified themselves harmlessly, while others became horrors, rumored to have spider legs or forms that could no longer be described as human.

 

She had smooth, honey-tan skin that stood out against her red robes—a rarity, as most Lower Hive residents had pale skin from a lack of sunlight. She had long, sleek black hair cascading down her sloping shoulders. But what captivated him most was her eye; she had an emerald green iris, though only one remained. On her back, she wore a pack with four mechatendrites that swayed gently as she stood.

 

Even though Eric was now in a female body and tried to adapt to it—adjusting his expressions, behavior, and habits—his deep-seated male psyche trembled violently upon seeing Lira's mysterious beauty. The nervousness that had faded began to well up until he had to hurriedly look down at his lunch plate, which now contained only bread. His face began to heat up for no reason.

 

She's gorgeous, he complained internally, trying to keep his hands from shaking and stopping himself from staring at Enginseer Lira like a creep. Why? Why does she look like a model who just walked out of a magazine?

 

When the red-robed figure of Enginseer Lira walked out of the cafeteria, the silence was replaced by the usual chatter. But Eric remained frozen, stiff as a board, arguing with himself in his mind.

 

What is wrong with me? he asked himself frantically, staring at the bread.
His thoughts were tangled like a rat's nest of cables. Deep down, he knew his soul was male, and appreciating beautiful women was something he had done all his life in the old world. But the reality was that his body was now female, and outwardly, he looked like a shy young woman. It made him feel confused and awkward.

 

If I stare at her like that... what will others think? Won't it be weird for a woman to sit here with her heart pounding because of another woman? He pressed his lips together tightly, imagining what would happen if he clearly showed his attraction. The nervousness spiked when he remembered Lira was Mechanicus.
Plus, she's an Enginseer, Eric! Don't they view love as a frivolous weakness of the flesh? Damn it... stop thinking about it right now!

 

Eric tried to pull himself together. He massaged his temples, muttering to himself out of habit.

 

Stay calm, Eric... You're just admiring beauty, that's all. It's nothing more than that. It's not like when you were staring at people in the communal showers.

 

But no matter how much he tried to fool himself, the image of that sharp, tan face with the emerald eye kept circling in his head. The desire to get to know her, or at least see her up close again, began to battle with his shyness and paranoia.

 

He exhaled wearily, quickly clearing his plate to return to his accounting desk. His safe space, filled with numbers and documents, was the only place that could help him escape this internal chaos.

 

"Just work... don't pay attention to her, don't make eye contact... that's enough," he told himself with an unconvincing voice before rushing out of the cafeteria, heading straight to his office to tackle the two or three piles of documents waiting for him.

 

Eric tried to gather his scattered concentration back to the paper in front of him. The clack-clack-clack of typewriters echoed through the relatively quiet accounting department. He took a deep breath, trying to focus on keying in product codes and supply quantities.

 

But every time he closed his eyes to rest, the image of Enginseer Lira's face, her emerald eye, and her faint smile floated back in. Heat rushed to his cheeks uncontrollably.

 

"Dammit... stop it, Eric. Are you going to be like this every time you see a beautiful woman or a handsome man?" he grumbled, typing faster to escape his distracted thoughts. In truth, he had felt this way several times, whether it was meeting Vann or his own lewd thoughts in the showers. He wasn't sure why—perhaps it was the hormones of this new body.

 

However, it seemed the "Machine Spirit" of his typewriter was not sympathetic to his turmoil. Suddenly, the typebars jammed when he accidentally pressed down too hard, creating a harsh CRACK! The machine seized up, letters stacking on top of each other in a mess.

 

Eric frowned in frustration. He tried to wiggle the metal bars back into place, but it seemed something inside the mechanism was jammed far worse than his small bottle of sacred oil could fix. More importantly, he felt that if he pulled any harder, this ancient typewriter would break apart in his hands.
He stared at the problematic machine with irritation and despair. His mind raced with worry—he needed to finish his work, but how? Sending it to central maintenance meant... he might have to talk to her.
Great, Eric thought. This plays right into it. He smiled faintly before standing up and walking toward the room that used to belong to Gestalt.

 

Eric stood weighing his options in front of the technical department's door for a moment. He took a deep breath to summon his courage and suppress the lingering shyness. His slender hands smoothed his clothes before he knocked gently.

 

Knock! Knock!

 

Stepping into the room, he found the atmosphere completely changed. Where it was once damp and smelled of old oil, it was now organized and smelled of clean ozone. Enginseer Lira was bent over, inspecting a circuit board. She looked up with a friendly smile the moment she saw the visitor.

 

"Hello, is there something I can help you with?" Lira greeted him with a soft voice that invited relaxation.Eric felt so nervous his hands shook slightly.

 

"Uh... well, my typewriter is jammed. I tried to fix it, but it seems like the internal mechanism has a problem... I didn't bring it with me because it's quite heavy."
He noticed Lira didn't act cold or spout incomprehensible techno-dogma like Gestalt. She seemed enthusiastic and lively, a stark contrast to the image of the Tech-Priests he was used to. And she didn't look overly cybernetic either.

 

"Internal mechanism? I understand," Lira set down her tool and dusted off her hands lightly. "Don't worry. I'll go take a look at your desk myself. We can't let important paperwork pile up. I agree to help you fix it right now."

 

Her easy acceptance and warm demeanor made Eric feel indescribably relieved, even though his face still flushed a bit when meeting that emerald eye up close.
At the thick wooden desk,

 

Lira leaned down to inspect the typewriter's innards intently. Her hands moved dexterously amidst the soft clinking of metal, removing the casing to reveal a mechanism far more complex than expected. While she used a small screwdriver to adjust the gears, and Eric watched her work with curiosity, she broke the silence.

 

"Come to think of it, I don't know your name yet," Lira asked, her eyes still focused on the work. Eric answered immediately.

 

"I'm Erica de la Cruz," Eric replied softly, trying to keep his voice steady. "I... I just moved here recently. Before this, I lived in the Lower Hive. By some stroke of luck, I got to live in the lower part of the Upper Hive and work here."

 

Lira paused slightly before giggling good-naturedly.

 

"That's a lovely name. But the Lower Hive? Wow, you must be quite capable to have pulled yourself up here. Most people are stuck there forever, but you're sitting here managing accounts in a safe zone. That's very impressive, Erica," she complimented. Eric felt his face burn red at receiving praise from such a beautiful and friendly woman.

 

"It's nothing much, really. I was just lucky. I managed to come up here during the war a year ago. I joined the PDF (Planetary Defense Force), and fortunately, I performed well on the battlefield and miraculously survived. My service record granted me residency rights here," Eric replied with a hint of shyness. Lira listened intently while she continued fixing the machine.

 

During the conversation, Eric tried to avert his gaze to avoid staring at Lira bent over her work in those practical red robes. Despite the cloth covering her, he could still make out her elegant and proportionate figure—her waist, her hips. She had the agile build of a woman who had undergone rigorous training.

Eric surreptitiously glanced at himself, touching his own waist. Although his current body had decent proportions—not too thick, not too thin—and his face was arguably pretty enough to rival hers, he couldn't help but feel jealous of the confidence radiating from Lira. She was elegant, assured, and unashamed under anyone's gaze. Unlike him, who was always shrinking back and paranoid, even though he was dressed much more conservatively.

 

"Alright, all done!" Lira closed the typewriter cover and performed a final rite he didn't understand before straightening up and brushing dust off her hands. "The mechanism was just choked with thick dust. Next time it jams, call me immediately. Don't hesitate."

 

She grinned broadly at Eric, making him feel that perhaps getting to know new people at work wasn't always something to be suspicious of. However, his heart was still beating abnormally fast being near her.

 

"Thank you so much, Lira," Eric said, his voice filled with unconcealed relief as he stroked the typewriter keys like a precious treasure. "If you hadn't helped, I would have been in trouble. I'd probably be stuck with this problem all day until the department head scolded me."

Lira laughed softly, her voice clear and cheerful. She crossed her arms slightly in a relaxed posture.

 

"It's no problem at all, Erica. It's my duty as an Enginseer to care for the machine spirits, to keep them happy and working. Besides... getting to talk to you like this is much better than being cooped up working alone in the maintenance room."

 

As she spoke, Eric felt his gaze inadvertently drop below her beautiful face again, drifting toward her chest and waist. Maybe it was the nervousness of standing near someone so charismatic, or just simple admiration, but he quickly pulled himself back.

SMACK!

He slapped himself hard in his thoughts to snap back to reality immediately.

 

Look at her face, Eric! Look at her eyes! he screamed internally, feeling guilty for the momentary lapse in manners. Get a grip. Why are you looking there? You're in a female body now... Hey! Even if you were a guy, you shouldn't do that! It's rude! Focus on her eye. The single eye.

 

Eric swallowed hard before hurriedly lifting his face to meet Lira's emerald eye, forcing a slightly stiff smile to mask his internal panic and scattered thoughts. He tried to act as natural as possible, even though his ears were burning red.

 

Trying to keep his gaze steady despite his racing heart, he continued the conversation to distract himself.

 

"So... are you from here originally, Lira?"
Lira shook her head slightly, leaning back against the edge of his desk. She looked relaxed and full of confidence.

 

"No, actually. I transferred from another Hive City on the other side of the planet. The atmosphere there is very different from here."

 

She began to gesture as she spoke, her emerald eye sparkling as she recalled her home. "The Upper Hive there is full of iron cathedrals scraping the sky. Marble bridges span between buildings decorated with filigreed brass. Everything looks luxurious and ancient, like something out of the past, but filled with the sound of steam engines and glowing blue energy pipes woven like spiderwebs. There's so much Gothic architecture, unlike here which is quite simple."

 

Eric listened quietly, visualizing it. In his head, it looked like the Victorian era mixed perfectly with Steampunk technology—very different from here, which had some Gothic elements but not nearly as much. But what he couldn't take his eyes off wasn't the story, but her mannerisms. Lira looked happy and proud of who she was. Her intelligence and elegance made her so charming he almost forgot to breathe.

 

Damn... she's so attractive when she tells a story, Eric thought, secretly admiring her radiant personality. He compared it to himself, always making himself small and paranoid, even though he wasn't particularly outstanding in anything other than his rather pretty face.

 

"That sounds like a wonderful place to live," Eric replied, his voice softer. The paranoia toward strangers faded, replaced by impression. "It must be beautiful and peaceful compared to an industrial zone like this."

 

Lira grinned. "It has a different kind of beauty, Erica. And it has its own dangers—the politics there are intense, and enemies are ready to stab you in the back everywhere. But finding something new here... like meeting you, is a good thing too."
Her casual words made Eric blush furiously again. He could only look down at the repaired typewriter, fidgeting with his fingers awkwardly.

 

Still, she had told him her story; it was time for him to share something too. He wouldn't let her do all the talking.

 

"Come to think of it... looking at me doing accounting like this, I used to be a conscript too, you know. I'm best with a pistol, specifically the quick-draw. In my platoon, no one was faster than me," Eric said, puffing his chest out slightly with a slip of pride.
Lira raised an eyebrow before letting out a hearty laugh.

 

"Really? Looking at such a beautiful, proper girl, I wouldn't have thought you were that skilled with a gun," she winked her remaining eye at him.

 

"Then... can I see with my own eyes how 'fast' your hands are?"

 

As she finished speaking, Lira reached under her red robes and pulled out an object, placing it on the desk. Eric's eyes went wide. It wasn't a Laspistol, a Plasma gun, or a standard autopistol. It was a Revolver—with a blued steel barrel and an intricately carved wooden grip. It looked like it had fallen straight out of the cowboy era.

 

Whoa... a revolver? In the 41st Millennium, people still use classics like this? Eric exclaimed internally. To him, it was an incredibly rare weapon. He thought they only existed in museums or private collections.

 

"Give it a try. I really want to see," Lira challenged with a smile. At the same time, he felt nervous. If he messed up, he would definitely lose face.

 

Eric took a deep breath. To be honest, he hadn't held a pistol like this in a long time—he mostly used a Lasgun—but he hadn't forgotten how to use it. He placed his hand by his side in a ready stance. Lira began a silent countdown, and in the blink of an eye when she nodded, Eric's hand moved so fast it was a blur. He grabbed the gun, drew it, and aimed at an imaginary target with stability and decisiveness in less than a second.

 

Lira paused for a moment before laughing softly and clapping her hands.

 

"Wow! That was really fast, Erica. That was amazing!"

 

Receiving such direct praise, Eric hurriedly put the gun down and looked away, hiding his eyes. His face was burning hot and visibly red.

 

"You... you don't have to praise me that much. It-It's just basics. I'm not that good. Just muscle memory," he mumbled shyly. In his past life, few people had complimented him so directly, especially a woman as beautiful and confident as Lira. Most people lately just praised his looks.

 

He lowered the revolver. In his opinion, the grip wasn't quite right for his hand, but it was usable.

 

Then, Eric realized something. He shouldn't be slacking off like this; if someone saw him, he'd be in trouble.

 

"I'd love to keep talking, but I have to get back to work," Eric said, handing the revolver back to Lira. Unknown to him, his eyes were filled with regret—regret that this precious, happy time was ending.

She smiled warmly before replying.

"I understand. Good luck then," Lira answered, taking the revolver and tucking it back under her robes before turning and walking out of the room.

______________________________________

 

Date: 354.987.M41

Location: Hive Kathion

Sector: Lower Hive - Thalric Territory

Amidst the darkness of the dead industrial zone.

In a dilapidated concrete hall devoid of electricity, lit only by flickering tallow candles and old oil lamps, the smell of dampness and rust hung heavy in the air.

 

Kael, a former lieutenant of the Thalric private army turned rebel leader, pounded the map table in frustration. Before him stood four or five high-ranking core members, their faces equally stressed.

 

"I told you to keep those test subjects and the insane ones under strict control!" Kael shouted. "They are mindless! They are starving! Letting them escape to the Korvax border was a fatal mistake! Now Valen knows!"

 

Vera, a middle-aged woman and the group's tactician, countered with a cold voice. "It couldn't be helped, Kael. We didn't have enough food to feed them. Besides... did you think we had the resources to control them? Those things aren't harmless. No one wanted to go near them."

 

"In exchange for exposing ourselves ahead of schedule?" Kael gritted his teeth. "Valen Korvax isn't that fat slob Thalric who spends his days drinking wine and sleeping with women sent by the Ecclesiarchy. Valen is smart and ruthless. He won't let us breathe. He's going to send an army."

 

"Then we prepare," interrupted an old man named Horg, a man of intense faith. "We have people hidden in the alleyways. We have booby traps. We have the faith of those who want to be free from that stupid ruler who gives all our tax money to the church... We will fight."

 

"We could fight... if we had time," Kael sighed, pointing at the old map. "Order everyone to the inner defense lines. Seal the main tunnels. Prep the heavy weapons we stole. If the Korvax soldiers breach, we bring the tunnels down on top of them."

 

"What about the civilians?" Vera asked. "The villagers who aren't fighters?"

 

"Use them as shields, or have them carry ammo," Kael cut her off. "We have no choice. This is a war for freedom. Sacrifice is necess—"

But before Kael could finish...

Hiss...

A faint sound of leaking air interrupted him. Everyone in the room fell silent, looking at each other in confusion.

 

"What is that sound?" Horg asked, frowning.

 

"A gas leak? There hasn't been gas here for ten years."

 

Kael's nose twitched. He caught a scent drifting on the wind... a sickly sweet smell mixed with the acrid tang of burning chemicals. It wasn't the familiar smell of rust or waste.

 

"This smell..." Vera muttered, before her eyes widened in panic. "It's not a leak... Chemical weapons!"

 

Suddenly, a faint green mist began to seep in through the vents and cracks in the iron door, like a formless reaper.

 

"Masks! Get the gas masks out!" Kael screamed, his calm leadership vanishing instantly. He dove toward the emergency supply crate in the corner.

 

But inside the crate... there were only three functional masks left. There were six people in the room.

 

"Back off! I'm the leader!" Kael shoved Horg against the wall and snatched a mask, strapping it over his face frantically. His breathing came in loud, muffled rasps through the filter.

 

"You bastard! You said we were brothers!" one member shouted, trying to snatch a mask from Vera. But Vera was faster; she pulled a knife to threaten him and donned a mask herself.

 

"Urgh... Cough! Cough!"

 

The sound of coughing began to echo through the room. The members without masks collapsed. They tried to cover their noses and mouths, their faces contorting in agony from asphyxiation. Horg, the old believer, tried to pray, but his voice turned raspy and eventually fell silent. Their bodies went still, one by one, amidst the thickening green fog.

 

"Go! Get out of here!" Kael's muffled voice ordered Vera. The two survivors with masks rushed over the bodies of their former comrades to the large iron blast door—the emergency exit to the mid-level industrial zone.

 

Kael spun the valve wheel madly, hoping to open it and flee to a sector with clean air.

 

Clank... Clank...

The valve turned only an inch before stopping dead. It was locked from the outside.

 

"No... that's impossible," Vera's voice shook. She tried to help Kael pull, but the door wouldn't budge even a millimeter.

 

"Open! Open damn it!!" Kael shouted at the cold steel door. He began pounding on it with his fists. "You Korvax scum! Open this door! Damn you! I curse you all!!"

 

The sound of their pounding echoed back uselessly. There was no response from the other side. Only a terrifying silence. Kael slumped against the door, watching the green mist that had now completely swallowed the hall and the bodies of his allies.

 

He realized in that second that this wasn't a war... it was pest control. And they were the insects trapped in a jar, being fumigated.
"It's over..." Vera whispered under her mask, her voice filled with despair. "They've locked us in here to die."

 

And in the dim darkness of the Lower Hive, the desperate knocking on the door slowly faded, leaving only the hissing of the deadly gas continuing its work, until the five days were up and the Korvax private army would enter to sweep away anything that was still breathing.

 

___________________________________________

Gestalt and Lira