Warhammer Survival Guide

Chapter 122 The Antidote (Bonus Chapter)

A few seconds later, two sets of holographic projection data floated on the worktable.

On the left is the complex molecular formula and metabolic curve of "Grey Mule No. 1".

On the right is a statistical table from the Imperial Military Affairs Department, which lists casualty figures, material consumption rates, and troop numbers for each war zone.

Luo Wei walked up to the projector.

His eyes turned cold and deep.

The fear, anxiety, and helplessness that belong to ordinary people all vanished at this moment.

It turned into a kind of cold-blooded rationality.

At this moment, he was no longer a prisoner facing death.

He has entered auditor mode.

In his eyes, everything in this world:

Poison, soldiers, war, life, and death have all lost their emotional connotations.

They all turned into data.

Luo Wei picked up a pen and turned to a brand new page in his notebook.

The pen tip glides across the paper; swiftly and forcefully.

"Alpha, I need you to confirm a key parameter again."

Without looking up, Luo Wei asked, "Are you sure the incubation period for this genetic toxin is absolutely twelve hours?"

"Could the onset be earlier due to individual differences in physical condition, such as in strong Oglin apes or weak rat people?"

Despite being on the verge of collapse, the priest maintained his professionalism on technical matters.

He recalibrated the data model.

Carefully scanning the faint, pulsating bioelectrical signals within the holographic projection.

A few minutes later, the priest replied, "Confirmed. It's a genetic lock, set based on the standard human mitochondrial metabolic rate."

"Within twelve hours, the error will not exceed ten minutes."

"very good."

Lo Wei nodded.

He wrote a number in his notebook: 12 hours.

This is the point in time when the risk will erupt.

Then, he quickly flipped through the old edition of the "Sector War Zone Attrition Yearbook".

His reason for using the old version was not out of nostalgia, but out of an absolute obsession with data purity.

The latest war zone attrition yearbook released by the Department of Military Affairs has already been "processed" by rhetoricians in the propaganda department.

The reason is simply because the actual battle casualty rate recorded in the old version was too alarming.

Those cold, hard numbers once broke through the psychological defenses of the ordinary strategist.

This instilled a deep fear of death in the mortal army of the empire even before they set out.

In order to maintain the empire's "morale," and to keep those who are sent to the meat grinder from their feet from their feet, they must maintain a false sense of courage.

The new data had to be "artistically processed" and beautified to reflect the stark reality of the death rate.

Luo Wei's gaze swept over the relatively peaceful garrison sector and the low-intensity counterinsurgency zone.

Finally, his gaze settled on the blood-red name:

Amigidoton.

There's no need to consult classified voyage logs; the answer lies within Márquez himself.

Lowe knew very well that he and the governor had previously colluded to cause trouble for the tax officials, resulting in the 48-hour delay in takeoff.

For a subspace voyage that spans across star systems and takes several months.

There is no subspace turbulence, which causes a larger time error than conventional time errors.

Statistically speaking, this is just a negligible amount of dust.

This is precisely why Luo Wei dared to trick him.

Because this will not really affect the empire's overall war situation.

Marquez was still so enraged that he went so far as to personally intervene, leading a group of arbitrators to pick up grains from the ground.

This excessive anxiety does not stem solely from increased time costs, but rather more from a fear of the destination.

In addition, there is the "Astral Archon" chapter, which is escorted by ships and usually only deployed to key battlefields.

Therefore, the ship's whereabouts are now obvious.

Only that main battlefield, located 15,000 light-years away, is currently the most intense battleground in the entire empire, with the greatest shortage of supplies.

That's what caused a tax official, who is used to seeing all the ups and downs, to lose his composure like this.

The destination of this batch of high-energy military rations could only be the Armageddon theater of operations.

This aligns with Luo Wei's initial speculation.

Lowe began to calculate.

He listed out sets of formulas on a piece of paper.

The time required for transporting supplies, the frequency of resupply within the theater, and the rotation cycle of frontline troops.

And, most importantly:

Average survival time.

Father Alpha stood there dumbfounded.

He didn't quite understand.

Why is this agricultural consultant doing math problems at this critical moment when he's about to die?

Does knowing how you'll die mean you'll die later?

A few minutes later.

Luo Wei stopped writing.

He looked at the final conclusion on the paper and let out a long sigh.

He closed his notebook, his gaze deep, and said, "Alpha, stop chanting. Wipe away your tears; we don't have to die."

The priest seemed to think he had misheard.

"You—what did you say? You found the antidote?"

There is no antidote.

Luo Wei shook his head.

"The toxins are still present; once they enter the body, they will still cause symptoms twelve hours later. This cannot be changed."

"However, we still have a 50% chance of surviving."

"50%?" the priest asked, puzzled. "You mean—flipping a coin?"

Luo Wei approached the holographic projection, stretched out his hand, and superimposed the two sets of data together.

"This is a simple audit question, Alpha."

Loewe pointed to the poison data on the left: "This is our debt: soldiers ate the rations and died of poisoning 12 hours later. If this mess goes up, we're finished."

Then, pointing to the war zone data on the right, he said, "But we need to look at the other side, which is our method of 'closing out accounts'."

Lowe slammed his fist on the line of data for "Amigidon War Zone".

Look here.

"According to the Department of Military Affairs' statistics from the last quarter, in high-intensity frontline combat zones like Amegiddon, a mortal Astral Army soldier, especially one who is qualified, is assigned to a commando unit or heavy weapons group with high-energy rations."

Rowe said, emphasizing each word, "Their average survival time on the front lines is no more than fifteen hours."

"And in Hades's hive city in this region, the average survival time of the mortal auxiliary legions on the outer defensive line is only 8.42."

One standard Terra time.

Father Alpha was taken aback for a moment.

Immediately, his rusty mechanical arm rose and slammed heavily onto his head with a clang.

It was as if this tap had reconnected the logic circuits that had short-circuited due to fear, and also awakened his deep memory bank.

"Oh, Om Messiah above—I remember now."

"I have this report in my database—it's an archive created to optimize the attrition model of the Christian Guard."

"Because the data was too desperate, I archived it in the lower-level sectors."

"You're right, that's hell."

"Not only mortals, but even the maintenance priests of the Cult of Mechanics had the lowest survival rate in that ash wasteland—for a time, it was even lower than that of mortals."

"Because those cunning green-skinned orcs know that they should kill the mechanic first."

Father Alpha's voice trembled as he recited the data he knew by heart: "In the firefight zone of Amighadoon, the average online time of a military technical priest is a paltry 6.7."

Hours.

Luo Wei nodded slightly and continued, "What if this batch of grain is transported to the most devastating front lines?"

"The soldiers ate it in the trenches."

"Then, over the next twelve hours, they encountered orcish charges, artillery barrages, and biological poison gas."

"They died on the battlefield before the poison took effect."

"So, does it even matter whether the toxin takes effect or not?"

The priest's mouth was slightly open, but no sound came out.

An unprecedented sense of dread spread throughout his body, up his spine.

Loewy's logic dissects the cruel nature of this world.

"This is a race, Alpha."

"The speed at which toxins kill is racing against the speed at which war kills."

Rowe described the gruesome scene expressionlessly: "Even some of them, by sheer luck, survived for twelve hours."

"On a battlefield littered with severed limbs and filled with radiation, poison gas, and orc spores."

"Several soldiers suddenly collapsed, foaming at the mouth."

"Do you think a field medic, overwhelmed with work, would suspect there's something wrong with bread that was transported from tens of thousands of light-years away?"

"They won't."

Lowe answered the question himself.

"They would think it was an outbreak of plague, that the orcs used a new type of nerve gas, or that the soldiers suffered a nervous breakdown due to fear."

"In that kind of hell, death is the only constant."

"No one has the time or the resources to conduct detailed autopsies on each body."

"They would just push the bodies into the incinerator, burn them to ashes, and then call back command to bring in the next batch of cannon fodder."

Luo Wei said in a deep voice, "As long as the battlefield is brutal enough."

"The speed of death is so cruel that it outpaces the speed at which the poison takes effect."

"This batch of grain is safe."

Father Alpha understood immediately, but he was also stunned.

As a priest of the Mechanic Church, he believed in the suffering and weakness of flesh and considered himself to be cold-blooded and rational enough.

But he never imagined that a mortal could use such cold logic to calculate the death of his fellow human beings.

This logic uses death to cover up death.

They used the brutality of war as cover.

This is colder than chaos.

"This is—your 'audit'?" the priest murmured to himself.

"Yes."

Luo Wei continued, "Why do I say we have a 50% chance of survival?"

"Because we cannot decide the specific allocation and destination of this batch of grain."

"If this batch of food was left behind in the Armageddon war zone."

"A portion was prioritized for distribution to logistics clerks sitting in offices and officers of the Galactic Defense Force."

"If they live too long, the toxins will be exposed, and we're doomed."

"But what if this batch of food were sent to the front lines, to those suicide squads who needed high-calorie supplies to maintain their energy?"

o

"Then we're alive."

Luo Wei closed the notebook in his hand.

"We don't need to do anything for all of this."

"We can't change the toxin, and we can't contact the governor."

"The only thing we can do is do nothing."

"Keep silent."

"Let war decide your fate."

Father Alpha asked thoughtfully, "Advisor, since we have a 50% or even more than 50% chance of surviving, why do you still seem so downcast?"

Upon hearing this, Lowe asked in a low voice, "Alpha, entrusting its fate to war for auditing—that's a perfect mathematical model, isn't it?"

He seemed to be asking Alpha, but also seemed to be asking himself.

He then tore off the page filled with formulas, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it into the waste liquid tank.

"But that won't work. We can't gamble on that 50% probability."

The cold indifference that had been looking down on all living beings in Luo Wei's eyes had faded.

"I am a selfish person. I want to live more than anyone else."

"But I don't want anyone to be poisoned by eating the food I handle."

"Whether they are cannon fodder destined to sacrifice themselves in the Star Forces' suicide squads, clerks drinking tea in the logistics office, or those arrogant defense force officers—"

Luo Wei's gaze was intense: "In the eyes of the Empire, they may just be numbers, fuel. But to me, their lives matter."

"If my survival requires putting thousands upon thousands of unsuspecting compatriots at the gambling table, then what difference is there between me and the 'Star Child' clan leader who only knows how to scheme in the gutter?"

Alpha froze again.

His logic processor hummed, seemingly reassessing the man before him.

In the priest's eyes, Rowe Dane was always a calculating, profit-driven, and rational monster.

He can use the rules to deal with tax officials without batting an eye.

They can also calmly calculate the race between war and toxins.

This kind of ruthlessness should be the "inhuman" realm that the Mechanics Cult dreams of.

However, at this moment, beneath the cold logic, the priest glimpsed a spark called "humanity".

The priest suddenly realized that he was not alone.

Just like himself, although he was studying heresy, his loyalty to the empire and to humanity was absolutely pure.

They are all people walking on a tightrope.

To safeguard the most traditional order using the most unconventional methods.

Use the coldest calculations to exercise the warmest compassion.

"Birds of a feather flock together," Father Alpha laughed, his previous fear and tension completely gone. "Ohm..."

"Messiah above, I will unconditionally support you, Advisor."

Luo Wei pondered for a moment and said, "Since we're not going to gamble on luck, we'll have to find a different way to play."

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