Warhammer: Empire Reboot

Khorne doesn't care who you kill.

Khorne was concerned with killing itself.

An enemy capable of killing to the point of destroying a demon's soul must have a head that weighs far more than an ordinary skull.

Krauser turned and headed toward the communications room; he needed to confirm the fleet's exact location and estimated return time.

Before this.

The transport ship from the agricultural world has just arrived in orbit around Planet One.

The ship was loaded with frozen meat and some cheap labor.

These transport ships come every few months and are among the few still operating normal trade routes in this galaxy.

Klaus was not interested in these transport ships.

The food and manpower they brought were useful for the operation of Planet One, but that was all.

His attention was entirely focused on the fleet recall and the military plans for Planet Three.

Unbeknownst to him, thirty seemingly insignificant stevedores had already been unloaded at the port along with the cargo on the transport ship.

The surface port of Planet One is called Ironthroat.

This name is very fitting.

The port is built at the bottom of the outer shell of Nest City No. 1, which is a narrow canyon that extends deep into the earth's crust.

The canyon is flanked by metal cliffs hundreds of meters high, covered with crane booms, freight tracks and monitoring towers.

All supplies entering Nest City No. 1 must be swallowed through this throat, and all products exported must be spat out from here.

The transport ship Gray Whale completed docking twenty minutes ago.

Unloading was a chaotic ceremony.

Thousands of dockworkers surged onto the berth, carrying frozen meat crates out of the hold under the shouts of their foremen and the lash of their whips.

A forklift zipped through the crowd, crushing the ankle of a slow-moving porter.

The man screamed and fell to the ground, trampled by the crowd behind him, and fell silent two minutes later.

No one stopped to look at him.

On Planet One, stopping is a sign of weakness, and showing weakness means death.

Thirty non-combatant suicide soldiers mingled among the porters.

They wore the same gray dust suits as the other workers, and the same breathing masks. The calluses on their hands and the grime between their fingers were no different from those of the people around them.

Suicide squad member number 10086 carried a 50-kilogram box of frozen meat out of the ship's hold.

Sweat dripped from his forehead, soaking the edge of his breathing mask.

Port security check.

There are two checkpoints. The first is cargo inspection, which involves scanners, sniffer dogs, and random sampling of packages.

The second step is personnel verification, including facial recognition, temperature checks, and random questioning.

The facial recognition system is the Imperial Standard MK-VII, with a recognition accuracy of approximately 92%.

Non-combat suicide soldiers have standard Terran faces that are randomly generated based on the target planet's racial database at the time of creation, and will not match any wanted databases.

Body temperature checks are ineffective against suicide bombers.

Random questioning is the only aspect that requires attention.

When 10086 passed through the first checkpoint, a scanner stopped him.

"Put the box down and open it."

10086 placed the meat box on the inspection table and pried open the lid forcefully.

The white, cold air from the frozen meat poured out of the box.

The scanner poked between the pieces of meat a few times with a metal probe, and the indicator light at the end of the probe flashed green twice.

"Walk."

10086 picked up the box and continued on his way.

The second hurdle.

An inspector in a dark red uniform sat behind an iron table, on which sat a temperature scanner and a stack of forms.

He had a fresh knife scar on his chin, which looked like he had been in a fight last night.

10086 walked to the table, removed the breathing mask according to procedure, and revealed an ordinary face.

The temperature scanner scanned his forehead; it was normal.

The prosecutor glanced at him.

Which ship?

"Grey Whale".

"What?"

Loading and unloading.

"Contract number?"

"743208".

The prosecutor scribbled a checkmark on the form.

"Get out of here, next one."

10086 put on a breathing mask, carried the meat box, and entered the interior of Nest City No. 1.

Thirty assassins were scattered at different entrances and passed through security at different time intervals.

Within seventeen minutes, all thirty assassins passed through security and entered Nest City No. 1.

The internal structure of Nest City One is similar to that of Nest City Three, but the atmosphere is completely different.

The hives on Planet Three are all gray, filled with the suffocating feeling of industrial pollution and class oppression.

But it at least maintained the basic framework of imperial society, with a Ministry of Justice, order, and even if the laws were hypocritical.

The nests on Planet One are all red.

The walls were painted with dark red paint.

Every fifty meters there is a bulletin board displaying the progress of this month's death quota: "Residential area, this month's quota is 120 skulls, 89 have been completed, 31 remain, and there are six days left until the deadline."

Residential areas that fail to meet their quotas will be cut off from water, electricity, and food until the shortfall is made up.

10086 carried a box of meat and walked along the main aisle.

The density of people on both sides of the passage is very high, but unlike on Planet Three, people here won't bump into you for no reason.

Everyone kept at least half a meter away from those around them, their eyes were alert, and their steps were quick.

On this planet, physical contact is often the prelude to violence.

A boy of about ten years old was squatting in a niche by the passageway.

He was as thin as a stick, with each of his ribs clearly visible.

He was clutching something in his hand that looked like a piece of dried tendon.

He was tearing at the tendon with his teeth, making a squeaking sound.

The right hemisphere of 10086 underwent a brain scan of that tendon.

Human organizations.

His steps did not falter.

The famine in City 3 was caused by external blockade and food shortages.

The famine on Planet One was man-made.

Governor Krause deliberately kept food rations to a minimum, and the hungry became more aggressive, which meant more gladiatorial combat, more bloodshed, and more skulls.

Khorne didn't care where the blood came from, he only cared that it kept flowing.

After delivering the meat crates to the designated storage area, 10086 waited for the next job in the open space outside the warehouse with the other movers.

He squatted in the corner, took out half a piece of moldy corpse starch from his pocket, and slowly gnawed on it.

His eyelids drooped slightly, as if he were dozing off.

The swarm intelligence is simultaneously mapping the interior of the No. 1 hive city using thirty pairs of eyes.

Two hours later, a rough three-dimensional model of the No. 1 hive had taken shape in the swarm's mind.

The accuracy is not yet sufficient, but it is enough to support the next step of the operation.

10086 stood up and patted the dust off his pants.

"Damn it, they didn't even pay us after we finished the work, those bastards."

He cursed in a low-key accent, just enough for a few other workers nearby who were also waiting for work to hear.

An old man next to him, missing three front teeth, chuckled: "You're new here, aren't you? There's no pay for working at the Iron Throat, only ration coupons. One coupon for every four hours. How long were you working just now?"

"More than two hours."

"Then no. Less than four hours doesn't count."

The toothless old man spat a mouthful of phlegm onto the ground: "If you want a coupon, there's another boat this afternoon. It'll arrive in about three hours."

"Damn it." 10086 hunched his neck and walked along the passage deeper into the nest city.

He turned into a narrow alley.

The alley was dimly lit, with rusty pipes and piles of garbage on both sides.

A woman leaned against the wall, wrapped in a dirty rag, holding a baby who was neither crying nor making a sound in her arms.

The woman glanced at 10086 with empty eyes, then looked away.

10086 walked to the deepest part of the alley.