Chapter 1: A Hive City with Simple Folk Customs

The Milky Way, Ember Star Ring: a dark yellow solid planet orbiting a red giant.

It once had a beautiful name, Resource Planet 016-701, "Norecia," but now, no one cares for it.

Just like the "Ember" designation of its star ring, the lives trapped here have only one path: waiting for death. In the end, they are nothing more than a handful of embers, gasping for breath after the burning.

The outer space orbit of the resource planet is piled high with the wreckage of machinery.

No matter how glorious a technological creation once was, once scrapped, it is merely cold space junk, even blocking the self-rescue efforts of the lives within the resource planet.

Gray-green acidic clouds shroud the sky; a low-visibility smog blankets the entire world equally.

Only the roaring noise of large factories makes this world appear alive, rather than a steel tomb.

……

Occupying an entire continent, stretching from one end of the horizon to the other, the Hive City—a cluster metropolis symbolizing prosperity, wealth, and beauty, capable of sustaining billions of humans—has, after centuries of wind and rain, seen the vast majority of its areas submerged in industrial waste and pollutants.

The giants of the "Spire District" revel in madness amidst despair, immersed in debauchery, freely singing praises to "giving civilization time."

Drink today, for today we are drunk; worry tomorrow, for tomorrow we shall worry.

The "nobles" of the "Upper Hive" strive to squeeze the "commoners" of the "Lower Hive," as if only this gives them a sense of being alive.

The nobles' appalling acts of tyranny would make even the most infamous tyrants of history bow in defeat.

The "Lower Hive" is riddled with religious sects; from the moment of birth, the fate of the residents of the "Lower Hive" is already sealed.

Working 007 year-round, living lives so numb it breeds despair, the residents of the "Lower Hive" can only pin their hopes on faith.

At the very bottom of the Hive City lies the chaotic place known as the "Under-Hive."

Here, the "folk customs are simple," here, "talent abounds," and here, they are "hospitable."

This is a place without any order, practicing the law of the jungle, where the strong are the truth.

In the "Under-Hive," everyone is both hunter and prey; death and blood permeate their entire lives.

……

"Under-Hive," a narrow, cramped alleyway.

A foul-smelling, dark green "stream" seeps out from the sewer along the edge of the alley.

Several lifeless bodies lie in the dark green "stream," the highly corrosive liquid eroding the remains into pitted, uneven shapes.

In the darkness that never sees the light of day, stifled, heavy breaths ring out.

Gazes as greedy as wolves that have starved for weeks lock tightly onto the "fresh goods" lying in the "stream."

*Clang, clatter—*

A small stone flies out from the dark, rolling across the uneven ground, becoming the fuse for this "battle for survival."

The "wolves," unable to suppress their hunger, explode with astonishing speed from their emaciated frames, charging toward the two remains in the "stream" with various implements in hand.

The ferocious survivors, whether alone or in small groups, divide the "spoils" after the larger survivor alliances finish, glaring viciously at their empty-handed, useless brethren.

Cold light flashes from blades swung in the darkness; most eye-catching is a discarded chainsword picked up from a trash heap.

"Get lost!"

"If you don't get lost, I'll slaughter you too and turn you into starch!"

A "little giant," about 2.2 meters tall and extremely sturdy, brandishes the stalled chainsword.

The blade tears through the air with a shrill whistle, appearing extremely intimidating.

*Bang—*

A finger pulls the trigger, and a projectile flies from the muzzle.

The flash of fire in the dim environment is blinding, and the scavenging hyenas scramble to dodge.

It is a pity they are neither the legendary "Astartes," nor "psykers" used to fuel the "Astronomican," nor "Primarchs" who are like gods and demons.

Therefore, the result is already determined.

Within seven steps—the gun is fast and accurate!

The "little giant" with the highest threat level, holding the chainsword, has a flower of blood bloom from his head.

That ferocious face, full of thick flesh, carries deep disbelief even in the moment of death.

Subsequently, he falls heavily onto the filthy, foul-smelling ground, becoming one of the "bait."

*Tap, tap, tap—*

A man in black, with neat clothes and distinct from the other malnourished hyenas, walks slowly from the darkness, holding a large-caliber hand cannon.

"Not it again."

The man in black glances with disappointment at the little giant's still-warm body, coldly mocking the other hyenas nearby: "Why aren't you rolling away yet? Or do you pieces of trash also want to taste the flavor of a bullet?"

The "hyenas," driven mad by hunger, show fierce glints in their eyes, but the "taste" of the hand cannon lets them know they should retract their claws and fangs.

A skinny man from the "little giant's" gang dislocates the boss's finger joints, swiftly snatching the chainsword—which could be called a "divine artifact"—and kneels on the ground, bowing his head respectfully: "Your noble lordship of 'Black Gun,' to trouble you to come in person, could it be that there is an 'anomaly' recently?"

No one who has survived until now is a fool; gangs in the "Under-Hive" usually take responsibility for maintaining basic order in an area.

Gangs that control the supply channels of the "Lower Hive" can exchange extremely scarce survival supplies for highly rewarding "trash" from scavengers.

Gangs that view the scavengers in their area as "crops" or "leeks" rarely kill their own assets.

"Quite smart. There might be a psyker appearing in this area recently."

The man in black from the gang nods in approval, his tone complex when mentioning "psykers," laced with envy, disgust, fear, and hatred.

"What? A psyker!!"

The wolves and hyenas, long accustomed to life and death, panic at the three words "psyker."

In this universe, the transcendent system of "psykers" is extremely uncontrollable.

Psykers without professional training or regulation are all potential sources of danger.

The hunters, usually hostile to one another, consciously form a circle, staring warily into the darkness that seems to swallow everything.

"Don't be nervous. A mere 'low-level psyker' reduced to scavenging, can he be more powerful than a gun?"

The man in black from the gang sneers; though his tone is flippant, his actions do not slacken in the slightest.

*Emotion Amplification: Greed! *

*Emotion Amplification: Slaughter! *

*Click, click, click—*

A tooth-aching sound of bone collision rings out, and a "person" walking in a way that defies human anatomy, wearing half a low-quality white demon mask on his face, walks over brazenly with arms wide open.

The corners of the comer's mouth, devoid of any blood, curl up, and a sharp noise like chalk scratching a blackboard is transmitted out.

"It is an honor to be targeted by 'Black Gun'."

The eerie psychic field plucks at the tense nerves of everyone present; their vigilant minds are interfered with by psychic power, becoming radicalized silently and imperceptibly.

"Psychic attachment, puppet manipulation, it's... a monster of the psychic school!"

The gangster, with relatively decent knowledge, struggles hard against the erosion entering his mind, his mood instantly plummeting to the bottom. ===== CHAPTER 2 =====