Chapter 5: The Day You Ascend?

Uranium burned in the boiler, generating current that lit the dim yellow lamps, illuminating the district buried beneath layers of overlapping buildings.

Wildly sprawling stalls squeezed the road into a narrow passage; wastewater, garbage, grease, and other refuse had invaded the pavement. Zhou Yun dodged these filths as he squeezed through the stalls.

Hot oil splattered yellow sparks; greasy meat skewers rolled on the grill. Beside the fire, lead pots simmered fat candies, slow-acting poisons yet among the city’s few sources of sweetness.

Zhou Yun bought only two greasy skewers and shoved them into his mouth. If one didn’t question the meat’s origin, they were decent enough.

He pulled two cheap lho cigarettes from his pocket and tossed them into a greasy can atop the stall.

Then he walked west along the narrow street, passing under an arch of scrap iron and through dense crowds, until he reached a three-way intersection.

At each corner of the intersection stood three towering statues carved from blue stone. They pierced through layers of chaotic, overcrowded buildings like three blades severing the hive-city.

The identities of two statues had long been forgotten; some said they were the first Imperial missionaries to preach on Asford, others claimed they were the original two patriarchs of the Viceroy Flax family.

But no matter the tale, after centuries of time, neither could be verified.

Whether monk or viceroy, neither could withstand the erosion of ten thousand years.

Only the third statue—the tallest and most sacred—could make any Imperial citizen, upon a single glance, devoutly whisper its holy name.

Faint crimson sunlight poured down from above the statue, bathing its spread wings, its spear, and its face, simultaneously merciful and stern.

Saint Guilliman, demigod son of the Emperor, lord of the Ninth Legion, the Empire’s archangel.

But Zhou Yun wasn’t here to admire Saint Guilliman’s statue—he was here for the tiny tavern beneath its spearpoint.

Directly beneath the sharp tip of Saint Guilliman’s spear stood a crude shack built of glued wood and quick-set concrete.

Above its door hung a sign painted with a cup brimming with red liquid, beside which was written the tavern’s name: The Spearpoint.

Before Zhou Yun even stepped inside, he heard shouts and curses from within.

The wooden door was kicked open by a group of hive workers, dressed in common laborer garb, dragging out a thin man with a gray, ugly face tattooed with the local gang’s Old Rat sigil.

“Lag, you bastard, did you eat a mutant’s shit?”

The leader of the hive workers punched the gang member’s head, blow after blow.

Zhou Yun glanced over and saw the gang member stretch out his hand, crying: “Brother Zhou Yun! Big Brother Zhou Yun, save me!”

Even as he begged, he still dared to threaten: “This is my brother Zhou Yun—he’s got influence with our boss’s boss. You’ll regret this!”

The hive workers paused, all raising their heads to stare at Zhou Yun.

Zhou Yun shrugged and kicked the gang member square in the head.

“Hit him for my share too. I’ll buy you all drinks later.”

Hearing there’d be alcohol, the workers cheered and hit the gang member harder than before.

Zhou Yun pushed open the tavern door and walked up to the bar.

Behind the bar stood the owner of The Spearpoint, a blind giant.

Rumor said he once traveled to Upper Hive using questionable methods, where he lost one eye; locals called him Old One-Eye.

The name always reminded Zhou Yun of the infamous Tyranid executioner.

“Smoke? Drink?” Old One-Eye asked, a lho cigarette dangling from his lips.

Lho cigarettes weren’t real tobacco—they were a byproduct of uranium refining, essentially an addictive anesthetic laced with tobacco flavoring; too much would blind you.

But they were cheap, let people forget their dark lives, and eased the unbearable pressure of hive labor—making them a necessity, even currency, for many in the city.

Under Augustus Flax’s neglect, the lower city’s order had collapsed, on par with Gotham in the 2K era.

Although the Viceroy also lost his parents at an early age, he never wore a tight suit to become a night-time vigilante.

Often, lho cigarettes worked better than the Viceroy’s own currency.

So Zhou Yun waved off the offer of smoke and gestured for a drink.

Old One-Eye wiped a grimy glass and slid a cup of crimson, bubbling liquid toward him.

This was certainly not expensive wine—it was Old One-Eye’s own brew, distilled from uranium waste.

It likely contained strange, unlisted ingredients—who knew how many tech-hacks or horrors lurked inside.

But after years in the hive, Zhou Yun had learned: out of sight, out of mind.

As long as he didn’t know the recipe, he could down a full cup without flinching.

“What did that bastard Lag do this time? Keep breeding mutants?” Zhou Yun asked, glancing at the man still being beaten outside.

His name was Lag, a low-tier member of the Lower Hive Rat Gang—he was the one who sold Zhou Yun the location of the abandoned district.

“Who knows? He’s always asking for a beating. One more won’t hurt.”

Old One-Eye said, cigarette in mouth:

“The Emperor teaches honesty, but he’ll never learn it.”

Zhou Yun nodded in full agreement.

“Oh, any new rumors these past two days?” he asked after draining half the crimson drink.

“Fresh news: a scavenger found the abandoned Old Sector Eight.”

Old One-Eye replied:

“Oh, that’s from the neighboring district. The Ark Gang—the new faction that’s risen these past few years—has taken over the district next door.”

“Ark Gang,” Zhou Yun muttered. He thought he remembered that gene-thief, crushed into a bug-patty, muttering that name.

So Zhou Yun recalled what he knew of the Ark Gang.

A semi-religious gang, recently risen, originally founded far from his district, only expanding nearby lately.

Their leader claimed to be a devout follower of the Emperor, declaring he delivered divine punishment upon sinners.

He also claimed the devils among the stars were about to extend their claws toward Asford, swallowing the entire planet whole.

Only by joining the Ark Gang, forging an ark to the stars, could one ascend when the devils descended—and be saved.

Huh.

Zhou Yun paused, slightly stunned.

He turned the words over in his mind.

Ark, Emperor’s guidance, day of descent, ascension, salvation—this was way too familiar.

Was this Ark Gang just a front for the gene-thief cult?

Zhou Yun’s eye twitched. He was already planning his escape and relocation.

At that moment, a wail came from outside.

“Brother Zhou Yun, how can you abandon me like this!”

Zhou Yun punched the ugly face.

That’s all for today. I’m going to paint the bug-worms.

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(End of Chapter)