Chapter 2: Navigator System

【Navigator: Alvin】

【Race: Human】

【Faction: Human Empire】

【Class: Scavenger】

【Anchor World: None】

【Remaining Energy: 0.1 Unit】

While pondering the voice in his mind, Alvin’s attention was drawn to the panel before him.

He tried waving his hand, but it passed straight through—the “panel” seemed visible only to his eyes.

“Thank the Emperor for his protection!”

Hearing the voice in his mind, Alvin’s eyes filled with tears, so moved he nearly fainted.

This must be the standard perk of a transmigrator—his very own “golden finger.”

“The Emperor has manifested!”

Alvin gripped the dial and, with clumsy motions, performed the Eagle Salute.

Whether it worked or not, sincerity mattered; besides, what if the Emperor truly saw him?

After the joy faded, Alvin realized the energy was insufficient—the “dial” had dimmed again.

“Going to a new world… means traveling to another world?” Alvin stared at the “dial” in his hand, recalling the voice that had surfaced when he activated it: “One hundred units of energy—but I don’t even know how to measure one unit.”

Fine, he had his golden finger. Now the problem was: how to get one hundred units of energy?

“A scavenger shouldn’t have absolutely nothing left, right?”

Clinging to his last hope, Alvin searched through the former owner’s memories—and was, of course, bitterly disappointed.

Not even a single hair remained—no wonder he often went three days with nine meals skipped!

Besides, the Blood Axe Gang wasn’t kind.

And this was Warhammer—though the Hive had laws, they applied only to the Upper Hive and Middle Hive.

As for the trash of the Lower Hive, whether they lived or died was entirely outside the concern of the Planetary Viceroy or the noble lords.

The Hive World was a unique, striking feature of Warhammer.

Its structure resembled a towering spire, divided into three zones: Upper Hive, Middle Hive, and Lower Hive. Some Hive Worlds had settlements outside, but this planet’s climate was far too harsh for any.

The Upper Hive was where nobles, Imperial administrators, and Ecclesiarchy priests resided.

The Middle Hive housed ordinary citizens with legitimate jobs, families of Planetary Defense Forces, retired Astra Militarum soldiers, and the like.

As for the Lower Hive—it was a massive recycling dump.

Wastewater, household refuse, industrial slag, even criminals—all were dumped here, making it teeming with talent.

No sunlight reached the Lower Hive—only endless smog, acrid industrial fumes, and radiation everywhere.

Such a brutal living environment naturally bred gangs, and the Blood Axe Gang was one of them.

He stared at the web-like pipes and alleys piled high with trash, recalling the Blood Axe Gang’s scarred man sneering down at him, trampling him like an animal—and a fire slowly ignited in his heart.

Why was it him, crushed beneath their feet?!

They were all human—why was he treated like livestock, trampled without mercy, simply because… he held a knife?

Then why couldn’t the one holding the knife be him?

Alvin’s mindset subtly shifted—that was the cruelty of the Warhammer universe.

His goal was simple: survive.

In this brutal Warhammer universe, become the one holding the knife—not a beast to be slaughtered!

He clenched the “dial” tightly, his gaze shifting to a gas mask discarded in the sewage, a sudden thought forming: “This thing must be worth a lot.”

Gas masks were essential gear for Lower Hive scavengers.

Without one, the toxic, acidic, and radioactive air in many Lower Hive zones would burn the lungs outright—no one could last long before dying.

Though the gas mask on his face looked no different from trash, barely hanging on to usefulness.

Even so, in the Lower Hive black market, it remained a hot commodity in constant demand.

In fact, one could say without exaggeration that this mask’s condition was merely “slightly worn.”

Alvin quickly settled on a plan: he picked up the gas mask from the sewage and carefully tucked the “dial” inside his clothing.

“First step: get one hundred units of energy!”

He rubbed his stiff face, took a deep breath of dusty air, endured the sharp pain in his abdomen, and leaned against the wall as he slowly limped out of the alley.

The black market was mostly filled with scavengers, selling mostly junk pulled from dumps.

Of course, some items from the Upper Hive occasionally turned up—but the odds were like winning the lottery.

Alvin wrapped himself in his robe, pulled his hood low, completely obscuring his features to avoid being targeted.

Then he found a stall and whispered: “Gas mask for sale?”

The vendor was a burly, bearded man wrapped in a ragged cloak, his left arm replaced with a metal prosthetic.

“Let me see the condition.”

The vendor lifted his head, sizing Alvin up.

Alvin pulled out the gas mask and handed it over.

"In poor condition—almost scrap," the vendor glanced at it and shook his head. "For a mask this bad, I'll give you ten krona."

“Too low.”

Alvin saw the vendor was deliberately lowballing him—he snatched the mask back. “You know the most important part isn’t the mask shell, but the filter. Mine’s still new—at least a hundred krona.”

The Human Empire’s universal currency was the Eagle, but such high-end money was only used by nobles, merchants, or advanced civilizations.

Many remote, harsh planets used local currencies, varying by region.

Krona was the standard currency of this Hive World, worth roughly equivalent to a copper coin—ten krona bought a portion of nutrient gruel.

The vendor, caught out, wasn’t embarrassed—lowballing was normal in the Lower Hive; if you couldn’t spot it, you deserved to lose.

But since he’d been seen through, he’d waste no more time: “Replacing the mask shell costs at least ten krona. Seventy krona—that’s my bottom price.”

Alvin thought for a moment, then nodded: “Fine, deal.”

Though thirty krona less than he’d hoped, the mask was heavily worn—this price was already satisfactory.

The vendor pulled eight plastic bills from his coat, each worth ten krona, and handed them over.

“Wait—I want to check what you’re selling.”

Alvin didn’t take the money; he crouched down to examine the stall.

“Alright, everything’s here. If you need more, I can make up the difference with nutrient gruel,” the vendor said slowly.

One portion of nutrient gruel, rationed carefully, could last seven days—a widely accepted commodity among scavengers.

Alvin looked down at the stall—he needed items that could provide “energy” most of all.

He picked up a worn-out compressed battery, and a mechanical, rigid voice immediately echoed in his mind.

【Item Detected: Fuel Cell (Low-Quality)】

【Rough craftsmanship, low-grade battery—truly garbage】

【Energy Provided: 3 Units】

This was an unexpected windfall!

The “dial’s” function was far more complex than it appeared!

Alvin kept his expression neutral, set the old battery down, then picked up a rifle with its barrel sawn off.

【Item Detected: Chainsaw Rifle (Low-Quality - Damaged)】

【Chamber completely worn smooth, firing pin nonfunctional—useful only for suicide】

【Energy Provided: 5 Units】

【Item Detected: Old Laser Rifle (Damaged)】

【Almost no sights—perfect as a fire poker】

【Energy Provided: 3 Units】

Alvin scanned the stall—almost nothing worthwhile—until, as he was about to give up, he idly picked up a copper disc, and his thoughts changed.

【Item Detected: Deflection Field Generator (Worn)】

【Near-broken, generates a weak deflection field around the user—barely above garbage status】

【Energy Provided: 150 Units】