Chapter 361

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Protagonist:

Lin En

Lena

Bottom City is that big, and the plague is raging fiercely; it's perfectly normal for a new cult to pop up in chaotic times.

With the plague upon us, someone rallying people under the banner of "purifying the epidemic" is simply a matter of course.

But Wenka's words can't be entirely dismissed either.

The State Religion has zero tolerance for private cults; if it really blows up, even he won't be able to suppress it.

"Bishop, please calm your anger." Dominic set down the record, his tone softening somewhat.

"I roughly understand the situation."

"But to conclude the Governor is conniving with heretics based solely on the confessions of a few bottom-tier recruits is a bit too arbitrary."

"The situation in Bottom City is complex; cults often rise overnight, and the Governor's Mansion may not necessarily grasp it in time."

"I wouldn't be so sure..." Wenka still wanted to say something, but was interrupted by Dominic raising a hand.

"Bishop, rest assured, I will investigate this matter." Dominic's tone was firm.

"If it truly is a heretical cult, I absolutely will not tolerate it."

"But before things are cleared up, please remain calm, Bishop, and don't affect the overall situation of the tithe handover."

"After all, delivering three billion soldier sources on time is the primary task of this trip."

He bit down heavily on the four words "primary task"; the subtext was obvious: don't delay the real business with cult affairs.

Bishop Wenka naturally understood.

He stared at Dominic for a few seconds, knowing the other party had already made a concession; pressing further would be counterproductive.

He snorted heavily, gripped his scepter, and turned: "Hope the Major General keeps his word."

Before leaving, he turned his head, revealing pupils full of killing intent.

"The God Emperor's glory tolerates not a speck of filth."

With that, he flicked his sleeves and left, the hem of his red robe sweeping across the doorframe, carrying a body full of hostility.

The room fell quiet again.

Dominic leaned back in his chair, rubbing his throbbing temples.

Trouble never ends.

Dolido's matter just settled down, and now a strange cult pops up in Bottom City.

He didn't believe Lin En would intentionally connive at heretics, but a trace of doubt inevitably rose in his heart.

The timing of this Purge Plague Sect's appearance was too coincidental, right after the plague outbreak, and its development speed was absurdly fast.

In just a dozen days, it had infiltrated the first batch of conscripted soldier sources; it was absolutely no ordinary folk cult.

Moreover, Wenka had one sentence that wasn't wrong.

For a cult this big, did the Governor's Mansion really know nothing?

Dominic rubbed his temples, starting to think about how to investigate.

Torture and severe interrogation like Wenka? No.

People from Bottom City look weak on the surface, but are actually rebellious to the bone.

The more you beat them, the tighter their mouths get, and it easily incites public anger; then the soldier sources mutiny, and the trouble is even bigger.

He's a soldier, doesn't mean he doesn't understand human hearts.

Dealing with these recruits used to crawling and rolling in the bottom layers, hard tactics won't work; soft ones are needed.

Dominic pressed the communication device, calling his deputy officer: "Go, get Chief Warrant Officer Hoffman."

Hoffman was a famous old hand in the fleet, mixed in the Star Realm Army for thirty years, later transferred to the Navy, dealt with all walks of life.

Most skilled at dealing with bottom-tier soldiers; his mouth could talk a dead man alive.

Having him take people to worm out information is a hundred times more effective than the State Religion's torture instruments.

Before long, a burly old warrant officer with an old scar on his face walked in, saluting respectfully:

"Major General Adult, you called for me?"

"Mm." Dominic pointed at the interrogation record on the table.

"Among the recruits at the starport, there's an organization called the Purge Plague Sect mixed in; you take a few silver-tongued veterans and go feel out the bottom."

Hoffman raised an eyebrow: "Arrest them directly?"

"No." Dominic shook his head.

"Don't put on official airs, and don't interrogate."

"Just as old soldiers, sidle up and chat with them, hand out some 'Spiritual Rations', talk about Bottom City days, talk about the plague."

"Remember, worm it out slowly, don't let them notice."

He thought a moment, then added: "Focus on figuring out this cult's background, who the Tribal Chief is, what they usually do."

"And, what god they actually believe in."

"Understood." Hoffman grinned, revealing several teeth yellowed by tobacco.

"This small matter, leave it to me."

The old soldier handled things efficiently as expected.

That very afternoon, he took a few veterans, carrying several packs of inferior tobacco and two buckets of adulterated malt wine, and sauntered over to the recruits' temporary rest area.

The rest area was a large communal bunk temporarily partitioned with alloy plates; several hundred recruits were crammed inside, the air thick with the stench of sweat and the distinctive moldy smell of the Bottom City.

Most sat in silence, eyes numb, either spacing out or sleeping.

The moment Hoffman entered, he found a corner and sat down, tore open his cigarette pack, tossed a few to the recruits beside him, clamped one in his own mouth, and lit it with a lighter.

"New here?" He blew a smoke ring and asked casually, "Which district of the Bottom City?"

Those recruits were wary at first, clutching the cigarettes but not daring to smoke.

But seeing Hoffman in a sergeant's uniform washed pale, no officer's arrogance on his face — instead bearing the rough edge of someone who'd clawed his way up from the bottom — their guard relaxed a few notches.

"Lower City District, near the No. 13 drainage pipe," a scar-faced youth answered quietly.

"Sir, you... you're from the Nest Capital too?"

"Me? My hometown is the Nest Capital on Calion III, even filthier than this shithole of yours." Hoffman grinned and kicked the wine barrel beside him.

"Come on, have some? Don't be polite — once you're on the battlefield you won't get to drink."

He pried open the barrel lid and poured the turbid liquor for a few of them.

The aroma of malt mingled with alcohol spread out; the recruits' eyes all brightened.

Life in the Bottom City was bitter; liquor and cigarettes were both luxury items.

This old soldier before them not only gave cigarettes and liquor, but also chatted about Bottom City matters — no scolding, no electro-shock batons — a kindness they had rarely encountered in all their years alive.

After a few cups went down, the conversation floodgates opened.

From the filthy water of the drainage pipes to gang shootouts, from moldy nutrient paste to the miserable scene after the plague outbreak.

When the talk turned to the plague, the recruits' faces all darkened.

"Back then we really thought we were dead for sure." A blond youth downed a big mouthful of liquor, voice muffled.

"People around us mutated one by one, turned into man-eating monsters."

"We hid in an abandoned factory, no food, no water, just waiting to rot there."

"And then?" Hoffman followed up along the thread.

"Then, then the Purge Plague Sect people came." The youth said.

"Wearing grey robes, masks on, couldn't see their faces."

"They brought food, and clean water."

"The Apostle leading them, he'd just place his hand on your forehead and know whether you were infected, uncannily accurate."

Another lanky recruit beside him also nodded: "Right, even those in the incubation period could be spotted."

"My neighbor's big brother, not a single symptom, and they still detected him."

Hoffman's heart stirred, but his face kept its composure:

"Ho! That impressive? Even the Mechanical Priest's detectors aren't this accurate, are they."

"Those detected as infected — killed them?"

"Not exactly killed." The lanky one shook his head, tone very complex,

"They'd reason with you, say once you're sick it can't be cured, living is just suffering, and you'll drag your family down too."

"Say it's a trial sent by the God Emperor — walk into the fire and your soul returns to the God Emperor's side."

"Most people were willing to go." The blond youth added.

"Dead either way; die with some dignity, and still get a bit of food for the family."

"They really did distribute grain to surviving relatives, no cheating."

"What about those who weren't sick?"

"Those without sickness joined the faith, followed them." The youth scratched his head.

"Said once you join, you have a place to live, food to eat, and can avoid the plague."

"We survived to be conscripted because we followed them."

"Come to think of it... we still have to thank them."

Hoffman listened quietly, taking a drag from his cigarette now and then.

Sounded like this sect wasn't a cult at all.

No sacrifices, no seducing people into destruction — on the contrary, disaster relief, saving people, quite benevolent and righteous.

He asked again: "Since you joined, what god do you worship normally? The Chaos Evil God?"

The moment those words came out, the recruits went pale with fright, waving their hands repeatedly:

"Sir, don't talk nonsense! We worship the Emperor — that is, the God Emperor!"

"The sect says they act on the God Emperor's decree to save people; the doctrine is about the same as what the Church says, just... just more practical."

"Right, we worship the Emperor!" The lanky one emphasized.

"Just the prayer gesture is different, nothing else differs — absolutely not some Evil God!"

Hoffman asked a few more questions — about who the sect leader was, where headquarters was — the recruits all shook their heads saying they didn't know.

They only knew the most powerful was called "Priest"; no one had ever seen the true face; usually only the subordinate Apostles came out to handle affairs.

When the chat was more or less done, Hoffman left them half a pack of cigarettes and left the rest area with his men.