Inside a factory in the Mid-Hive, the deafening roar of machinery filled the air, searing sparks of molten steel flew in every direction, and the atmosphere was thick with the pungent stench of machine oil, sweat, and metal.
A taskmaster named Barto, a scrawny man, brandished an electric whip and barked harshly at a worker who was moving slightly too slow: "Useless trash! Do you want to be sent to the recycling station?!"
The tip of the electric whip let out a faint sizzle in the air, making the worker shudder as he hurriedly increased his pace.
Deep down, however, Barto wasn't thinking about these routine displays of authority. His murky eyes were filled with unease and irritability. According to the Factory Manager, Lord Mick Lloyd, something had happened in the Upper Hive.
The Astra Militarum had suddenly begun a large-scale, bloody slaughter targeting the nobility. Lord Mick had been sighing constantly lately, and the ash in his pipe was nearly piled into a small mountain.
Oh, right—although this place was nominally a factory, in reality, it was more like a self-contained "Kingdom." This kingdom consisted of only three tiers: the "King"—the supreme Lord Mick Lloyd; the "King's Loyal Hounds"—taskmasters like Barto; and the "Untouchables"—the workers who labored on the production line day after day, year after year, until death.
Lord Mick had survived as factory manager for so long because he had patrons in the Upper Hive, backed by those noble lords. But now, it seemed his contacts in the Upper Hive were likely gone, or rather, were being "purged." Consequently, he sighed all day, and the atmospheric pressure in the entire factory was terrifyingly low.
As the "King's Loyal Hounds," the taskmasters naturally had to worry about what troubled their sovereign. But if Lord Mick couldn't think of a way out, what actual problem-solving ability could these whip-wielding thugs possess?
The only thing they could do was exhibit the fact that "they were also in a bad mood" to show their loyalty, letting the Lord know they were on his side. When in a bad mood, it was only natural to lash the untouchables to vent their emotions, discharging the fear and anxiety in their hearts.
The workers labored without complaint. Their faces were obscured by steam and dust, their eyes numb and hollow. This life had persisted for thousands of years, over hundreds of generations; they remained silent, operating like gears—precise and exhausted. They had long grown accustomed to being insulted and beaten, knowing that any slight tremor from the upper levels would descend upon them in the form of a violent storm.
Just as Barto prepared to swing his electric whip again, an unusual commotion erupted at the factory entrance.
He turned to look and saw Lord Mick entering, accompanied by a squad of Astra Militarum soldiers clad in pitch-black carapace armor and a Tech-Priest.
Lord Mick's face was grimmer than ever, his bloated body seemingly hunched over by the weight of his internal anxiety. Beside him, the soldiers' gas masks appeared particularly eerie in the dim light, and the lasguns in their hands emitted a cold, metallic sheen.
The Tech-Priest resembled a mobile mechanical contraption more than a man; intricate cables and mechanical limbs protruded from beneath his red robes, emitting a faint hum.
Barto's heart tightened. He wanted to force a fawning smile and scurry forward to offer his greetings as usual, but he was stopped dead by a sudden glare from Lord Mick—a look filled with warning and a hint of terror. The look seemed to say: Don't come over here, you idiot!
Barto's smile froze on his face. He stopped in his tracks awkwardly, his heart thumping wildly. He realized that this situation was likely far more severe than he had imagined.
Lord Mick, his "King," was currently surrounded by these soldiers in black armor. Rather than leading them, it looked more as if he were being held hostage. A chill ran up Barto's spine, making the electric whip in his hand feel heavy.
The lead Helldiver walked toward Lord Mick with a leisurely stride. He looked down at the fat factory manager and said meaningfully, "Mick Lloyd, we didn't necessarily come here for your life. We are willing to offer a way out, to provide new policies."
Although some of the vocabulary was hard to grasp, Lord Mick caught the key message—he had a chance to survive! His nerves, taut with fear, relaxed slightly, and a spark of hope lit up in his eyes.
"First," the leading Helldiver pointed to the Tech-Priest beside him, whose mechanical eyes flickered with a cold red light, "this factory is to be handed over to the management of this Tech-Priest. He will carry out a major overhaul of this facility."
Lord Mick's expression soured. He hesitated—not because he didn't want to change, but because he had no idea how to. Most of the machines in this factory were antiques from centuries ago; maintenance and operation relied entirely on experience and local makeshift methods. There were no complete blueprints or standardized protocols.
Mick stammered, "My Lord, our factory has been running this way for a very, very long time. Even we don't know how some of the machines operate. Changing things rashly might cause an accident—"
The Tech-Priest emitted a synthesized voice composed of electrical friction: "It is still better than having everything vaporized by the Necrons when the fighting starts."
Thus, Mick wisely changed his tune: "Since it is your wish, my Lord, I shall absolutely obey! Absolutely obey!"
The lead Helldiver nodded, then pivoted to another question, his tone carrying a hint of playfulness: "Now then, Mick Lloyd, how do you usually treat the workers in your factory?"
Hearing this, Mick felt a secret sense of relief. Since they were asking such trivial questions, he felt he was in the clear. He immediately adopted an expression of "benevolence" and spoke eloquently: "My Lord, our factory has always provided food and lodging for the workers. While the meals might not compare to the Upper Hive, we never let them go hungry! Although the taskmasters might use force, they never lay a hand on anyone without cause—only when those untouchables are being lazy or shifty! You could say we are a model factory of the Mid-Hive!"
The Helldiver chuckled, the sound muffled by his mask and carrying a bone-chilling mockery: "You certainly talk up your taskmasters. From the sound of it, the workers here are blessed to work in such a fine place. You won't mind if I pick a worker at random to ask, right?"
Mick was delighted. He wasn't at all worried that a worker would say anything against him. Long-term oppression and brainwashing had trained them to be perfectly submissive; they wouldn't even dream of resisting, let alone lodging a complaint. He waved his hand with total confidence: "I don't mind! Ask whomever you like, my Lord. They wouldn't dare utter a single lie!"
At that moment, the lead Helldiver suddenly let out a deafening roar that instantly drowned out the factory's din: "FREEMAN!"
The voice echoed through the factory, reverberating through the gaps in the steel and machinery. Immediately after, from a corner covered in dust and grease, a raspy but clear voice responded: "Present!"
The lead Helldiver's gaze locked onto that direction: "Fall in!"
Then, before the stunned eyes of Lord Mick and all the taskmasters, a person who looked and dressed no differently from an ordinary worker stepped out from a row of laborers operating machines. He walked up to the Helldiver squad, saluted the leader, and took his place in the rank behind him.
Lord Mick, Barto, and the other taskmasters who witnessed this were utterly paralyzed. Their smiles froze, their eyes bulged. Then, an unspeakable chill surged up their spines.
"Let's ask Freeman here how he was treated, hmm?"