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"I couldn't hear clearly; it was intermittent," [Soul of Cadia] recalled. "They seemed to be talking about timing, how they couldn't wait any longer, and needing outside strength... And one phrase: 'Those new weirdos might be useful.'"
"New weirdos?" Schrödinger Bro pointed at himself. "Are they talking about us?"
"Highly likely," Zeke pondered. "Outside strength... does that refer to us, a group of undocumented people who suddenly appeared?"
"They want to use us?" Tax Bro frowned.
"Or cooperate with us." Zeke's eyes flickered. "Regardless, they noticed us, and they probably have a plan."
He looked toward the warehouse. "This is an opportunity, but it could also be a trap. We need more information."
"What's the play?" [Soul of Cadia] asked.
"We wait," Zeke said. "We wait for them to contact us again. Until then, business as usual. But stay vigilant, especially around Rayne."
The next two days passed peacefully.
Rayne didn't initiate conversation with Zeke again, and even seemed to intentionally avoid areas dense with players.
However, the players could feel a subtle shift in the refinery's atmosphere.
The overseers' whips seemed to crack more frequently and with greater violent temper.
A native worker was accidentally injured while hauling heavy equipment. He was dragged away, leaving a trail of blood, and never came back.
The nutrient paste distributed at the cafeteria occasionally contained batches of discolored, foul-tasting defective products. The workers who ate them suffered from severe vomiting and diarrhea.
Of course, the players were less affected. They had the System status bar warnings, and they supplemented their diets with the small amounts of synthetic nutrient paste and purified water they secretly bought from the store.
Panic and oppression spread among the genuine workers.
And the discrepancy that 'these new weirdos don't seem to break down as easily' seemed to further draw the attention of certain people.
–
On the ninth day, after the shift ended.
Zeke was crouching in a corner, silently calculating the haul from today's ore theft, when a shadow fell over him.
He looked up. It was Rayne.
The young man looked left and right, then quickly crouched down, keeping his voice incredibly low:
"Brother, do you guys... want to get out of here?"
Zeke's heart pounded, but his expression remained impassive.
"Who doesn't? But how?"
"We can't do it on our own." Rayne stared into his eyes. "The overseers have guns, there are patrols outside, and the Consortium's eyes are all over Aru City."
"Then what's the point of talking about it?" Tax Bro muttered from the side, pretending to be annoyed.
"But what if... there is a variable?" Rayne's eyes sharpened.
"A variable?"
"The opportunity is coming." The young man's tone carried suppressed excitement. "It's time they paid their debts."
Alarm bells rang loudly in Zeke's mind.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he said in a low voice.
Rayne smiled—a bitter yet resolute smile. "It's fine if you don't understand."
"You just need to know that three days from now is Purge Day. It's when the entire refinery's security will be at its weakest."
"Purge Day?" Schrödinger Bro asked.
"Once a month," Rayne said calmly, as if discussing something trivial. "They purge the substandard consumables to make room for new ones. It used to be by drawing lots. Now it's changed to... processing the injured, the sick, and the disobedient."
A chill ran down Zeke's spine.
So this is the daily life of the underclass in the Warhammer universe.
A monthly purge, disposing of people who have lost their utility value like trash.
"On that day, most of the overseers head back to the city for the Consortium's quarterly reckoning banquet. Only a few are left on duty," Rayne continued. "That is our only chance."
"Why are you telling us this?" Zeke asked.
"Because I can tell you're different from the people who've resigned to their fate." The young man stood up. "There's still something in your eyes. It looks like... the look of someone unwilling to be a consumable."
He paused. "Midnight, three days from now. If you want to change things, back door of the warehouse. I'll be waiting."
With that, he vanished silently into the dim shadows, just as he had arrived.
Zeke immediately synchronized the intel to the regional channel.
[Fugitive Cogboy of the Mechanicus] analyzed it rapidly: "Purge Day. Weak security. Resistance organization planning an operation. The logic holds up. Regardless of what their conspiracy is, or what debts need to be paid, our strategy remains unchanged."
[Eternally Loyal to the Emperor]: "Cogboy is right! Since Purge Day is an opportunity, we hold our positions for the next few days. Keep stealing ore. On the final three days, steal like your life depends on it! Steal as much as you possibly can! When that night comes, we'll go meet them. The moment things kick off, we instantly buy our gear and start looting!"
[Soul of Cadia]: "Understood! Brothers, do we have our targets memorized? The Promethium Smelter in the northwest corner: 80,000 coins! The conveyor control console on the east side: 30,000 coins! And those transport vehicles are over 10,000 coins each!"
[Did the White Scars Speed Today?]: "I've already figured out how to dismantle that smelter! When the time comes, I'll lead the charge!"
[T'au-Kun, You're Right, But the Bolter is Righter]: "For the Imperial Coins! For mechas! For... uh, for the Emperor?"
[Papa Nurgle Loves Everyone]: "Accept the coming feast, be it of flesh or metal."
The players recycled today's haul, earning another 8.9 Imperial Coins each, and logged out in high spirits.
The night inside the refinery remained dim, noisy, and reeking of metal and sulfur.
But within those thousands of seemingly slumbering bodies lay 4,961 souls who were currently in the real world—rubbing their hands together, their eyes shining with greed.
They discussed operational plans, drew maps of the factory, calculated the value of every piece of equipment, and some even began researching the weaknesses and dismantling methods of various Warhammer 40k machinery.
–
Deep within the Warp.
Lucian basked in the exceptionally surging emotional energy today—a blend of tension, excitement, anticipation, secret joy, and the premonition that something big is coming.
"Not bad. Really not bad..." He stretched his energy body delightfully.
"Purge Day? A resistance organization? A massive heist?"
"These players... they truly haven't disappointed me."
"When that day comes, when the overseers and the resistance are locked in a bloody stalemate, when explosions and firelight tear through the refinery's night sky... When this Fourth Scourge charges at those expensive machines with miner's pickaxes, newly bought kinetic pistols, and trash-tier armor, screaming 'For the Imperial Coins!'..."
"The spectacle... the emotions..."
"It will definitely be a feast."
Lucian was already looking forward to it.
He even considered adding a temporary special effect to the System on Purge Day. For instance, every time a player successfully recycled a large piece of equipment, a flashy [+10,000 Imperial Coins!] text would pop up!
"Yes, we can definitely do that. After all, employee enthusiasm needs to be encouraged." He plotted gleefully.
As for what would happen to the refinery? How much the Aru Group would lose? Or whether Rayne's resistance would succeed?
None of my business.
I'm just a newborn Chaos God who was starving for a long time and finally got a full meal. The players are happy, and I get emotional energy to eat. It's a win-win.
Lucian cheerfully hummed a little tune, the melody twisting and warping in the Immaterium.
It sounded a bit like Nurgle's hymn of rot, a bit like Slaanesh's psychedelic techno, mixed with the war-drum rhythm of Khorne and the whispering conspiracies of Tzeentch.
"Praise be to pleasure."
"Praise be to the Fourth Scourge."
"Praise be... to the coming day of chaos and bountiful harvest."
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