The testing method proposed by Father Anthony turned out to be ridiculously simple. He ordered a small locomotive – a standard model for freight transport in the Underhive – to be brought.
Ten empty wagons were attached to the tractor, the standard fuel was completely drained, and the fuel provided by Li Qingyu was poured in. After that, the train was sent to run laps.
The purification plant was a giant structure with a network of tracks extending in all directions, so there was plenty of space for testing.
Less than half an hour later, the train stopped in front of Father Anthony. The armed guard accompanying the train jumped off the step and reported a series of numbers.
The Tech-Priest, tilting his head, analyzed the data for a while, and then looked up at Li Qingyu. One eye reflected a focused attention, the other – the flicker of an augmented ocular.
"Five hundred milliliters of cooking oil were poured into the test circuit. Calculated mileage with ten empty platforms – twenty kilometers. Actual result – twenty-eight kilometers and two hundred meters."
"Conclusion," he rasped, "the experimental fuel, with the same energy density, significantly increases the effective operating time of the unit."
With these words, Father Anthony lowered his mechanical manipulator onto the still-warm engine cover of the locomotive.
"I feel the Machine Spirit rejoicing. It craves to run!"
As soon as the Tech-Priest's voice faded, a system notification rang in Li Qingyu's head:
"Ding! Contact unlocked: Father Anthony. Favorability level: 0."
"Quest unlocked: your special fuel has piqued Father Anthony's interest. Provide him with more samples, and perhaps you will earn his friendship."
"Quest objective: deliver ten liters of fuel to Father Anthony."
Li Qingyu, seeing that the contact was unlocked, and moreover, with a representative of the Adeptus Mechanicus, beamed with satisfaction and hastily asked:
"Father, what about the electricity I need?..."
But the Tech-Priest ignored the question. He turned, entered his control booth, and, standing among the pile of equipment, began manipulating the levers.
"More value – more dialogue."
The guard standing nearby, hearing this, tugged Li Qingyu's sleeve.
He understood that the audience was over and, with annoyance, headed for the exit.
"Oilheads, they're all like that," the guard grinned. "Their brains are as ossified as gears."
"Do what he asks, and only then will he talk. Father Anthony calls it 'effective communication'."
Li Qingyu clicked his tongue.
"Alright, see ya." He only needed to go get a quest item anyway.
The guard escorted him to the gates, from where he jumped into a repair buggy and rushed back to the distillery.
At the base, he greeted the people, went down to the sanctuary, took two bottles of Sacred Oil and a dozen ordinary cooking oil, poured everything into one canister, mixed it thoroughly, and returned to the purification plant.
There, he was met by the same guard, who led him to the Tech-Priest.
Li Qingyu, with a rumble, placed a ten-liter canister in front of Father Anthony.
"I have proven my worth. Can I now count on what I need?"
Father Anthony hooked the canister with a manipulator, extended an analyzer probe, and dipped it into the liquid.
"Sample structure is consistent. It will take time for in-depth analysis and accurate cost assessment."
"Come back in ten standard Terran days," he said, turning away. "By then, the assessment will be complete."
Having said this, he disappeared into his mechanized cubicle and tightly closed the door, making it clear that he did not wish to be disturbed.
Li Qingyu just clicked his tongue. He would have to leave empty-handed. In the interface, the quest updated: the item "deliver ten liters" was checked, but a new one appeared – "Visit Father Anthony in ten days."
There was nothing to be done – he had to return.
The following days passed peacefully. Li Qingyu trained until it was time to distill the mash. Four and a half thousand liters of alcohol were obtained from ten tons of potatoes. He immediately ordered the product to be bottled in pre-prepared bottles.
The work exhausted everyone to the limit: there were countless tasks, and not enough hands. Two days without sleep – and everyone collapsed from exhaustion.
Li Qingyu realized: he couldn't go on like this. He urgently needed personnel, otherwise, overwork would be the least of his problems – there would be no one to even hold a weapon to defend the distillery.
People were needed. Reliable and obedient.
He called Knife over.
"Knife, you know many people in the Underhive. Is there anyone who lives quietly, has a family, hasn't lost their conscience, and is willing to work for me? I need reliable rats."
Knife's eyes widened – the boss seemed to be looking for saints. But, after thinking, he remembered one.
"Boss, I know a guy nicknamed Stray Dog. He has five boys about ten years old under his care. They rummage through garbage between gangs, looking for food."
"Dog himself is about forty, a healthy man, can work. And as a fighter, if it comes down to it, he's also suitable."
"And his boys can seal bottles or do some other small things. A couple of years – and they'll grow into normal fighters."
Li Qingyu frowned. In the world of Warhammer 40k, where grimness and cruelty are the backdrop of existence, such stories sounded suspicious.
Dark associations surfaced in his mind. Knife, noticing his boss's expression, hastened to add:
"No, Boss, I can't vouch for others, but Dog is different. When I was little, my parents worked for the Fertilizer Gang. We played nearby and saw him picking up abandoned children. He pulled one right out of the trash when he was only a year old."
"Every couple of months, he had a new bundle, then the children started following him like puppies after a dog. He raised them. If he had dirty thoughts, he would have given himself away long ago. And he managed to keep them all alive. Do you think it was by chance?"
Li Qingyu thought. In the Underhive, an loner without a roof doesn't live long. And this wanderer has been roaming for ten years – and is alive. An old man by local standards.
Maybe these children became his shield? A social amulet?
It's unknown why he picked them up, but one should judge by deeds. A man who has nothing to eat himself pulled five out of hell – and they survived. Perhaps even the most embittered rats avoided him out of a sense of... strange respect?
Maybe bandits and recruiters also didn't touch him, thinking: "I wonder how long he'll last?" – and the remnants of humanity in their souls secretly wished him luck.
In any case, Stray Dog, on a mix of pity, disgust, and curiosity, lived for ten years and raised five children.
Having listened to his own thoughts to the end, Li Qingyu nodded:
"Bring them here. We'll settle them on the outer perimeter, keep an eye on them. Let them peel potatoes and do small things for now. Don't let them into the clean zone."
The distillery was equipped competently – isolated compartments, heavy hermetic doors, quarantine was possible.
No matter how saintly this old man seemed, after living in a dump for so many years... who knows what these children picked up? Better safe than sorry.
Trust first – then verification.
Having dealt with the personnel, the team loaded the alcohol onto a small train and headed to the surface – to sell the goods.
Li Qingyu had contacted Lieutenant Rudson via vox in advance, asking him to meet the cargo.
When the train emerged at the ventilation shaft, a military truck was waiting for them at the exit.
Rudson was smoking next to it. Now, new epaulets gleamed on his shoulders – Captain! Combat officer.
Li Qingyu approached and clapped the officer on the shoulder, whistling.
"O-o-o! Who do we have here? Could it be Combat Officer Rudson himself? I see your face is shining – that's a promotion!"
"Your Excellency, my respects!" he continued in a jocular tone. "Now you're probably a resident of the Upper Hive, aren't you?"
Rudson tried to maintain a serious expression, but couldn't help but break into a smile. Joy was practically gushing out of him.
He had now crossed the class barrier – he was a resident of the Upper Hive. He would automatically receive an apartment, benefits, slaves, and the right to protection. Now he would be called "Mister." And then, a successful marriage, and welcome to the nobility.
He would be able to attend meetings with the colonel, see generals, officials of the Administratum, sit at the same table with them… even if only to pour wine, but still!
"Heh-heh-heh…" Rudson chuckled, unable to contain himself.
Li Qingyu winced. It was terrible when a friend was doing badly, but even more terrible when a friend had a "Land Raider."
That one was already up there, and he was still a rat from the Underhive. It was a shame, wasn't it?
"Stop grinning like that!" Li Qingyu barked. "Or I'll mutate from envy and turn into a Chaos worshipper!"
Rudson coughed, hiding his laughter, and ordered the soldiers to unload the crates. After that, they headed to their unit's location.
This time, the path led not to the company, but to the battalion headquarters. Rank demanded it.
The headquarters looked solid: stone buildings instead of tents, a parade ground paved with concrete, even a mess hall. Damn Rudson was now eating on a special ration.
As always – first the sale, then the division.
The goods sold faster than last time. Rudson now had ten companies under his command – fifteen hundred fighters.
He summoned the commanders, and the batch was gone instantly. Some drank it themselves, some resold it. Some even tried to beg for Li Qingyu's contact for direct purchases.
He calculated: to supply this regiment, production needed to be increased fivefold. The market was bottomless!
The pleasant part began – counting the cash. Four and a half thousand liters, revenue – three hundred and sixty thousand. Thirty percent (one hundred and eight thousand) – to Rudson. Net profit – two hundred and fifty thousand. The account balance grew to four hundred and thirty thousand.
A couple more trips – and the starting capital of two million would be ready. Then he could open a legal factory in the Middle Hive.
In the office, banknotes rustled – they both counted.
Li Qingyu finished first. He tied a stack with a rubber band and asked:
"Listen, you're a whole combat officer now. Maybe you can get me an army ID?"
Rudson tensed.
"You want to enlist in the army?"
Li Qingyu shook his head.
"God forbid! Me, in the Public Safety Service? No way. I just need a card, a status. It'll be easier to handle business."
He put his arm around Rudson's shoulders, snapping his fingers at the stack of bills in his hand.
"Soon I'll save up two million, I'll open a factory in the Middle Hive. You'll attach your tax benefits to it, do nothing, and thirty percent of the profit will be yours."
"But for me to be able to operate normally, I need status. Don't worry, I just need the documents. I'm not going to command your soldiers."
Rudson looked at the money, imagined the profits, and licked his lips.
"I can get you a corporal at most. Squad leader – no higher, otherwise headquarters will notice."
Li Qingyu nodded vigorously.
"A corporal is enough! I heard about a corporal who became head of state."
Then he inquired if there were any wounded soldiers on the list who were about to be written off to the Underhive. The distillery needed people.
Rudson replied that there were – six families. All this was revealed from the battalion reports: relatives of the wounded from other companies.
Li Qingyu asked for the deportation date, promised to meet them personally, said goodbye, and headed for the rebels.