Purge Day. Pre-dawn.
The eternal scent of sulfur and metal hung heavy in the refinery's air.
Inside the communal sleeping quarters, nearly five thousand players huddled in the dim corners. The regional channel was abnormally quiet.
[Eternally Loyal to the Emperor]: "Final status check for all squads."
[Soul of Cadia] (Squad 1 Leader): "Squad 1: 1,863 members online."
"Equipment manifest verified: Autoguns (1 per person), 7.62mm magazines (4 basic loadouts per person), melee tools (machetes/steel pipes) (1 per person), crude fiber armor (chest/shoulders) (1 set per person)."
"Remaining Imperial Coins: 7.2 average per person."
"Portable Recycling Terminals (Small) x2 deployed. Over."
[T'au-Kun, You're Right, But the Bolter is Righter] (Squad 2 Leader): "Squad 2: 1,522 members online."
"Equipment same as above."
"Recycling Terminals x2."
"Over."
"P.S.: Everyone's hands are shaking. Not from fear, from excitement."
[Did the White Scars Speed Today?] (Squad 3 Leader): "Squad 3: 1,129 members online."
"Equipment same as above."
"Recycling Terminals x2."
"Over."
"Fast as lightning! Just waiting for the signal!"
[Fugitive Cogboy of the Mechanicus] (Squad 4 Leader / Chief Tech Support): "Squad 4: 447 members online."
"Equipment: Baselines same as above. Additional loadout: Metal cutters x50, portable hoist pulleys x20, demolition charges x15 sets."
"Recycling Terminal x1."
"Data analysis, rapid appraisal, and dismantling instruction teams are on standby."
"Over."
Zeke took a deep breath as he watched the reports scroll by.
He, Tax Bro, and Schrödinger Bro were currently leading their direct 45-man strike team toward the rendezvous point designated by Rayne.
The gear on those three was funded with serious capital.
What Zeke gripped in his hand was no longer some shoddy black-powder garbage.
It was a Lucius-pattern laspistol—a weapon with cold, hard lines and a power cell slot.
It cost 80 Imperial Coins in the store. Short range, but enough to burn through flak armor at close quarters.
Two frag grenades (15 coins each) hung from his belt. Over his torso, he wore a half-plate metallic cuirass (50 coins). It was heavy, but the protection it offered vital areas was substantial.
Tax Bro went straight for a heavy stubber modified into an automatic shotgun (65 coins). His bandolier was stuffed with red-cased slugs. He looked like a walking demolition machine.
Schrödinger Bro took the precision route: a Kantrael-pattern long-barrel lasgun with a basic optical sight (95 coins). Strapped to his back was a hunting knife (8 coins) gleaming with cold light.
The rest of their squad was equipped with at least kinetic autoguns and basic armor. Everyone's coin balance had been squeezed down to 10-20 coins—just enough for their resurrection fees.
[Eternally Loyal to the Emperor]: Zeke typed out a final message in the regional channel, the text dripping with reckless adrenaline.
"Brothers. Remember. We are not here to escape. We are here to ROB THEM BLIND! ROB THEM BLIND!"
"The Aru Group has squeezed us dry, whipped us, fed us pig slop, and used us as lab rats... Today, we take it all back—with interest!"
"When you see something valuable, don't hesitate! Scan it with the System to verify its worth! If you can carry it, take it! If you can't, recycle it on the spot with the terminals!"
"If you can't recycle it, break it! Leave nothing for these sons of bitches!"
"Dying costs 5 coins. A large machine is tens of thousands of coins!"
"This is a trade so good, even the Emperor Himself would praise our financial sense!"
"For the Imperial Coins!"
"For mechas!"
"For emptying this trash factory!"
The channel instantly flooded with manic cries of "For the Imperial Coins!"
There were no grand declarations, no lofty ideals. The most unpretentious, raw desire condensed into the purest will to fight.
Zeke closed the regional channel and nodded to his squad. "Brothers, stow the gear in your inventories for now. Let's go meet our allies."
Using pipes and shadows for cover, the group silently made their way toward the abandoned warehouse in the northeast corner.
The warehouse was more dilapidated than they had imagined. The rusted iron door was slightly ajar. There was no light inside, only a... sticky silence.
Zeke made a hand gesture. The squad fanned out to keep watch while he, Tax Bro, Schrödinger Bro, and a few others slipped through the doorway sideways.
Darkness.
It was a thick darkness, so pitch-black they couldn't see their fingers in front of their faces.
The air was filled with dust, rust, and a faint, almost imperceptible smell of... sweet blood?
"Rayne?" Zeke lowered his voice.
"Over here."
A response came from the darkness. It was Rayne's voice, but it sounded deeper, more... smooth.
A few dim, battery-powered lanterns flickered on, barely illuminating a small patch in the center of the warehouse.
Rayne stood there, surrounded by about thirty figures. They were refinery workers—men and women, young and old.
They stood in silence. Under the dim yellow light, their eyes flickered with a strange glint. It wasn't numbness, nor was it fear. It was... some kind of focused fanaticism?
Zeke's heart skipped a beat.
This vibe... something's wrong.
"You're here." Rayne wore a smile, one so perfect it was almost rigid. "Excellent."
"It is almost time."
"What's the plan?" Zeke asked directly, his gaze sweeping over the people behind Rayne.
Their postures and their eyes all carried a trained, unnatural stiffness. They absolutely did not look like ordinary wage slaves.
"It's simple," Rayne's voice echoed in the cavernous warehouse. "The riot begins in two hours."
"An outside force will assault the compound and draw the primary fire."
"Once the chaos begins, your task is to eliminate every overseer and guard you see."
"Use whatever methods you please."
"As for the administrators and tech-chiefs in the factory zone... we will handle them."
"Once that is done, you are free to leave."
"Go wherever you please."
Zeke forced a look of deep gratitude onto his face: "That's fantastic! Rayne, thank you so much! We've waited for this day for so long!"
I call bullshit! Zeke screamed in his mind. The look in these people's eyes is like they've been brainwashed by Tzeentch! And the smell in this hellhole... why does it smell like... burnt meat?
On the surface, he continued playing his part: "I don't suppose I could ask which brothers are leading the assault? Are they big enough to breach the factory defenses?"
Rayne's smile widened. The curve of his lips was as precise as if drawn by a ruler. "Knowledge... brings power. And it brings allies. You don't need to know too much. You only need to know that the moment of change is upon us."
Knowledge brings power?
Why does that sound so familiar?
Alarm bells rang furiously in Zeke's mind.
"Alright, we understand," Zeke said, asking no further questions. "We will make our move in two hours. We're going to head back and prepare."
"May the Changer of Ways guide you."
Rayne nodded slightly, uttering a cryptic phrase.
Zeke led his men out of the warehouse swiftly. They didn't speak until they were far away from that unsettling area. Then, Zeke growled in the squad channel:
"Attention everyone! There is absolutely something wrong with Rayne's group!"
"Their vibe is completely off, the way he speaks is fanatical, and that phrase 'May the Changer of Ways guide you'... Shit, it can't be..."
[Schrödinger's Loyalist]: "It's not Tzeentch, is it?! They put Chaos Cultists in the beginner village?! Has the trash dev completely lost their humanity?!"