Zeke looked at the utterly chaotic battlefield before him.
On the left was the Herald of Tzeentch summoned by the cultists. Its three heads chanted blasphemous incantations in three different pitches, while its nine arms waved arcane artifacts, twisting the surrounding space into a kaleidoscopic nightmare.
On the right were the Khornate Berzerkers and the Bloodletter, tearing the last few resisting overseers to pieces. Blood splashed across the metal floor, pooling into tiny streams.
In the center was the main force of the Siclaeman Insurgency. Though they hadn't mutated into daemons, their bloodshot, frenzied expressions weren't much better.
And caught in the crossfire of these three warring factions—cowering behind collapsed equipment ruins, underneath overturned transport vehicles, and between still-smoking coolant pipes—were the native workers.
They wore the same tattered jumpsuits as Zeke and the players. Right now, they were curled up, trembling, their eyes filled with nothing but absolute terror.
Some knelt on the ground, murmuring prayers. Some clutched their heads, refusing to look. Some had already collapsed, paralyzed and having soiled their pants.
Zeke's gaze swept over those faces.
There was the silent old man who had stood next to him sorting ore on his first day.
There was the middle-aged woman who had accidentally given him an extra half-scoop of nutrient paste at lunch.
And there was that cunning middle-aged man who always tried to push the heaviest lifting onto the newcomers...
Over the past twelve days, the total number of words Zeke had spoken to these NPC workers combined didn't exceed twenty sentences.
They were just background set pieces. They were the most insignificant batch of consumables among countless billions in the Warhammer universe.
According to standard gaming logic, this was the time to ignore them. Focus on the objective: grab the money, buy gear, level up, and come back to save the world later when they were overpowered.
They were just NPCs anyway. They'd respawn after they died... right?
But as Zeke watched a Khornate Berzerker casually pick up a paralyzed young worker, rip his arm off like a chicken wing, and laughingly hurl it toward the Tzeentchian daemon...
The string in his mind that kept repeating 'This is just a game' suddenly snapped.
"Fuck."
Zeke spat out a single word.
Tax Bro and Schrödinger Bro looked at him simultaneously.
"Zeke?"
Zeke turned his head, looking at the group of players behind him—players who had just made a fortune, their eyes still glowing with excitement.
He took a deep breath. His voice rang out in the regional channel, carrying a calm yet absolute resolve he hadn't even realized he possessed:
"Brothers. Take a good look."
"This is the fucking Warhammer universe."
"A world where an Imperial Coin is worth more than a human life. Where Chaos cultists casually use living people as sacrifices. Where local tyrants treat civilians as consumables and lab rats."
He pointed at the workers trembling in the crossfire.
"I don't know what Rayne and those blue psychos are trying to achieve."
"And I don't know if the Aru Group will spare these witnesses who just saw their factory torn to shreds."
"But I know one thing!"
Zeke paused, his grip tightening around his laspistol.
"We were raised under a civilized education. If we just stand here and watch these people die such miserable deaths at the hands of these daemons..."
"Then what difference is there between us and the numb, callous elites of this cold universe?"
"Do you guys remember the topics we debated on the forums?"
"If you transmigrated into the Warhammer universe, how would you save the underclass?"
"We typed so hard the keyboards practically shattered. We had plan after plan: from organizing labor unions to starting uprisings, from surrendering to the T'au to embracing Papa Nurgle..."
"Now is the time to execute those plans you made! Since we can't change the grand overarching tone of this universe right now, we start small. We start by saving these workers."
"The most important point is: We can respawn."
"We just made over 300 coins each. Even if we die and drop our gear, it won't hurt our wallets."
"Since we're already here..."
He grinned. The smile looked somewhat savage beneath the visor of his helmet.
"Why not play the Savior for once?"
"We've already made our Imperial Coins anyway. Even if we spend some, we don't lose anything."
"The players who died earlier already confirmed there are several respawn points outside. Walking out of here is the same as dying and respawning outside. At most, we drop some gear."
"We gather these scattered workers, carve a path for them, and save as many as we can."
"And while we're at it! We can loot another batch of gold from the other factory sectors! We only loot and fight, no retreating!"
He looked around at all the players.
"I don't care how many of these workers actually make it out. At the very least, we tried. As long as we do our best, that's enough!"
"Let's give this dog-shit universe a little bit of shock and awe."
"Of course," Zeke added, his tone open and honest. "Those who don't want to participate are free to move on their own. No one is forcing you."
"Those who are willing, stay. We're pulling off something huge."
The channel fell silent for three seconds.
Then Tax Bro was the first to speak, his voice as gruff as sandpaper grinding rust:
"What else is there to say, Zeke?!"
"Let's take all the suffering we endured yesterday and trade it for some happiness tomorrow!"
He patted his modified shotgun. "I've hated those overseers for a long time. Before, we couldn't beat them. But now... hehe."
[Schrödinger's Loyalist]: "Analyzing from a gaming perspective: rescuing workers can yield local intelligence, increase our Reputation score on Aurelian IV, and lay a foundation for future development. Although the Reputation System isn't visible right now, according to standard RPG logic, it should be a hidden mechanic."
"Besides," he offered a rare smile. "The Warhammer universe is all about pessimism and despair. Who wouldn't want to be the light that pierces the darkness just once? Even if it only lights up a tiny corner. Even if it's only for five minutes. I'm in."
[Soul of Cadia] roared in the channel: "Cadians never retreat! We're saving people? Count me in!"
"But Zeke, after we save them, can we swing by the East Sector Warehouse? I scanned it earlier, and there seems to be a lot of rare metals piled up..."
[Did the White Scars Speed Today?]: "Saving lives and robbing banks at the same time! I'm charging in!"
[T'au-Kun, You're Right, But the Bolter is Righter]: "T'au-Kun says saving people is good for long-term development... But all I want to say is: Fuck 'em! For the brothers who were turned into nutrient paste!"
[Fugitive Cogboy of the Mechanicus]: "The three factions on the battlefield are currently keeping each other in check. We have an operational window of fifteen to twenty minutes. I recommend prioritizing control of the northwest raw material transport corridor. That corridor leads directly to a breach in the factory wall. Highest probability of escape."
[Papa Nurgle Loves Everyone]: "Embrace all life, whether whole or broken. Helping others is also the teaching of the Grandfather."
The players voiced their agreement one after another.
Honestly, the reasoning was simple: They had already made their money. Running around alone was worse than sticking with the main force. Plus... playing the Savior in the Warhammer universe? That storyline just sounded undeniably badass.
"Good!"
Zeke nodded forcefully and immediately began giving orders:
"Everyone, stick to your previous squads! Squad 1, head to the northwest corner, clear the corridor obstacles, and establish a defensive line!"
"Squad 2 and 3, fan out! Use whatever methods you can think of—shouting, hand signals, throwing rocks—to gather the hiding workers toward the northwest corner!"
"Tell them we're here to help! Tell them we're carving a path for them to run!"
"Squad 4, Tech Team, with me! We need some intel!"
He led the direct strike team and a dozen members of the tech squad, crouching as they moved through the burning ruins. Soon, from beneath the chassis of an overturned transport vehicle, they dragged out a middle-aged man wearing an overseer's uniform who was shivering uncontrollably.
Half of the man's face was blackened by smoke, and his left arm was bent at an unnatural angle, clearly broken from the recent explosion.
When he saw the player jumpsuits Zeke and the others wore, he froze for a second before a pleading look washed over his face:
"D-don't kill me... I'm not a head overseer... I'm just an accountant... I've never whipped any of you..."
"Name."
Zeke pressed the muzzle of his laspistol against the man's forehead.
"J-Jeramie... Jeramie Hoffman."
"Position."
"Sector 3... Assembly Line Production Recorder... a-and backup overseer..." Jeramie's voice trembled. "But I really never hit anyone! I just keep the books and hand out tools..."
Zeke ignored his excuses and cut straight to the point:
"I ask, you answer."
"Answer well, and I let you walk out of here alive."
"Answer poorly..." He lowered the muzzle half an inch, pressing it against the bridge of Jeramie's nose. "Do you know what this is? It's a Lucius-pattern laspistol. At this range, it will burn your head to ash."
Jeramie nodded frantically, snot and tears running down his face.
"First question: What year is it? In the Imperial Calendar."
Jeramie froze, clearly not expecting this question, but he stuttered out an answer:
"A-around... the late M30s... I'm not sure of the exact year, but it should be around the 900s... The last time the Imperial Tax Collector came, he mentioned that the Great Crusade was nearing its thousandth year..."
--
Powerstone goal, every 150 Powerstones = 1 Bonus chapter.