Almost simultaneously, Sister Figgsin's brows, hidden behind her helmet's visor, subtly furrowed, and her fingers, resting on the grip of her Bolter at her waist, tightened slightly.
Alex observed all of this.
He did not reprimand the guard. Instead, he took two steps forward, closer to Sister Figgsin, his voice low but with a clarity befitting a discussion of important matters: "Your vigilance, Sister Figgsin, is an indispensable pillar of this Star District."
He paused briefly, his gaze becoming as profound as a deep pool.
"But we must always remember the essence of this policy." He raised a hand, pointing at the cowering figures below, bearing mutated scars: "They are not our enemies at this moment."
Sister Figgsin stood in silence, her body straight as a spear. Only the subtle fluctuations behind her visor revealed the turmoil within her.
Alex continued, his voice gentle yet carrying an undeniable weight, like a mentor guiding a student: "Sister Figgsin, they are first and foremost citizens of the Imperium.
This cannot be changed, no matter what unfortunate marks they bear or what shadows envelop them.
Their bloodlines still carry the roots of humanity."
His gaze swept over the people below, carrying a deep consideration.
"You must see that every hand capable of working for the Imperium, every mind still able to comprehend basic order and understand the need for food and warmth—no matter how simple—is a valuable, irreplaceable resource for this Star District of Rostov.
Excessive fear and oppression, Figgsin, will only produce two results: either accelerate their push into the embrace of chaos, or… cause their spirits to completely wither in despair, becoming useless husks." He sighed softly, his voice carrying a heavy sincerity: "Wasting life is, bit by bit, weakening the very foundation upon which we stand."
His gaze met Sister Figgsin's eyes, carrying a gentle yet highly penetrating scrutiny: "Our duty, Figgsin, is to guide them towards the right path, not merely to deter them from acting rashly through intimidation.
The glory of the Ecclesiarchy needs to shine into every corner, but how this light is received requires wisdom.
Harsh methods are the skeleton, indispensable, but upon that skeleton, there must also be the flesh of guidance and the skin of hope.
Try to feel their fear, even if only the shallowest bit.
Beyond the cold strictures, a trace of… the Emperor's compassion for all lost subjects also needs to be infused."
His voice carried an inquisitive, enlightening tone: "Think about it, if in their deepest darkness, they feel not only the chill of a Bolter but also a trace of care from 'fellow humans' that aligns with Imperial doctrine, could this small difference perhaps build a dam on the edge of the abyss of despair?"
Alex's gaze finally rested gently on Sister Figgsin's twin pistols at her waist, his tone shifting to a heartfelt reminder: "Maintain your vigilance, Sister, there is nothing wrong with that; it is a necessary shield for guarding purity.
But it must be remembered: the Imperium's punishments, especially immolation and purifying flames, should only be directed at undeniable traitors and heretics."
He paused, his words clear and firm: "When suspicion is unclear and evidence is insufficient, the abuse of punishment will not only fail to purify but will create injustice and panic, unsettling hearts, and possibly even push the confused towards the true enemy."
His voice carried a profound admonition.
"However," his tone suddenly deepened, taking on a trace of the Inquisitor's cold resolve: "Once the fact of heresy is branded undeniable, the crime of treason irrefutable, with no room for retreat whatsoever…"
He looked directly at Sister Figgsin, stating each word distinctly: "…then the final purification must be carried out with the force of thunder! Without the slightest hesitation, without a shred of mercy! This is the iron rule for maintaining the sacred order of the Imperium!"
Finally, his words returned to a gentle tone, carrying a sense of entrustment: "Discerning the boundary between these two—exercising caution with punishment when suspicion is unclear, and decisive purification when guilt is proven—Figgsin, this is the wisdom and authority His Majesty the Saint has bestowed upon you, and it is also my deepest expectation of you, as an Inquisitor and the Governor of this place."
The moment Alex finished speaking, the air in Sector D-7 seemed to solidify for a moment, heavy and quiet.
Only the low hum from deep within the ventilation ducts, like a sigh, and the faint, whispering crackle of poor-quality fuel burning in the distance, echoed in the space.
Sister Figgsin stood motionless, like a statue forged of steel.
Although her face remained expressionless, her right hand, encased in ceramite gauntlets, was gripping the handle of the Bolter named "fiona" behind her back with unusual force.
Her knuckles were taut and prominent beneath the hard armored glove, their outline clearly visible.
Alex's gentle yet profoundly impactful words, especially the core principles of "wasting life is weakening the foundation" and "exercising caution with punishment when suspicion is unclear, and decisive purification when guilt is proven," were like stones thrown into a deep pool, stirring undeniable ripples in her deeply ingrained belief—that all mutations were sources of contamination that must be immediately purified.
Just then, a faint sucking sound, carrying a child's contentment, came from the direction of the distribution point, breaking the heavy silence.
Sister Figgsin's gaze was instinctively drawn by this small sound.
At the edge of the queue, a little girl, about four or five years old, tightly clutched by her mother, was holding a "Holy Radiance Candy"—a piece of candy just received, stamped with a crude two-headed eagle—with a small hand covered in tiny gray-green scales.
This slightly bitter candy, pressed from cheap syrup and starch, was a symbolic atonement used by the Ecclesiarchy to placate the lower strata.
The little girl seemed to have forgotten the surrounding fear and cold. She was intently and carefully licking the rough candy bit by bit with her tongue, and a pure, childlike smile of contentment blossomed on her dirty little face.
That small, mutated hand clutching the cheap candy, and Alex's words like "Imperial citizens," "precious resources," and "human warmth," collided violently at this moment.
Sister Figgsin's gaze lingered on the child for far longer than was necessary to assess any potential threat.
Inside her helmet, her breathing seemed to falter for a moment.
Alex's abstract admonitions now materialized into this mutated child before her, who, in the abyss of despair, temporarily forgot her suffering because of a trivial, coarse piece of candy.
A complex and unfamiliar tremor, unlike anything she had ever felt, like a faint warmth subtly seeping through the cracks of a cold deck, pried open an almost imperceptible fissure in her steel-like wall of will.
She still clutched the grip of fiona—the symbol of her oath, the source of her vigilance and strength—but her gaze, for the first time, truly fell upon the smallest, most fragile beings among these "Imperial outcasts," with a trace of scrutiny rather than pure hostility.
Alex said nothing more, simply stood there quietly, his gaze also resting on the child licking the candy.
His deep eyes reflected the dim, flickering lights of Sector D-7, and a profound, inexpressible solemnity.
Whether the seeds of admonition he had sown could take root and sprout in this cold soil of fear, steel, and mutation, only time and future trials would reveal.
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