Chapter 460: The Second Day
The dawn of the second day brought no solace; it merely re-illuminated the landscape of despair.
Before the chill of the previous night had fully faded from their marrow, the searing heat of the day impatiently reclaimed dominion over the wasteland.
As physical stamina continued to deplete and drinking water resources neared exhaustion, conflicts—catalyzed by resource scarcity and survival pressure—became increasingly frequent and intense.
On a relatively open, gravel-strewn dried riverbed, a typical conflict erupted.
A small group of five underhive youths and another temporary team of about seven or eight—mostly mid-hive workers and one destitute noble scion—simultaneously discovered a small, incredibly murky puddle among the rocks, bearing obvious radiation warning markers.
"Piss off! We saw this puddle first!" The leader of the underhive group, a youth with an old scar across his face, hunched over like a beast preparing to pounce. The dagger in his tightly gripped hand trembled slightly, reflecting the sallow daylight.
"Bullshit! Since when does 'first come, first served' apply in this hellhole? It belongs to whoever punches harder!" In the mid-hive group, a broad-shouldered youth named Brent stepped forward. The muscles on his bare arms bulged, and his voice was hoarse from dehydration and anger.
His companions immediately spread out in a semicircle, their gazes fierce.
Without further warning or negotiation, driven by borderline-lethal thirst and the primal desire to reach the destination, the battle ignited like lit explosives.
Figures crossed paths; roars and cries of pain replaced words.
Low-quality daggers slashed through the air, glinting coldly, mostly relying on brute-force thrusts and swings.
The cloth robes were easily torn, revealing lean bodies marked by hunger and exhaustion.
Blood began to splatter, landing on the ashen gravel and rocks, leaving dark red stains.
The battle was brief and barbaric.
The underhive youths were more ruthless in their movements, adept at utilizing terrain and trickery. However, the mid-hive group held the advantage in numbers and sheer physical strength—especially Brent, who stood at the forefront like a boulder, knocking an opponent over with a heavy shoulder bash, despite his own arm being slashed open.
Ultimately, at the cost of two men suffering dagger wounds with blood soaking their sleeves, the mid-hive group successfully drove off the five underhivers.
The victors did not cheer. They merely panted heavily, watching warily as the losers disappeared behind the jagged rocks. Then, they immediately crowded around the puddle, greedily scooping water with any available container. Some even lay flat on the ground to gulp it down directly, disregarding the heavy metallic taste of rust and the radiation warnings.
Similar small-scale conflicts continually surfaced along the second day's journey like festering wounds.
For a cave that could provide a moment of shade, for a few accidentally caught, hard-shelled irradiated roaches, or even just to fight for a slightly easier path forward, bloody struggles could be triggered.
The rules tacitly permitted all of this; the wasteland magnified humanity's most primal survival instincts to their absolute limits.
However, this grey canvas was not painted solely with blood and darkness.
Faint glimmers occasionally flickered in the desperate straits.
On the evening of the second day, in the shadow of a weathered rock pillar, Grumm discovered a virtually abandoned young noble.
The cloth robe on his body had long been torn to shreds and covered in filth.
His face was as pale as paper, his lips cracked and bleeding, his eyes unfocused and dull. He slumped on the ground, lacking even the strength to lift his arm.
Grumm stopped in his tracks, silently observing him for a few seconds.
No expression could be discerned on his face, roughened by the wind and sand. He merely looked up again toward the seemingly endless wasteland ahead.
Finally, he crouched down and unfastened the leather waterskin at his waist—the liquid inside was running dangerously low.
He carefully supported the noble's head, slowly pouring the last few mouthfuls of strange-tasting, grit-mixed water into the other's cracked lips.
The young man's Adam's apple bobbed, making a near-sobbing swallowing sound.
Subsequently, without a word, Grumm draped the man's arm over his own broad shoulders, supporting the majority of his weight, and continued to trudge toward the destination at a slow but steady pace.
Meanwhile, Alvaro Visconti was also employing his own methods to survive.
Relying on the vague concepts of class and interest exchange instilled in him by his noble education, as well as a plethora of empty promises about "future returns from the Visconti family," he barely managed to gather three or four companions—also from the upper hive, but whose physical stamina was nearing its limits.
They formed a small, fragile group.
Alvaro was in charge of decision-making—although most of it was flawed judgment based on book knowledge rather than practical experience. They shared the meager, barely edible irradiated lichen they found, or multi-legged arthropods they painstakingly shelled, taking turns sipping precious drops of water.
From time to time, Alvaro boosted morale with a deliberately calm voice, talking about the bright future after passing the trial, attempting to offset physical agony with illusory hope, struggling to maintain the group's cohesion and forward momentum.
Kax, on the other hand, continued to execute his lone-wolf philosophy.
He completely avoided all paths and crowds that might lead to entanglements, weaving between ruins and shadows like a streak of grey smoke.
He sustained his life by relying on slow-moving mutated lizards caught in rock crevices, or thick, water-rich plant roots he dug up.
His gaze was sharp and focused, staring only ahead, viewing all other candidates as potential dangers or temporary, exploitable resources, absolutely refusing to invest any unnecessary emotion or trust.
In the distant command center of the Spear of Dorn fortress, all of this was coldly observed and recorded.
High-altitude surveillance probes silently swept across the sky, while concealed sensors scattered throughout the wasteland captured the subtlest movements and biometric data.
On countless holographic split-screens, the candidates' movement trajectories, heart rates, body temperature fluctuations, and real-time feeds of critical areas were displayed.
Sigismund's gaze was as cold as his power armor, slowly sweeping over the screens displaying conflicts, plundering, and even the dying being callously bypassed.
His face showed no emotional fluctuation, as if watching a play that had nothing to do with him.
In his view, this was not senseless cruelty, but an absolutely necessary screening process.
The future of the Astartes, the Imperium's sharpest sword and sturdiest shield, required no weakness, hesitation, or superfluous sympathy.
Only individuals who could maintain a clear objective and a will of steel under such extreme pressure were worthy of receiving that precious gene-seed.
Magos Ryo's massive mechanical body stood before the main console, his crimson optical lenses rapidly sweeping over the cascading data streams with inhuman efficiency.
His focus was more complex and systematized.
He not only recorded the speed and position of the leading echelon but equally paid attention to the life signs of those who had fallen behind yet still hadn't given up. He analyzed individuals who demonstrated special adaptability and calm judgment in extreme environments, or the leadership potential to effectively coordinate others within a small group.
To him, genetic compatibility was merely a necessary biological threshold. The pure willpower, the capacity for decisive action at critical moments, and the most fundamental survival instincts displayed in this brutal wasteland trial were the ultimate factors deciding who would receive the seed symbolizing power and responsibility.
The data was sketching out a more profound contour of the soul, transcending mere genetic maps.