The Sanctuary – the marauder's safe haven, small, but his own.
In the "Scavenger and Sweeper" System, the Sanctuary is a character's resting place, storage, workshop, and home. Here, resources can be stored, modules upgraded, weapons, armor, medicine, food, and drinks crafted.
The higher the level of development, the more powerful the technology. In the Warhammer 40k world, it even expanded to the ability to assemble power armor, energy swords, and even bolters. But for now, it was just a pathetic little room beneath the Lower Hive.
There was enough space: about five hundred square meters in an old warehouse, with ceilings and walls of black metal and ceramite. The air was heavy, smelling of rust; the light – only from a few Bubble Luminaries with dim green radiance. No water or electricity.
But it was his home. Reliable. The iron door with a mechanical code lock completely isolated the room from the outside world.
Upon returning, he collapsed on the bed – just a piece of cloth on the hard floor. He slept until his stomach began to protest.
"If I keep sleeping on this floor, my spine will definitely collapse," he groaned, getting up.
After a short "morning" routine, which ended with him joking about the lack of a toilet, he ate, took one of the assault rifles, and moved closer to the luminary.
This Bubble Luminary was part of the Hive's infrastructure: green light meant the sector was functioning normally. If it ever turned red – it meant something had broken above.
Under the dim light was his workbench: a heavy cabinet, assembled by hand. On it – tools. The System recognized it as a Level 1 crafting module.
He secured the assault rifle in a vise, took a file, and with difficulty began to file off the serial number and the Imperial Aquila mark.
Recipe Level 1 (Manual).
Input: Standard PDF Assault Rifle ×1, File ×1.
Output: Illegal Weapon (Automatic Rifle) ×1.
Crafting Time: 10 minutes.
Metal screeched, sparks danced. Ten minutes later, the file cracked in half, but the work was done – no markings remained. The area gleamed with rough scratches. A clean "black" barrel appeared, suitable for sale in the Lower Hive.
Without this procedure, the Black Merchant would have paid only half. The higher-ups didn't want scandals. They monitored the purity of the goods' origin, so everyone below had one rule – to remove the markings.
It was no wonder Li Qingyu had bought a file from the merchant in advance and was now spending his energy to somehow recoup his profit. But the steel in Warhammer turned out to be too strong. Even small emblems took him ten minutes to file off. He needed to upgrade his tools.
"It's time to upgrade the workbench to level two," he told himself.
He wrapped the finished weapon in a rag, tucked a pistol into his belt, opened the heavy door, and went outside.
Beyond the door stretched steel tunnels. To the left – a passage to the maps, through ventilation shafts to the surface; to the right – further down, to the bustling quarters of the Lower Hive.
The Hive stretched for kilometers up and down: above – aristocratic gardens, in the middle – workshops and barracks, and below – chaos. A rabble of criminals, mutants, rotting human refuse, and sometimes even Warp entities.
Illuminating his path with a flashlight, Li Qingyu walked for about half an hour until he saw light ahead – a large cave where life was bustling. Here was the fertilizer plant – a factory controlled by a gang, where slaves were forced to process organic matter into a valuable resource.
He winced at the stench but walked forward until he encountered two armed bandits. Homemade shotguns, their gazes wary.
"Halt. Who goes there?"
Li Qingyu took a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket and offered one to each. The guards exchanged glances, took the treat, and relaxed.
He lit one himself, flicking his flip lighter, and said, "To the Black Merchant Nepal. Good merchandise."
Upon hearing Nepal's name, the bandits immediately parted.
"Go ahead. Just no funny business."
He threw them the whole pack in gratitude and walked forward.
On the agri-world, tobacco was easily obtained, while on neighboring forge worlds, it was replaced by a surrogate – a byproduct of metallurgy. Now that was real nastiness.
Inside the trading premises, built into the steel and ceramite walls, chaos reigned: iron, chemicals, spare parts, the air heavy with oil. But you could buy anything – as long as you had the money.
The Black Merchant Nepal turned out to be a thin, pale man with a strained smile.
"Greetings, good client. Buying or selling?"
Li Qingyu untied the bundle and laid the weapons on the table.
"I'll sell first, then buy."
Nepal licked his lips, took the assault rifle, quickly disassembled it, and checked the parts. Peering down the barrel, he nodded.
"Standard PDF assault rifle, eighty percent condition, markings removed. Price – two thousand seven hundred fertilizer coupons."
Li Qingyu placed the magazine with thirty rounds on the table.
"With this. And if you take it all, round it up to three thousand four hundred. I need to buy some things too."
The merchant pondered, then said, "Three thousand two hundred. But you spend it here."
"Deal."
Nepal waved one of his henchmen to take the weapon away and asked, "What are we getting?"
Li Qingyu began to list:
"One promethium battery, two coils of electrical wiring, thirty meters each, one electric motor, an angle grinder, ten lamps, fifty sets of bolts and nuts, four steel pipes, one meter long, a standard tool kit, and four electric switches."
All these materials were needed to upgrade the Sanctuary.