"If these people truly appeared out of nowhere... their biological traits might be highly valuable for research."
The tone he used when saying 'valuable for research' was exactly the same as one discussing a newly arrived batch of lab rats.
"Do we need to notify the Supreme Council?" the council member with the mechanical eye asked. "With a commotion this big, the other factions are bound to notice."
"Notify them?" The bald council member sneered. "We'll notify them after we've cleaned this up. We'll hand them an investigation report stating that a spontaneous riot by a mutant gathering was swiftly neutralized by the Consortium's security forces, thereby ensuring the stability of Aurelian IV."
The other two nodded in agreement.
This was the Consortium's standard operating procedure: act first, report later, and fabricate a high-sounding justification.
As long as the job was done cleanly and left no opening for other factions to intervene, someone on the Council would naturally help smooth things over.
After all, Aurelian IV was nominally loyal to the Imperium and fell under the jurisdiction of a certain hands-off Primarch in the Eastern Fringe.
But that Primarch was too busy to micromanage a frontier world. In reality, the four major factions still ran the show here.
The Planetary Governor sent by the Imperium? Just a mascot responsible for collecting the tithe and turning a blind eye to the planet's internal power struggles.
As long as the tithes were paid in full and there was no open rebellion, the Imperium couldn't care less about who killed whom on a frontier world.
In fact, the very existence of the tithe exacerbated the exploitation and violence within the planet.
To meet the Imperium's quota, the four major factions relentlessly intensified their exploitation of the lower-class citizens. Rebellions sprouted endlessly, and human life here was cheaper than Promethium fuel.
"Execute the order." The bald council member finalized his decision. "Tell the frontline forces that if they encounter resistance... show them exactly why the Consortium controls more than half of Aurelian IV's medical and pharmaceutical industries." His smile was ice-cold. "After all, our specialty is making people volunteer to become contributors to medical progress."
The orders were swiftly issued.
The Consortium's entire security apparatus roared to life.
Ten minutes later, at multiple landing pads on the outskirts of Aru City...
Over thirty assorted aircraft launched simultaneously: fifteen heavy transports fully loaded with soldiers, six armed gunships providing fire support, and six rapid assault crafts assigned to perimeter lockdown.
There were also six specially painted pitch-black transports.
Those were the dedicated transports for the "Cleaners," carrying the Consortium's most elite, most covert special operations units.
In total, over a thousand armed personnel carrying heavy and light weaponry surged toward the Redblaze Wasteland.
This was no longer a simple public order issue.
This was a military threat that demanded a heavy-handed response.
–
Outside the workshop, on the edge of the pit.
Zeke yawned.
His stamina had recovered to 78%, he was temporarily no longer hungry or thirsty, and his injuries had been treated.
It was time to consider logging off.
"I'm planning to log out," he said to the teammates chatting beside him. "I still have work tomorrow."
"I'm logging out too." Tax Bro nodded. "Do we just... leave our bodies here?"
"Let's find a corner to hide," Schrödinger Bro suggested. "What about those empty bio-pods inside the workshop?"
"Even though they don't have nutrient fluid anymore, it's at least an enclosed space."
"Makes sense."
The trio stood up, preparing to head back to the workshop.
Just then—
"Listen!" [Did the White Scars Speed Today?] suddenly perked his ears up. "What's that sound?"
The players quieted down.
Carried on the night wind came a low, rhythmic humming sound, drawing rapidly closer.
It wasn't just one aircraft. It was many. Very, very many.
"Planes?"
[Fugitive Cogboy of the Mechanicus] looked up at the sky. "No, those are rotorcraft! I hear jet engines too! A lot of them!"
In the deep purple night sky, dozens of dark silhouettes were rapidly approaching from the direction of the Hive City. Their outlines gradually sharpened: transports, gunships, assault crafts... an entire aerial formation.
"What... is that?" [Soul of Cadia] squinted. "An air show? Military exercise?"
"Everyone pay attention!" Zeke instinctively sensed danger and bellowed, "A massive number of unidentified aircraft approaching! Find cover!"
The players instantly broke into a commotion.
All across the pit, thousands of players simultaneously looked up at the sky.
Some were still staring blankly, while others had already reacted and started sprinting toward the workshop or diving behind cover.
But it was too late.
The fifteen heavy transports arrived over the pit first, hovering in an encirclement formation.
Intense searchlight beams blasted down from the underbellies of the aircraft, instantly illuminating the entire pit as bright as day!
Immediately following, the six gunships took up positions on the perimeter, the auto-turrets beneath their noses whirring as they spun up.
The six assault crafts circled higher above, locking down all possible escape routes.
Meanwhile, the six pitch-black transports landed silently in the shadows on the outskirts of the mine.
Their doors slid open, and a squad of soldiers clad entirely in black armor—even their visors were pitch black—slid out silently, vanishing rapidly into the shadows of the ruins.
They were the Cleaners, the ghosts of the Consortium, specializing in wetwork that couldn't afford to leave a trace.
Blinded by the harsh searchlights, the players raised their arms to shield their eyes.
The side doors of the heavy transports slid open, and fast-rope lines dropped down.
Fully armed soldiers, their faces hidden behind helmets, fast-roped down with practiced tactical precision. They scattered rapidly upon landing, securing vantage points.
Their movements were clean and decisive; they were clearly rigorously trained elites. And there were so many of them—over a hundred in the first wave alone, with more currently descending.
But even these battle-hardened, augmented soldiers paused momentarily upon seeing the sight within the pit.
There were simply too many.
As far as the eye could see, there were people everywhere.
On the platforms, inside the pit, at the workshop entrance, behind the scrapped machinery... thousands of pairs of eyes stared back at them through the glare of the searchlights in bewilderment, terror, or curiosity.
This was not the rebel camp they had expected. There were no fortifications, no heavy weapons, not even any decent small arms.
It was just a massive crowd of people wearing ragged jumpsuits and holding crude tools.
But the sheer numbers... Emperor Above, this number is absurd for this place.
"Command, this is Vanguard One." The squad leader lowered his voice, reporting through an encrypted channel. "Target numbers confirmed... over five thousand. Repeat, over five thousand individuals. No heavy weapons detected, but the sheer volume is a threat in itself. The atmosphere here is... bizarre. The targets do not appear to be afraid. They seem mostly curious."
A calm reply came through the comms: "Received. Execute standard containment procedures. Try to capture them alive. The Consortium's laboratories require fresh samples."
The squad leader took a deep breath, raised his assault rifle toward the sky, and pulled the trigger.
Tat-tat-tat-tat!!!
The deafening gunfire ripped through the night sky, echoing across the mine.
"Heretics! I command you in the name of the Emperor!"
"Everyone! Do not move!"
"Drop your weapons! Get on the ground! Hands on your heads!"
"Any who resist will be executed on the spot!"
The cold roar, amplified by a megaphone, echoed through the pit.
The players were stunned.
They looked at the heavily armed soldiers who had appeared out of nowhere, at the dark muzzles of their guns, at the massive fleet hovering in the sky, and for a moment, they had no idea how to react.
Was this... also part of the game?
A beginner storyline event?
Or...
"Holy crap! Where did these NPCs come from?!" a player exclaimed in the regional chat.
"What did they say? Drop our weapons? What weapons do we have? Just some broken pickaxes!"
"This looks so realistic... the armor, the gun models... the detail is insane!"
"Look at their badges! That emblem... there's a line of small text underneath that says 'Aru Pharmaceutical Group'?"
"And the other line... 'Ximans Trade Consortium'?"
"Consortium? This game has a Consortium faction?"
Zeke's heart sank to the bottom of the abyss.
He saw the emblems on the soldiers' armor: the genetic helix entwined by a snake, and the small text below it.
He saw the cold glint of their mechanical limbs and cybernetic eyes.
He heard the Low Gothic commands echoing from the megaphones, tinged with a local accent.
Most importantly, he saw the look in the soldiers' eyes—the gaze of a predator evaluating its prey.
That was not a look NPCs should have.
That was a look that only belonged to predators who genuinely viewed human beings as resources and expendables.
This was all too real.
So real that... it could no longer be explained away as game elements.
A terrifying thought tore open his mind like a Warp rift.
These soldiers, their demeanor, their utter disregard for human life...
Emperor Above.
Is this place...
Could it really be...
"Get down! Everyone get down!" Zeke screamed hoarsely, throwing himself to the ground first.
But not all the players were as immersed as he was.
Some players were still under the impression that this was a scripted game event. One player even walked curiously toward the soldiers, trying to trigger a dialogue interaction.
"Hey bro, does your world have an Emperor too? Which faction are you guys from?"
"Do you have a quest for me?"
"This opening CG is sick! An enemy airborne drop?"
"Should I try resisting? Maybe they drop loot!"
"For the Emperor!"
One player even raised his miner's pick high and shouted the iconic battle cry, although it sounded incredibly bizarre in this context.
The next second.
Tat-tat-tat-tat!!!
A denser volley of gunfire erupted.
The player who had walked toward the soldiers erupted in a bloom of blood from his chest. The kinetic force of the bullets sent him flying backward. He hit the ground, twitched twice, and stopped moving.
The player who had yelled "For the Emperor" was also struck by several bullets and collapsed with an agonizing scream.
Under the glare of the searchlights, the blood appeared a blindingly dark crimson.
[Player 'I Finks This Game Has Respawn' has died. Cause of death: Gunshot. Resurrection Cost: 5 Imperial Coins.]
[Player 'Loyal But Broke' has died. Cause of death: Gunshot. Resurrection Cost: 5 Imperial Coins.]
The cold System notifications chimed in the regional chat channel.
Time seemed to freeze.
The players stared blankly at the two corpses, at the pooling blood, and at the wisps of smoke trailing from the soldiers' gun barrels.
The echoes of the gunfire were still ringing in the pit.
Then, the terrified, agonizing screams of the two dead players filled the regional chat channel.
Although their bodies were dead, their consciousnesses seemed to linger, at least enough to speak in the chat.
[I Finks This Game Has Respawn]: "AAAAAAAAGH! IT HURTS! HOLY SHIT! IT FUCKING HURTS!!!"
[Loyal But Broke]: "HELP! I FEEL LIKE I ACTUALLY GOT SHOT!!!"
The screams cut off abruptly as they were forcibly logged out.
They died so realistically. And so... cheaply.
The entire mine fell dead silent.
The only sounds were the roar of the transport rotors and the cold voice echoing from the soldiers' megaphones once again:
"Final warning."
"Drop all items. Get on the ground. Hands on your heads."
"Those who resist will be executed on the spot."
Zeke lay flat on his stomach, his cheek pressed against the freezing, rough ground, his body trembling uncontrollably.