"Break time is over. Back to work."
The short rest period ended.
Ear-piercing whistles blew as the overseers cracked their shock-whips, driving the workers back to their stations.
The players exchanged glances and commenced 'Operation Mine Rat.'
Their ore-sorting movements appeared just as clumsy as before, but there was a subtle, calculated cunning added to them.
[Regional Channel]
[Eternally Loyal to the Emperor]: "Three o'clock. The one-eyed overseer just turned his back. The pile behind him has decent purity. Who's close?"
[Soul of Cadia]: "I got it! Witness my Cadian stealth!"
[Soul of Cadia] clumsily stumbled, pretending to trip over the ore. He face-planted into the pile. By the time he scrambled back to his feet in a fluster, three hand-sized chunks of Promethium scrap had vanished into his palms.
[Did the White Scars Speed Today?]: "Awesome! But that stealth technique... it would make the White Scars' ancestors shake their heads."
[Soul of Cadia]: "You try it then! This jumpsuit is as baggy as a potato sack. Being able to steal anything at all is a miracle!"
[T'au-Kun, You're Right, But the Bolter is Righter]: "There's a gap under the west conveyor belt. A lot of crushed ore fell in there, and the overseers can't see it."
"I'm going to pretend to tie my shoe..."
He crouched down and dawdled for half a minute. When he stood back up, there were five pieces of crushed ore in his inventory.
[I Want the Halo of Tranquility But I'm Broke]: "Shoelaces? Do these trash boots even have shoelaces?"
[T'au-Kun, You're Right, But the Bolter is Righter]: "...If I think they have them, they have them."
"Don't sweat the details."
The players gradually found their rhythm.
The moment an overseer turned around; when bending over to tie non-existent shoelaces; when pretending to slip while carrying a load... heavy, sharp-edged chunks of scrap ore were silently shoved into those five precious inventory slots.
Even though they could only steal a few pieces at a time, and the accumulating weight drained their stamina faster, the thrill of robbing the enemy blind under their noses—combined with the occasional [Earned: Promethium Scrap x1] pop-up in the corner of their vision—injected a bizarre sense of joy into the agonizing, monotonous labor.
Of course, there were plenty of screw-ups too.
[Regional Channel]
[Don't Ask, I Finks It Works]: "Holy shit! The overseer suddenly turned around! I didn't have time to stash the ore in my hand!"
In a moment of desperation, he shoved the chunk of ore into his mouth, puffing out his cheeks and pretending to work diligently.
[Schrödinger's Loyalist]: "...Brother, can you even chew that?"
[Don't Ask, I Finks It Works]: "I can't chew it... but I finks as long as I don't spit it out, he won't notice."
Two minutes later, he received a lash from the whip because of his weird expression. The ore fell out of his mouth, earning him a swift kick.
[Papa Nurgle Loves Everyone]: "Accepting punishment is also a part of growth."
–
While stealing ore, some players also tried striking up conversations with the genuine NPC workers.
Most of the native workers had numb eyes and spoke little. They had long since grown accustomed to the players randomly smirking, frowning, and winking at thin air, writing them off as just another batch of poor bastards driven insane by the brutal Hive life.
[Regional Channel]
[Fugitive Cogboy of the Mechanicus]: "Attempted communication with Worker G-77 on the left. Inquired about his years of service."
Worker G-77 slowly turned his head, looked at him with cloudy eyes, and turned back. "...Ten years. Or twenty. I don't remember."
[Fugitive Cogboy of the Mechanicus]: "Inquired about his opinion on the Aru Group."
Worker G-77 remained silent for a long time. "...They give food."
[Fugitive Cogboy of the Mechanicus]: "Inquired if he has ever heard the terms Emperor, Terra, or Space Marine."
Worker G-77 trembled slightly, lowered his head, and hammered the ore harder, refusing to respond.
[Fugitive Cogboy of the Mechanicus]: "Preliminary Assessment: This individual possesses vague knowledge of higher-level concepts but fears discussing them."
[Slaanesh Champion Candidate]: "I asked the lady next to me if there are any... uh, entertainment venues here? Or places that make people happy?"
Female Worker glanced at him like he was filth and scooted two steps away.
[Slaanesh Champion Candidate]: "She has no appreciation for the arts!"
[Soul of Cadia]: "Brother, if you're looking for Slaaneshi entertainment in the Warhammer world... you have to go to Commorragh, or the upper spires of some Chaos-corrupted world. Here? You're better off asking where to find un-moldy nutrient paste."
[Eternally Loyal to the Emperor]: "I got something."
"An old worker hauling ore next to me quietly told me not to ask too many questions. He said if I work hard, I might live a few extra days."
"I pressed him on whether something happened here. He vaguely muttered, 'After Sector 7 fell, a lot of things changed,' and refused to say another word."
[Fugitive Cogboy of the Mechanicus]: "Sector 7? Logging the term. Suspected to be a critical local historical event or location."
–
Time slipped away amidst the covert chatter, whip lashes, and monotonous labor.
The artificial light sources on the refinery's dome gradually dimmed, simulating the cycle of day and night.
Finally, the shift-end whistle blew again.
Dragging their exhausted bodies, the players lined up under the watchful eyes of the overseers to receive their daily wages: a tube of gray nutrient paste and a small pouch of murky recycled water rich in essential minerals.
The taste of the nutrient paste was as touching as ever, and the recycled water tasted of rust and chlorine.
But after eating and drinking, the [Mild Hunger] and [Mild Thirst] statuses were finally lifted, and their stamina began to slowly recover.
Returning to the cramped, sweat-and-mildew-scented communal sleeping quarters, the players executed their plan. They selected the first pair of volunteers for the watch shift: [Did the White Scars Speed Today?] and [I Want the Halo of Tranquility But I'm Broke].
"You two log out first. Hurry up and eat, use the bathroom, and rest."
"Log back in an hour to relieve us," Zeke instructed. "Remember, stay sharp. If anything happens, log out immediately and ping the group."
"Don't worry, Zeke!" [Did the White Scars Speed Today?] gave a thumbs-up, although the gesture looked somewhat comical in this environment.
The two walked to a relatively secluded corner, sat with their backs against the wall, closed their eyes, and focused their minds.
[Confirm Safe Log Out? Current Status: Rest Period (Operable). Vessel will enter low-power maintenance mode. Please ensure concealment.]
[Confirm.]
A faint white light flashed over them. Their bodies remained slumped against the wall, but their eyes lost focus, and their breathing became incredibly slow and shallow, as if entering a deep coma.
Zeke, Tax Bro, Schrödinger Bro, and the others temporarily stayed online.
Gathering in a corner, they opened the System store interface.
Zeke's balance: 32.8 coins. Tax Bro: 31.5 coins. Schrödinger Bro: 30.1 coins.
"If we pool it, we have exactly enough," Zeke calculated. "After buying the portable recycling terminal, we'll have twenty-something coins left over for emergencies."
[Confirm Exchange: Portable Matter Recycling Terminal (Basic) - 50 Imperial Coins]
[Exchange Successful.]
A hand-sized object resembling a thick metal plate appeared in Zeke's hand. Its surface featured a few simple buttons and a tiny display screen.
[Item: Portable Matter Recycling Terminal (Basic)]
[Function: Converts standard material resources into Imperial Coins. Exchange rate is 95% of a standard submission point.]
[Usage Limits: Requires manual operation. Limited processing volume per use.]
[Note: The greedy merchant always takes a cut, don't they?]
"Alright, now we save up." Zeke carefully hid the terminal inside his jumpsuit lining. "How much did everyone steal today? Report your numbers. We'll process it together and distribute the money based on contribution."
The players began covertly pulling their contraband out of their inventories.
One piece, two pieces, five pieces... Promethium scrap of varying sizes and purities formed a small pile in the corner.
Zeke activated the terminal and aimed it at the ore pile. An imperceptible scanning beam flashed, and the terminal screen displayed: [Standard energy matter detected... Estimated value: 73.7 Imperial Coins. Convert? (Processing Fee: 4.435 Coins)]
"Convert."
The pile of ore vanished instantly, as if disintegrated and devoured by an invisible force.
Zeke's account increased by 69.265 Imperial Coins.
"A total of 113 people participated in stealing ore today. We'll distribute the funds based on the estimated value of what each person stole."
Zeke quickly calculated the math in his head, then used the System's trading function to transfer varying amounts—ranging from fractions of a coin to 0.612 coins—to the participating players.
It wasn't a lot of money, but this was their first payout earned through planning and teamwork. The significance was profound.
"Alright, everyone get some rest."
The other players began to log out one after another, their bodies slumping haphazardly around the sleeping area.
"Thanks for taking the watch, brothers," Zeke nodded to [Did the White Scars Speed Today?] and [I Want the Halo of Tranquility But I'm Broke].
The two had already logged back in and were vigilantly observing their surroundings.
Zeke, Tax Bro, and Schrödinger Bro moved to the side and sat back-to-back.
"Logging out?" Schrödinger Bro asked.
"Let's wait a bit longer. We'll log out after the other players are off."
"Hey..." Tax Bro lowered his voice. "Does what we're doing count as organizing a labor union in the Warhammer universe?"
"A labor union?" Schrödinger Bro smiled. "This is called the Fourth Scourge Strategic Development Committee. The primary phase objective is the redistribution of the means of production (the ore). The mid-term objective is an armed seizure of the tools of production (the refinery). The long-term objective is piloting mechas in the sea of stars."
"Brilliant," Zeke chuckled. "Let's log out and rest."
"Tomorrow, we keep playing Mine Rats. And while we're at it... see if we can dig up more info on this 'Sector 7'."
The three closed their eyes and chose to log out.
–
In the massive underground expanse of the refinery, thousands of players slept in various postures.
Only two figures on watch remained. Under the dim lighting, they kept their eyes wide open and ears perked up like vigilant prairie dogs.
In the distance, the roar of the furnaces never ceased. The molten metal rivers flowed sluggishly through the trenches, casting the eternal backdrop of this steel hell.
Higher up in Aru City, within the opulent offices of the Aru Pharmaceutical Group headquarters...
The report regarding the thousands of unidentified individuals who suddenly appeared in Workshop 7 and were swiftly suppressed had already been filed away as 'Resolved; Resources Reallocated.'
No one realized what kind of souls were hidden inside the bodies of those 'consumables' they deemed useless and sent off for hard labor.
Nor did they realize the apocalyptic-level upheaval these souls would bring to this factory, this city, and this world.
In the shadows of the rest area, [Did the White Scars Speed Today?] stared at the Imperial Coin balance on his crude UI panel, holding it up to the dim light.
"Almost there," he muttered to himself, a glint in his eye. "Once I save enough money, I'm buying a gun and blowing that one-eyed overseer's head off first..."
His whispers were drowned out by the eternal noise of the refinery.
No one heard him.
Except for a certain newborn Chaos God, who, through countless invisible threads, sensed everything from the void and gleefully absorbed the freshly baked emotional energy of anticipation, plotting, and excitement.
Deep within the Warp, Lucian's energy body stretched out comfortably.
"Yes, exactly like that... more plotting, more anticipation..."
"The seeds of hatred have been planted. Now we just wait for them to sprout."
"When you guys finally riot... that emotional energy is going to be so delicious, isn't it?"
He could already vividly picture the scene: on some future day, the refinery engulfed in towering flames, the players wielding crude weapons, charging in all directions while screaming incomprehensible battle cries.
"Do your best, my players."
"Even though you're driving minecarts right now..."
"One day, you will pilot mechas."
"I promise."
"Probably."