Polonium burned in the boilers, turning into electric current to light the dim yellow lamps that illuminated the streets shrouded under layer upon layer of buildings.
Wildly growing stalls crowded the streets to narrow strips, swill, garbage, grease, and other refuse spilled into the road. Zhou Yun stepped carefully to avoid the filth, weaving through the market stalls.
Greasy yellow sparks flew as oil popped, skewers of meat sizzled and rolled on the grill. Next to the stove, a lead can boiled fat candy—a rare sweet despite its slow poison.
Zhou Yun bought two greasy skewers and shoved them into his mouth. If you didn't think too hard about where the meat came from, it wasn't bad.
He fished out two cheap lho-sticks from his pocket and tossed them into a greasy jar on the stall.
Then he headed west along the narrow street, passing under arches of scrap iron and through the crowd, until he came to a three-way intersection.
On each corner stood a towering green-stone statue, cutting through the crowded hive architecture like three blades.
Two of the statues' identities were long forgotten. Some said they were the first Ecclesiarchal missionaries on Ashford; others said they were the founding patriarchs of the Flax family.
But either way, after millennia there was no proving it.
Priests and governors alike couldn't withstand the erosion of ages.
Only the third statue—the tallest and most sacred—any Imperial citizen need only glance at it to whisper his holy name with reverence.
The faint scarlet sunlight fell on the statue's outstretched wings, its spear, and its face that was both merciful and stern.
Saint Gilles. The Emperor's demigod son. Master of the Ninth Legion. The Imperium's archangel.
But Zhou Yun wasn't here to admire the statue of Saint Gilles. He came for the little tavern under its spear tip.
At the point where Saint Gilles' spear aimed, stood a crude shed of agglowood and quickcrete.
A sign hung there, painted with a goblet full of red liquid, next to the tavern's name: Spearpoint.
Before Zhou Yun even reached the door, he heard shouting and cursing from inside.
The tavern's wooden door was kicked open by a group of men in common hive worker garb. They dragged out a scrawny man with an ugly gray face and a rat tattoo—mark of a local gang.
"Lag, you piece of mutant shit!"
The lead worker cursed, slamming his fist again and again into the gang member's head.
Zhou Yun glanced at the scene. The gang member saw him and cried out, reaching toward him.
"Brother Zhou Yun! Boss Zhou Yun, save me!"
Even as he begged, he still snarled a threat. "This is my brother Zhou Yun! He's got pull with our boss! You'll see!"
The workers stopped and all turned to glare at Zhou Yun.
Zhou Yun just shrugged, then kicked the gang member in the head.
"Hit him for my share too. I'll buy you guys a drink after."
The workers cheered at the promise of booze and laid into the gang member even harder.
Zhou Yun pushed open the tavern door and walked to the bar.
Behind the bar stood the owner of the Spearpoint: a burly, one-eyed man.
He'd supposedly gone to the upper hive by less-than-legal means and lost his eye there. People called him Old One-Eye.
That name always made Zhou Yun think of that infamous Tyranid butcher.
"Smoke? Drink?" Old One-Eye asked with a lho-stick in his teeth.
Lho wasn't real tobacco. It was a polonium industry byproduct—a narcotic with a tobacco-like scent. It made you addicted and eventually blinded.
But it was cheap and let people forget their dark lives, easing the unbearable work stress of hive workers. It had become a necessity and even currency.
Under Augustus Flax's lazy rule, the city's lower-order had collapsed into Gotham-level chaos.
Except the governor hadn't lost his parents young and dressed up in a freaky suit to play vigilante.
Often, lho was more useful than the governor's scrip.
So Zhou Yun waved his hand, signaling for a drink instead.
Old One-Eye wiped a not-very-clean glass and slid him a mug of frothy, scarlet liquor.
It wasn't real wine, of course, just moonshine brewed from polonium waste with some odd secret ingredients—likely full of "technique and spice."
But after living here, Zhou Yun had learned to drink without asking.
As long as you didn't know what was in it, you could down it without flinching.
"That bastard Lag… what mutant shit did he pull now?" Zhou Yun asked, glancing at the gang member outside getting beaten.
That was Lag, a low-level Rat Gang member—the one who'd sold Zhou Yun the location of that ruin.
"Who knows? He's always due for a beating."
Old One-Eye puffed smoke.
"The God-Emperor taught us honesty. He'll never learn."
Zhou Yun nodded in agreement.
"So. Any news lately?" he asked after gulping half the scarlet liquor.
"Fresh one. A scavenger found the old Sector Eight ruins."
Old One-Eye went on:
"And next door? The Ark Gang—new guys on the rise—took over that district."
"Ark Gang…" Zhou Yun muttered. He remembered the crushed Genestealer mumbling that name.
So he thought back to what he knew of them.
A cult-flavored gang that had popped up in recent years. They started far from here but had expanded lately.
Their boss claimed to be a devout servant of the Emperor, punishing evildoers in His name.
He also said the devils among the stars were reaching for Ashford, ready to devour it whole.
Only by joining the Ark Gang and building an ark to sail among the stars could one ascend on the Day of Ascension and be saved.
…Huh.
Zhou Yun froze for a moment.
He chewed over those words: Ark, the Emperor's guidance, Day of Descent, Ascension, Salvation…
That sounded way too familiar.
Could this Ark Gang just be the Genestealer Cult in disguise?
Zhou Yun's eye twitched. He was already planning his next move—to pack up and get out.
At that moment, a wail came from outside.
"Brother Zhou Yun! How can you just let me die?!"
Zhou Yun punched that ugly face square on.
(End of Chapter)
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