"Parting ways with 'Rain Rusu'… I actually feel a little reluctant."
Mong walked along the street, unable to keep from sighing.
"He really is a bona fide heretic… even more heretical than we are."
"Not only does he not believe in the Emperor, he doesn't even believe in any other gods. How could there be such a heretic in this world?"
"He really is frightening too. His way of doing things and that face of his are equally terrifying."
"And that mouth of his really is infuriating. If I were a preacher of the Ministorum, I would've sent him to the pyre the moment he spoke his first word."
"But he really is a reliable good man," Markit finished the thought for him.
"Not just reliable." Mong grabbed Markit's arm.
"Brother, did you see his abilities?"
"He just used a golden ring to take us through the thick rubble."
"And whatever method he used to move an entire warehouse's worth of weapons all at once…"
"He can help us — help us find what we're looking for."
Mong's tone grew a little urgent, but Markit hesitated slightly.
"What we're looking for is right in front of us." Markit gazed at the Corpse Guild just ahead.
This branch building of the Corpse Guild was the tallest in the area, yet extravagantly divided into only three floors.
In the Hive, people died at every moment — their souls would return to the Golden Throne, and their flesh to the Corpse Guild to enter the cycle, turned into corpse starch or recycled nutrient paste.
Their work was critical to the Hive.
It was precisely their recovery of corpses that kept the city from being overwhelmed by plague and starvation.
They monopolized the pale business — wealthy, yet regarded as unfortunate by Hive dwellers.
But at least the Corpse Guild once maintained faith in the Emperor.
According to what Markit had learned from the PDF databoard, the Corpse Guild was once surrounded by the pure skulls of unmutated humans.
In the courtyard stood statues of angels holding spears to guard the porch.
The walls were engraved with Imperial aquilae, purity seals, and sacred prayers.
But now, those pure skulls were shattered into dust, replaced by deformed and mutated skulls glaring at the approaching Mong and Markit.
The aquilae, seals, and prayers had been defiled, painted over with strange blasphemous symbols.
The only thing left intact was the statue of Sanguinius under the porch — but even he was surrounded by three rings of pus in the shape of a giant fly.
But Markit knew that symbol — the three rings represented death, decay, and rebirth in perfect cycle.
Yes. We will all die, and in death we will be blessed with rot, and reborn through decay…
Markit closed his eyes in piety.
"What we seek is right here, Mong."
"No," Mong shook his head.
"What's in here is just the key. We still need to find the door."
"We will find it, Mong. Be patient." Markit replied softly, and stepped toward the door of the Corpse Guild.
"Wait." Mong stopped him.
"Before we go in… take that hood off. It's been rubbing my horns all this time, and it's uncomfortable."
Markit nodded in approval — there was no more need to hide and fear being shunned now.
The two of them reached up and pulled back their wide hoods, revealing their faces and the horns growing from their heads.
Markit's face was gaunt and purple, his hair dry and gray, with yellow-brown jagged horns extending from his left temple, forehead, and cheek, like a beast or a demon.
Mong's horns were even more savage — he was almost bald, his face and head covered in jagged black horns that coiled around his near-bestial visage.
They were mutants — monsters that lived in the underhive sewers.
Humans no longer accepted by the Imperium, not pure enough.
Whether warped by radiation, poisoned by unclean food, or corrupted by Chaos into monstrous forms —
The city did not take them in. The Imperium did not allow them. The Emperor did not bless them. They were hated and rejected by the masses.
Most mutants spent their lives in the gutters of the underhive, taking solace in cursing the Imperium.
But some chose a more direct way to curse it — by wielding the power of the Chaos Gods.
Zhou Yun stood on the rooftop of a nearby building, watching Mong and Markit remove their hoods and recite a seven-syllable incantation as they stepped into the Corpse Guild.
So that was their goal too — the Corpse Guild.
Zhou Yun rubbed his temple.
When he noticed the brothers heading in the same direction as himself — and saw that there was only one major building here, the Corpse Guild — he'd already guessed.
So he'd used his teleport from the psychic-power hat to get ahead and wait on this rooftop.
Seeing the Corpse Guild decorated in defilement and Nurgle's signature style, he knew he'd been right.
The brothers' goal was the Corpse Guild — and clearly something of the Warp had infested it.
Zhou Yun decided to let them clear the way while he watched from the roof.
He hadn't expected to learn their true nature too — two mutants.
Speaking of mutants…
The Imperium classified mutation into four grades:
Light mutations: enlarged skull, minor height anomalies, missing limbs, overly talkative, strange hair color — 1 point each.
Moderate: extra limbs, severe height anomalies, scales or feathers or animal hide, insubordination, glowing skin — 3 points each.
Severe: toxic body, 1–3 extra appendages, abnormal or nonstandard eyes, beast traits — 10 points each.
Extreme: more than three appendages, local Warp anomalies, extra skulls, aggressive limbs, questioning the need for inspection — 50 points each.
Mong and Markit had: scales or hide, toxic body, beast traits, aggressive limbs — one moderate, two severe, one extreme — 73 points total.
1–9 points was considered "normal." Above 10 points you sat at the table with the Ogryns. Above 50 points you were generally burned on the spot.
Mong and Markit were about average among mutants who had to be purged.
And then…
Zhou Yun's eyes drifted to the white-winged figure of light in his periphery.
The figure in the light: "?"
(End of Chapter)
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