The residents of the Warhammer world's Underhive lived in endless darkness—without hope, without a future.
This was a forsaken place, a realm so wretched that even the demons of hell would disdain to visit.
Tell you a joke: A citizen of the Underhive died and went to hell, and he thought he had ascended to heaven.
They struggled tenaciously to survive in this brutal environment, fighting just to live one more day, never knowing what kind of suffering awaited them tomorrow.
Night hung low, pressing heavily upon the Hive City like an unbreakable prison of darkness.
Filthy smog mixed with industrial exhaust hovered over the city, blotting out the light of the stars.
Oak dragged his body, exhausted to the breaking point, slowly out of the factory.
His spine was permanently stooped, his eyes were bloodshot, and his skin was ulcerated from long-term exposure to toxic substances.
Machines roared continuously; acrid smoke and scalding steam drifted unchecked, turning the entire Underhive into a noisy, foul-smelling demon's den.
Every breath felt like swallowing razor blades, scorching his throat and lungs.
Oak and his fellow workers were like enslaved coolies. Under the threat of the lash, they mechanically and numbly repeated their high-intensity labor.
They worked for over a dozen hours without interruption—no rest, no relief. A mistake meant flesh torn open by a whip.
To earn the ration coupons that could barely sustain life, Oak endured physical exhaustion and mental torture. Even with hands covered in grease and blood, he dared not stop his work.
The overseers watched like vultures, staring at every worker who might try to slack off.
Hunger gnawed at his entrails, dulling his mind and blurring his vision.
Helpless, he could only grit his teeth and head toward the sewers.
This was the secret 'cafeteria' of the Underhive residents.
It was a place filled with a nauseating stench, where sewage surged and unidentifiable objects floated in the muck.
Rotting garbage mixed with the corpses of dead creatures, emitting a foul odor strong enough to make a normal person faint.
Oak groped his way carefully through the sewage, constantly on guard against the mutated rats that might dart out from the darkness.
These creatures were massive, with teeth as sharp as knives, capable of tearing him to shreds in an instant.
Next to a pile of trash, he pleasantly discovered half a carcass of a mutated rat. But before he could reach for it, two other equally starving people surrounded him.
Their eyes shone with a beast-like light; for food, they would pay any price.
In an instant, a vicious brawl for sustenance erupted.
Fists, teeth, fingernails—everything became a weapon. There were no rules, only the instinct for survival.
Ignoring the bloody scratches clawed into his face, Oak swung his fists with all his might. In the fierce struggle, relying on his tenacious will, he finally secured the food.
The corner of his mouth was split, his left eye was swollen, but his hands tightly gripped that half-eaten mutated rat carcass.
Oak, covered in wounds and pain, struggled back to his cramped, dim home.
This so-called 'home' was nothing more than a section of discarded factory pipe plugged at both ends with trash, its door simply constructed from rags and scrap metal.
Entering the dwelling, his child, not yet five years old, looked at him with expectant eyes. That frail body appeared even thinner under the light of the radiation lamp.
The child's ribs were clearly visible, his skin pale as paper from malnutrition, and his legs bowed and deformed from calcium deficiency.
"Papa, you're back!" The child's weak voice held a trace of excitement.
This voice seemed to pierce through the darkness; it might be the only reason Oak continued to survive.
Oak suppressed the grief in his heart, squeezed out a smile, and handed the food hidden in his clothes to the child.
His hands were rough and deformed from labor, his nails broken, the skin cracked and bleeding.
"Eat up, quickly!" The child couldn't wait to take the unprocessed mutated rat and began to gnaw on it ravenously.
Flesh and blood mixed with sludge were stuffed into his mouth—no hygiene, no cooking, just the most primitive form of eating.
Watching his child, a sharp pain shot through Oak's heart, as if countless knives were twisting inside him.
But this was life in the Underhive; this was their fate.
Oak gently stroked the child's head, his eyes revealing endless worry.
His vision blurred—he didn't know if it was from exhaustion or because his eyes were too dry to shed tears.
In this sunless Underhive, life was like an endless abyss, offering Oak not even a glimmer of hope.
He worried whether his child would repeat his own mistakes, trapped in this vortex of suffering for a lifetime, struggling daily for survival, barely getting by under the shadow of sickness and fear.
This kind of life wasn't living; it was just not dying.
The nobles in the Spire lived in the light, enjoying luxury and comfort, while they—the ants at the bottom—could only linger in the darkness, gasping for breath.
He worked hard, longing to save something, seeking that almost non-existent chance to let his son escape this life.
In truth, Oak knew that resistance was futile and escape was a delusion. Their fates had long been locked in chains.
But this was his only hope.
"Papa, I want more." The child finished the food, his eyes still flickering with the light of hunger.
"Tomorrow. Tomorrow Papa will definitely bring you more food," Oak tried to make his voice sound firm.
He knew it was a lie. There might not even be food tomorrow; they lived perpetually on the edge of starvation.
The child seemed to sense his father's pain and reached out with thin, small arms to hug Oak.
"Papa, you're the best Papa."
These simple words slightly soothed Oak's exhausted and numb soul.
For the child, he had to keep living, no matter what suffering tomorrow would bring.
This was the Underhive—a corner forgotten by the Imperium, a hell full of despair and struggle.
And in this hell, one always had to find a reason to persevere.
The upper regions of the Hive City were brightly lit. Luxurious floating estates hovered silently in the air, and golden fountains continuously sprayed drinking water that had gone through over a dozen purification processes.
Those noble lords wore exquisite silk robes, their necks adorned with gems polished from rare ores.
They held one extravagantly expensive banquet after another. The food wasted in a single banquet was enough to feed the residents of an entire block in the lower levels for a whole month.
But no one cared whether the Underhivers lived or died.
Their eyes saw only profit and pleasure; they were completely indifferent to the suffering of the people at the bottom.
Even if a noble occasionally toured the lower levels out of morbid curiosity, they would be fully armed, wearing filtration masks, flanked by a squad of fully equipped guards.
The people at the bottom were like ants imprisoned in an eternal night.
The gray sky never saw sunlight, and thick industrial exhaust formed a dense barrier of toxic fog.
They struggled to survive in this filthy environment for that insignificant sliver of hope—perhaps tomorrow would be better?
But tomorrow never got better. It was always just self-deception.
They heard the Imperium had Angels... but when would the Angels come to save them?