The Hive Warrior's bone blade came to a stop just millimeters from the Butcher's jugular. Sarah turned her head, her compound eyes fixing on Raynor with a low, inquisitive hiss.
Raynor's Adam's apple bobbed. He knew he had to provide a logical justification for sparing this scum.
"We don't know where the purified water is stored," Raynor said, his voice level and cold. "We need a guide. Moreover... I need his help to acquire more resources for you in the future."
Sarah tilted her head at an angle no human could achieve, her compound eyes flashing as she processed the "value" of his words. Raynor's back was soaked in cold sweat; he was ready to trigger a forced dialogue at a moment's notice. Finally, Sarah retracted her blade and turned to move deeper into the plant.
The Butcher collapsed, his worldview shattered. How could a lowly tax official control these xenos monsters? Was it sorcery? A demonic pact? Or something even more terrifying? It wasn't until Raynor kicked him that he snapped out of his catatonic fear.
"Where is the purified water?" Raynor demanded.
The Butcher pointed a trembling finger toward a concealed underground vault. "The... the hidden warehouse, sir. Down there."
The vault contained several large barrels of sealed, purified water, but it also held "live cargo." A dozen men and women, emaciated and pale, stared out from iron cages with eyes full of absolute despair.
The situation was worse than expected. The water reserves were limited, and the purification systems were long dead. Worse, Raynor could feel a surging hunger through his bond with Sarah—a craving for "pure biomass." To her, these untainted lives, free from the chemical haze and cybernetic rot of the lower Hive, were far more enticing than buckets of water.
He immediately initiated a forced dialogue. Corrosive saliva dripped from Sarah's mouthparts, melting the metal floorboards. Raynor felt a pang of pity for the prisoners, but it was quickly eclipsed by the logic of survival.
If he let them go, his secret was dead. If he kept them, he risked Sarah's hunger turning on him.
"Go, Sarah," Raynor whispered, proactively ending the psychic stasis. "Consider it an extra 'gift' for this operation."
Neither the Hormagaunts nor the Termagants stepped forward. Sarah wanted this feast for herself. Even the Butcher, a man who had earned his name through cruelty, turned away as the sounds of the feeding began.
Raynor watched without expression. He made his excuses internally: They saw Sarah. If I let them go, the Arbites or the Cults come for us. If they die, I live. In the Warhammer universe, such a trade was made a million times a day.
When Sarah finally raised her head, she let out a sharp, piercing screech—a sound of pure satisfaction. The crystallized wound on her forelimb suddenly exploded into a cloud of purple dust. Beneath it, bright red, wriggling biomass emerged, healthy and free of corruption. New chitinous plating began to harden over the raw muscle at a visible rate.
[System Prompt]: Bound target 'Sarah' used pure biomass to flush out Warp-psionic contamination!Crystallized wound cleansing: 6/10. Condition recovering. [Affection Level: +15. Current Favorability: -28.]
The warehouse was now thick with the scent of blood and evaporating xenos acid—a nauseatingly sweet, metallic stench. Raynor mourned the victims for exactly one second before turning his attention to the "profit" shivering in the corner.
The Butcher lay in a pool of his own filth, muttering incoherently. Raynor walked to a pile of abandoned industrial equipment and scraped a layer of dark green, fluorescent mold from a fungal culture jar. He kneaded the sticky mycelium until he had three slippery "spore sacs" the size of fingernails.
He squatted in front of the Butcher, pressing the cold barrel of his laser pistol against the man's chin. "Look at me."
The Butcher's pupils focused. He expected to see the eyes of a fanatic or a cultist. Instead, he found a bottomless, appraising calm.
"You have seen the power of my 'compatriots'," Raynor said. "Cleanliness. Efficiency. Absolute obedience. This is the path of evolution."
The Butcher gurgled, trying to beg, but no words came.
"You were meant to be biomass," Raynor continued, holding up a pulsating green spore sac. "But I'm giving you a chance. Swallow this 'connecting spore' and become an extension of the network. A gift, and a covenant."
To drive the point home, a Hormagaunt skittered to the Butcher's side. It dripped a single bead of acidic saliva onto the man's cheek.
[TCH~!]
The Butcher screamed as the acid bored into his skin, leaving a coin-sized charred wound.
"That is a genetic marker," Raynor's voice cut through the screams. "So you remember who you belong to. Now. Swallow."
Broken by pain and terror, the Butcher took the sac and forced it down his throat.
"Very good," Raynor said, pocketing the remaining two sacs. "If you betray me, the spore will activate. In twenty-four hours, you will become an empty husk—a breeding ground for new 'compatriots.' Do you understand?"
"I... I understand, Master! Please, spare me!" The Butcher wept, kowtowing until his forehead bled against the metal floor.
"Then remember your new identity. You are the President of the 'Anvil Society.' Within three days, gather the remaining Sharktooth members and recruit fifty desperate souls from the gutters. Your only goal is to obey me."
Raynor stood up, looking down at the broken man. "The tithe has been collected. Now, let's get to work."