Andy walked along the wasteland highway leading back to the Vault.
In his hand, he gripped a steel cable as thick as a thumb. The cable was pulled taut, its other end tied to a massive black cube. The "Black Box" was currently flashing a soft yellow standby light, hovering steadily a meter above the ground thanks to the anti-gravity generators at its base.
It had almost no weight—or rather, its mass was being neutralized by the anti-gravity field. Andy pulled it along as if he were tugging a giant helium balloon.
The reason he hadn't loaded it onto the back of the Underhive "Happy Truck" was that the crystal array inside the device was far too delicate. The road conditions in the Underhive were abysmal; if he hauled it by truck, the constant bumping might cause the anti-gravity module to flicker. If that tens-of-ton piece of equipment dropped for even a second, the box itself would be fine, but the truck would be flattened into a pancake.
Andy trusted his own legs more; his hydraulic suspension system could filter out the vast majority of vibrations.
Behind him, a massive convoy led by Gamma-9 was in the middle of a frantic hauling operation. This time, there was no need for tactical cover or electronic reconnaissance—this was a pure, joyful spree of "zero-dollar shopping."
To build this factory, the Helios Group had stockpiled a staggering amount of high-grade materials. Andy had sent a "looting list" directly to Gamma-9 via their communication link.
First were the metal ingots in the finished goods warehouse, including aerospace-grade aluminum-titanium alloys and high-purity tungsten steel. In the Underhive, these materials were usually only found as tiny scraps in the wreckage of crashed starships. But here, they were cast into standard industrial ingots, stacked neatly in massive piles. With these, Andy's heat-resistance issues for his rocket launchers were solved, and he finally had the core materials for standard bolt shells. He could even forge the frames for power armor using these supplies.
Next were the production machines that hadn't been destroyed. Andy looked down on Helios's inefficient assembly lines, but he coveted their parts: high-power servo motors, industrial-grade sensors, precision hydraulic pumps, and countless high-grade screws and bearings. There were even Servo-skulls that hadn't been evacuated in time! Once stripped and modified, these would become the cornerstone of the Vault's industrial upgrade.
Finally, the most important trophies—the maintenance drones that had been pinned down by the sentry turrets! Before leaving the core area, Andy had used his administrator privileges to force-clear their weapon locks. These machines, looking like oversized hornets, were standard engineering auxiliary units from the Golden Age of Technology. Equipped with built-in anti-gravity engines, plasma cutters for precision work, and multi-functional welding arms, they were invaluable.
Once repaired, Andy would have a construction crew that never tired, possessed extreme precision, and could fly anywhere. In the future, building structures or laying down production lines wouldn't require Andy's manual labor; he would just need to input the blueprints, and these drones would do the rest.
Gamma-9 and the workers were hauling with feverish enthusiasm. According to Sage Andy, this single haul would launch the Vault's industrial capacity forward by several eras!
However, Andy remained deep in thought. His radar was locked onto a distant, foul-smelling direction.
The Acid Swamps.
Beak Doctor Headquarters, Underwater Base.
Bang! Bang!
Two dazzling orbs of blue plasma exploded in the dim corridor. The high temperature instantly vaporized the moisture in the air, creating a piercing sizzling sound. A figure wearing a tattered black lab coat had its upper body vaporized by the plasma; the remaining two legs took two steps forward by inertia before collapsing with a splash, spilling green, putrid fluid everywhere.
"Die! You unhygienic beasts!!"
Sisyphron hid behind his expensive solid-wood desk, clutching an exquisite plasma pistol. This gun was a self-defense weapon he had paid a fortune to smuggle down from the Spire; he used to keep it just for show, but he never expected to use it to save his life today.
The current Sisyphron had completely lost his usual air of an elegant merchant. His white coat was stained with blood, one lens of his glasses was shattered, and his hair was a messy bird's nest. But he remained a man of dignity—he had actually stuffed two balls of cotton into his nostrils to try and block out the nauseating stench of rot in the air.
Outside the door were madmen. Truly, a pack of lunatics!
Two hours ago, a submarine had brought back a group of doctors evacuated from the surface. Sisyphron thought it was a normal rotation, but when the hatch opened, out came monsters covered in pustules, screaming about "Grandfather."
The plague spread through the enclosed underwater base with terrifying speed. In Sisyphron's eyes, these Warp-worshippers had completely lost their minds! They didn't kill; they just wanted to hug you. They wanted to rub their pus on you so that you, too, could feel that "painless, itchless eternal life."
For Sisyphron, this was a fate worse than death.
"Boss! Open the door!"
A thudding sound came from the door, followed by a slurred voice. It was his Chief Financial Officer. "This quarter's reports are ready... they're all made of intestines... they're beautiful... look at this green mold, it represents growing profits!"
"To hell with your profits!!" Sisyphron roared in a breakdown, firing another shot.
Sizzle—!
The blue plasma orb burned through the heavy, deformed wooden door and opened a massive hole in the CFO's stomach. But it was useless! Bodies blessed by Nurgle possessed an unreasonable, stubborn vitality. Unless you burned them to ash, they would crawl toward you to proselytize even if they only had a head left.
Sisyphron looked at his gun. The red low-battery light was flashing. Plasma weapons were powerful, but they drained energy rapidly. He had only two shots left.
"Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!" Sisyphron threw the pistol aside and pulled a melta gun from under the desk. "What kind of idiocy is this?!"
He had been in the Underhive for years and seen all kinds of crazies. The Flayers in the industrial zone were violent, but at most, they'd take your head or skin and be done with it. The Carnivora cults to the north were perverted, but at least they cared about sensory stimulation.
But this "Grandfather" thing?
As a germophobic capitalist and a pure materialist who believed wealth was the only order, Sisyphron could not understand, nor could he ever accept, such a filthy faith. What was the point of turning your body into a pile of rotting meat? How could rotting meat wear high-end suits? How could rotting meat taste Amasec brandy? How could rotting meat count money?
If you lost the physical body to enjoy wealth, what was the point of living?!
This simple, firm secular desire had somehow become his most powerful mental shield against Chaos corruption.
"I haven't earned enough yet! I haven't even bought a house in the Spire!" Sisyphron gritted his teeth, tears nearly falling.
The pounding on the door grew louder, and a large crack appeared in the wood. A hand covered in green mold reached through, groping for the handle. Sisyphron raised the melta gun and pulled the trigger.
Hiss—
the hand was instantly vaporized. But more hands reached in. The entire base had fallen; his bodyguards were either dead or had turned. He was an island.
In despair, Sisyphron grabbed the emergency communicator on his desk. Andy had given it to him, saying it was an encrypted channel directly to the Vault.
"Pick up! Pick up, you dead yellow tin can!" Sisyphron screamed into the mic.
The communicator crackled with static, followed by Andy's annoying electronic voice: "Hello? I'm busy moving house. Make it quick."
Hearing that voice, Sisyphron almost sobbed. "HELP!! Andy! HELP!! These lunatics want to turn me into a mushroom!! I don't care if I die, but no one will honor that 70% profit-sharing contract! Do you hear me?! That's a whole quarter's worth of antibiotic profits! And my savings! My gold! It's all in this room! If you don't come, all this money goes to these piles of rotting meat!!"
The other side went silent for two seconds.
"Block the door," Andy's voice remained steady, but to Sisyphron, it sounded like an angel's choir. "Back up. Get away from the ventilation duct. I'm almost there."
Sisyphron froze. Ventilation duct? He instinctively looked up at the exhaust grate in the corner of the office ceiling. It connected to the external acid lake and the underground river network.
THUD!
A massive sound echoed from deep within the pipes. Then came the sound of metal being violently torn apart.
Creeeeak—
The meter-wide vent was suddenly ripped off by a massive mechanical hand, falling to the floor along with chunks of concrete.
Andy's iconic, expressionless metal head peered through the hole. He was covered in acid, holding a chainsword dripping with a suspicious purple liquid.
"Long time no see, partner."
Andy looked at the trembling Sisyphron hiding behind the desk, and then at the Nurgle cultists trying to squeeze through the door. His electronic eyes flickered.
"Oh my, the Warp-worshippers are here."
Sisyphron: "What??"
"Oh, I mean, it looks like you went a bit overboard with the employee benefits," Andy remarked. "These people are so happy they've rotted away."