Inside a massive industrial elevator shaft of the Hive City.
The rusted cabin creaked and groaned under the strain of the winches, ascending at a rate of fifteen meters per second.
Sisyphron stood in the center of the oil-stained cabin, pressing a handkerchief to his nose with an expression of mild disgust. Behind him, two Storm Trooper soldiers clad in black carapace armor and clutching hellguns stood like silent statues; only the occasional flicker of their helmet lenses proved they were living men.
These two were personal bodyguards specifically assigned to him by Andy.
Ever since the Plague Doctor's lair was wiped out by Nurgle cultists last week, Sisyphron had moved into the Vault entirely, becoming Andy's dedicated commercial representative. Truthfully, Sisyphron had never dreamed that in his lifetime, he would be able to walk out to negotiate business with this level of protection.
Hellguns—the standard issue for Imperial Guard Storm Troopers—could burn through light armor with a single shot. In a place like the Mid-hive, these two rifles carried more deterrent power than ten fully armed gang thugs.
Ding—
The elevator stopped, and the heavy iron gate slowly slid open. A heatwave, thick with the stench of machine oil, ozone, and the sweat of an overcrowded populace, rushed in.
They had arrived at the Mid-hive.
The Mid-hive was the industrial heart of Forge No. 7, yet it was also a lawless territory that had spun completely out of control. Since Imperial ships had ceased their regular visits, the industrial zones of the Mid-hive had descended into a frenzy of illegal mass production just to survive. Imperial patent laws and Adeptus Mechanicus production licenses were nothing more than wastepaper here.
As long as a machine could move and raw materials were available, the factory owners here dared to manufacture anything—from fully charged lasgun cells to contraband chemicals, and even unauthorized bionic limbs.
Sisyphron pushed a nondescript small cart out into the chaos. The cart was covered with a piece of filthy tarpaulin, making him look like an ordinary porter. But what he was pushing was the most sought-after hard currency in the Mid-hive black market.
In the two months since befriending Andy, Sisyphron's business model had undergone a 180-degree turn. Previously, as the Plague Doctor's agent, what was he selling? Rotted meat harvested from corpses and "Green Soup" filled with viruses and impurities. At his most respectable, he was merely a middleman buying and selling others' products through a distribution network.
Back then, he was at the bottom of the food chain, forced to bow to the Helios Group, begging black clinics to take his stock while constantly watching his back for a double-cross.
Now, things were different.
Sisyphron peeled back a corner of the tarpaulin, revealing neatly stacked glass vials. A pale yellow, clear liquid sloshed inside.
[Andy Bio-One].
It was a mass-produced, high-purity modification of Penicillin G Sodium solution from the Vault. Once introduced, it had swept through the entire Mid-hive medical black market. Its effects were too good—irrationally good.
One injection could save someone from the brink of death, whether it was a severe infection from a gunshot wound or gangrene that would normally require amputation. Moreover, the side effects were minimal; unlike the old Green Soup, patients didn't need to replace their livers after a single dose.
To the workers of the Mid-hive—who lost limbs on production lines daily or took hits from wrenches and bullets in street brawls—this stuff was nothing short of a second life.
Sisyphron navigated the noisy streets, flanked by unauthorized factories whose chimneys belched black smoke that blotted out the sky. He expertly made his way into a black clinic sporting a sign that read "Quick Prosthetic Repair."
The owner was a one-eyed man with oil-stained hands. In the past, when Sisyphron came here to hawk Green Soup, this man had treated him with cold indifference. But today...
"Oh! Mr. Sisyphron!"
The one-eyed man spotted Sisyphron—and more importantly, the two "temple guards" behind him carrying hellgun power packs. His weathered face instantly crinkled into a sycophantic grin.
"You've finally arrived! I have three critically injured men waiting for your miracle cure to save their lives!"
Sisyphron didn't even give him a direct look. He pulled two boxes of medicine from the cart and tossed them onto a blood-stained surgical table.
"Twenty vials. Standard terms," Sisyphron said coldly. "Where is the item I requested?"
The one-eyed man quickly pulled a box wrapped in an anti-static bag from under the counter and handed it over respectfully.
"Right here! Military-grade servo-motor control chips smuggled down from the Upper Hive. Brand new! Still sealed!"
Sisyphron took the box, glanced at the serial number, nodded, and turned to leave.
This type of transaction occurred a dozen more times over the next two hours. At an underground chemical plant, Sisyphron dropped off five barrels of high-purity industrial acid in exchange for a crate of rare catalysts. At an illegal weapon workshop, he traded ten boxes of antibiotics for a set of precision rifling processing techniques.
Barter only. He accepted only high-level industrial resources and refused devalued Imperial Credits.
Through this seemingly primitive method of trade, Sisyphron was using his technological advantage to aggressively "drain" the Mid-hive, slowly transporting centuries of industrial essence back to the Under-hive Vault.
Sisyphron knew very well that the reason he could walk with his head held high—making these normally ferocious gang bosses bow and scrape—was entirely because of Andy. Andy provided not only the goods but also the martial guarantee. If anyone dared to harbor ill intentions, Andy's "Under-hive Joy Ride" would likely be parked at their doorstep the next morning, using heavy stubbers to "reason" with them.
This absolute crushing superiority made Sisyphron's ego swell, while simultaneously deepening his awe and fear of Andy.
Before long, the cart was empty. Sisyphron tossed the rickety thing into a roadside trash pile; it was useless now. He patted the heavy tactical backpack on his shoulders. Inside were chips, blueprints, and rare metals—worth a fortune.
"Come on. To the final stop."
Sisyphron straightened his collar and led his two bodyguards through the crowded market, arriving at the core of the Mid-hive—Sector 10.
Suddenly, the atmosphere shifted. The chaotic, makeshift buildings vanished, replaced by massive cooling towers and forge workshops brimming with industrial beauty. The chaotic noise of the streets died away, replaced by a rhythmic, mechanical hum that felt like the beating of a heart.
A massive gear emblem hung above the main gate, shimmering with a cold metallic luster under the searchlights.
"The Heart of Gears" Industrial Park.
One of the most prosperous areas of the Mid-hive, and its true technological sanctuary. The owner of the Heart of Gears was Sisyphron's "old pal" he often mentioned: Zol Crick.
Zol was a genuine high-ranking Tech-Priest of the Adeptus Mechanicus, holding Mars-certified credentials. He controlled hundreds of highly augmented combat servitors and dozens of complete automated production lines. It could be said that he was the technological ceiling of the entire Mid-hive.
Sisyphron stood at the gates and took a deep breath. Two months ago, he wouldn't have even been qualified to enter this gate; at most, he would have shared a drink with one of Zol's stewards on the outskirts.
But today, he came as Andy's representative. He was here to talk to this eccentric Tech-Priest about a certain "Starship Wreckage."