The first closed beta

Bit performed no screening whatsoever.

In his logic, when the scale of observation expanded to encompass an entire species, the differences between individuals became negligible. Put the smartest person on Earth beside the stupidest, and to Bit, their mental activity amounted to nothing more than two chaotic masses of electrochemical signals with roughly the same complexity.

Just as humans would never carefully select which ant was best suited to carrying a grain of rice, Bit could not be bothered to distinguish which soul was more "suited" to his game.

And so, amid hundreds of millions of streams of registration data, he casually extended an invisible tendril and gave it ten gentle flicks.

Ten lucky souls—or unlucky bastards—were thus chosen.

The gaming UP master Robert was one of those ten.

The sensation of his consciousness being pulled out of the real world lasted less than a second. Then a tsunami of sensory information completely overwhelmed him.

Cold, coarse fabric rubbed against his skin, and the hard-soled military boots on his feet felt solid beneath him. An indescribable mixture of odors filled the air. The game ID he had hastily chosen—[Dr. Ruan]—floated above his head in pale green lettering.

His surroundings were dim and oppressive. Rust mottled the metal walls, and he thought he could hear the low rumble of some enormous machine in the distance. The unparalleled realism made his heart pound. Instinctively, he tried to take a deep breath to calm himself.

"Cough! Cough, cough... urgh..."

Drawing that breath into his lungs felt like swallowing an entire chunk of red-hot charcoal. The stench of industrial waste, acidic fumes, and rotting organic matter detonated in his airways. Tears and snot streamed down Robert's face as he doubled over like a cooked shrimp, coughing violently.

He was not alone. Looking around, he saw that the other eight players wearing the same uniform all looked as though they had seen a ghost. Their overlapping coughs played a symphony of suffering inside the bunker.

"Fuck," one player complained, leaning against the wall as he finally caught his breath, his face bright red. "This shitty air is harsher than swallowing a whole cigar! Are the devs fucking insane? Why put this much effort into a detail like this?!"

"Realistic... way too realistic..." another said, wiping away tears, his voice trembling.

Just as everyone was gradually getting used to the lethal air, a cry of amazement broke through their collective misery.

"Dude! How come you're an Ogryn?!"

That shout instantly drew everyone's attention. In the farthest corner of the room stood a figure whose head nearly touched the ceiling. He was two heads taller than an ordinary person, with shoulders as broad as a door and thick arms bigger than most people's thighs. His features crowded together on a rather simple-looking face as he stared blankly at the others.

The Ogryn Player, who had given himself the classic ID [Imperium Big Eagle Cop Investigating Chaos Tax Evasion], scratched his bald scalp and rumbled, "Dunno. System never told me I could pick a race?"

His unmistakable accent, practically smelling of cornfields, made one player laugh. "Well, would you look at that. A buddy from the Northeast."

The Ogryn Player looked even more bewildered. "How'd you figure that out? I reckon I ain't got an accent."

"Maybe races are assigned randomly?" Robert suggested. That seemed to be the only explanation.

"Shit, then I got lucky," said the player who had complained about the air, patting his chest. "Good thing I didn't turn into one of the Beastmen. The Ordo would've shot me the moment I spawned."

Just as the players' banter began to liven up the atmosphere—

Bang!

With a tremendous crash, a gleaming military boot kicked the already precarious iron door clean off its hinges. A stern-faced man stood in the doorway, wearing a long black coat and a tall military cap. His scarlet epaulets and belt stood out sharply in the dim light.

A Commissar!

His hawk-sharp gaze swept over everyone present. The authority and pressure in those eyes actually reminded this bunch of utterly fearless players of their high school homeroom teacher watching through the window in the back door.

The information that popped up on the data panel also displayed his name: [Walter Fuller].

Everyone jolted at once. Almost instinctively, they snapped to attention, their joking grins freezing on their faces.

Commissar Walter seemed quite pleased with their response. The corners of his mouth curved almost imperceptibly, and he muttered, "Not bad." Then he roared loudly enough to shake the entire bunker, "All of you, follow me!"

His gaze finally settled on the Ogryn towering over the crowd. He walked over, deliberately slowed his speech, and used the simplest, most direct words possible. "Big guy. Me, boss. You, follow me."

The Ogryn Player paused, then instinctively gave a firm nod.

A flicker of surprise crossed Walter's eyes. This Ogryn... was this smart? But he had no time to dwell on it. The situation at the front was urgent. Getting a batch of expendable bodies who showed no obvious signs of malnutrition and understood basic obedience was already a blessing from the Emperor.

Knowing perfectly well that they had triggered the main storyline, the players obediently followed the Commissar and climbed into a Chimera troop transport with a cramped interior that reeked of machine oil.

The vehicle lurched into motion. Robert grabbed a handhold and could not resist asking, "Commissar Walter, where are our flashlights?"

Walter glanced at him, his tone as casual as if he were commenting on the pleasant weather. "What's the rush? Once we get there, you'll have plenty of guns to take. If you're lucky, you might even pick up a master-crafted Bolter."

Robert's heart sank as an extremely bad feeling crept over him. Did that mean... they'd have to strip them off corpses once they reached the front?

Discovering that the NPC could respond so smoothly immediately piqued the other players' interest. They all began talking over one another in their "starter village Q&A session":

"Commissar! Shouldn't our squad's noncommissioned officer be leading us? Why did you come to pick us up yourself?"

"The chain of command fell apart long ago," Walter answered without looking back. "Count yourselves lucky you've still got a living superior to lead you."

"Commissar, are we fighting Orks or Genestealers this time?"

"Young people certainly have lofty dreams. First, pray you can beat a giant carrion worm from an Underhive sewage pit in single combat."

"Commissar, did you graduate from the Storm Trooper Schola? I could tell there was something special about you!"

"If I'd graduated from the Schola Progenium, would I have been exiled here to command you expendable idiots?"

"Commissar, how old are you? Are you married? Would you consider a man?"

Walter whipped his head around. His icy gaze made the player swallow the rest of his words. "My life belongs to the Emperor, soldier. I suggest you develop the same conviction as soon as possible. Otherwise, I won't mind helping you remember it with a Bolt Pistol."

"Commissar..."

Finally, as the questions grew increasingly absurd and even began veering toward a Turing test, Walter's patience reached its limit.

"Where do you get all this bullshit?!" He slammed his hand against the inside wall of the transport with a deafening clang. "Shut up, all of you! One more word, and I'll throw you out so you can experience the Hive City's air purification system!"

The interior instantly fell silent.

A few seconds later, the players lowered their voices and began whispering to one another.

"Uh... I think the Commissar's a little pissed? What do we do?"

"Then let's stop asking. We still don't know what the death penalty is in this game. Who's taking the blame if the Commissar actually shoots us?"

After listening, Big Eagle Cop gave a firm nod from his corner and rumbled his agreement. "Makes sense!"

Walter, who was driving, nearly lost his composure at those words. You're an Ogryn. Did you even understand what they said? What do you mean, 'makes sense'?

He suddenly regretted coming to collect this batch of new recruits who had appeared out of nowhere. Who could have imagined they would be this lively? They acted less like they were heading into battle and more like they were going sightseeing.

But there was no choice. Without more manpower, their defensive line would soon be unable to withstand even an assault by Underhive rioters.

Meanwhile, Bit resided in the Warp, where none of them could detect him.

The God of Information watched the results of his experiment with satisfaction. His perceptual filter appeared to be a success: no one had noticed anything amiss. Now all he needed to do was look forward to whatever surprises these mentally active players might bring him.