Simple Folk Customs Hive City

Milky Way Galaxy, Ember Star Ring: a dark yellow solid planet orbiting a red giant star.

It once bore a beautiful name, Resource Planet 016-701, Norgal, but now it has been forgotten by all.

Just as the "Ember" in the star ring's name suggests, the life trapped here has only one path to take: waiting for death. In the end, they are nothing more than a handful of embers, gasping for breath after being incinerated.

The outer space orbit of this resource planet is piled high with the wreckage of machinery.

No matter how glorious a technological creation may have been, once it is scrapped, it becomes nothing more than cold space junk, even blocking the self-rescue efforts of the life trapped within the planet.

Gray-green acidic clouds shroud the sky, and a thick, low-visibility haze blankets the entire world indiscriminately.

Only the roaring noise of massive factories makes this world seem alive, rather than a mere tomb of steel.

Occupying an entire continent and stretching from one horizon to the other, the Hive City—a clustered metropolis symbolizing prosperity, wealth, and beauty, capable of sustaining billions of humans—has endured centuries of weathering. Now, the vast majority of its regions are submerged in industrial waste and pollutants.

The giants of the "Spire District" wallow in madness amidst their despair, immersed in decadent luxury and freely singing praises to "giving civilization time."

Drink today's wine for today's sorrows; worry about tomorrow's troubles when they come.

The "nobles" of the "Upper Hive District" squeeze the "commoners" of the "Lower Hive" with all their might, as if only this gives them a sense of being alive.

The nobles' heinous acts of tyranny would make even the most infamous tyrants of history bow their heads in shame.

The "Lower Hive" is riddled with religious cults; from the moment they are born, the fate of its residents is already sealed.

With 007 work schedules year-round and lives so numb they border on despair, the residents of the "Lower Hive" can only pin their hopes on faith.

At the very bottom of the Hive City lies the chaotic land known as the "Underhive District."

Here, the "folk customs are simple," "talent abounds," and the locals are "hospitable."

There is no order here; it follows the law of the jungle, where the strong are the truth.

In the "Underhive District," everyone is both hunter and prey, and life is defined by blood and death.

"Underhive District," a narrow, cramped alleyway.

A foul-smelling, dark green "stream" seeps from the sewers along the edge of the alley.

Several lifeless bodies lie in the dark green "stream," their remains eroded into pitted, jagged shapes by the highly corrosive liquid.

In the darkness that never sees the sun, the sound of deeply suppressed, heavy breathing rises.

Gaze after gaze, greedy as wolves that have starved for weeks, remains locked onto the "fresh goods" lying in the stream.

Clatter, clatter—

A small stone flies out of the shadows, rolling across the uneven ground and acting as the fuse for this "battle for survival."

Unable to suppress their hunger, the "wolves," with their skeletal frames, burst forth with astonishing speed, charging toward the two corpses in the "stream" while wielding all kinds of makeshift tools.

The ferocious survivors, whether alone or in packs of three or five, finish carving up the "spoils" and glare viciously at their fellow wretches who came away empty-handed.

Cold light glints off blades swung in the dark, but the most eye-catching weapon is a discarded chainsword scavenged from a trash heap.

"Get lost!"

"If you don't scram, I'll butcher you lot and turn you into starch!"

Standing about two point two meters tall, a robust "little giant" brandishes the stalled chainsword.

The blade tears through the air with a piercing whistle, appearing highly intimidating.

Bang—

A finger pulls the trigger, and a projectile flies from the muzzle.

The flash of light in the dim environment is blinding, and the scavenging hyenas scramble to dodge.

It is a pity they are neither the legendary "Astartes Monks," nor the "Psionicists" used to fuel the "Star Beacon," nor the god-like "Gene-sires."

Therefore, the result is already set.

Within seven steps—the gun is fast and accurate!

The "little giant," the greatest threat and wielder of the chainsword, has a flower of blood bloom from his head.

His grim, fleshy face still bears a look of profound disbelief even in death.

He then collapses heavily onto the filthy, foul-smelling ground, becoming one of the "baits" himself.

Step, step, step—

A man in black, dressed in neat clothes that stand in stark contrast to the malnourished hyenas, walks slowly out of the darkness, holding a large-caliber hand cannon.

"Not this one either."

The man in black glances at the little giant's still-warm corpse with disappointment, then mocks the surrounding hyenas coldly: "Still not scrambling? Or do you pieces of trash want to taste the flavor of a bullet?"

The starving "hyenas" glare with murderous intent, but the "taste" of the hand cannon lets them know it is time to retract their claws and fangs.

A scrawny man from the "little giant's" gang dislocates the Prison Boss's finger joints, snatches the "divine" chainsword with lightning speed, and kneels on one knee, bowing his head respectfully: "Your noble lordship, Black Gun, to think you would trouble yourself to come here—could it be there is an 'anomaly' recently?"

No one who has survived until now is a fool; gangs in the "Underhive District" are usually responsible for maintaining basic order in their respective territories.

The gangs controlling the supply channels in the Lower Hive could exchange meager survival supplies for highly profitable "trash" from the scavengers.

Gangs that viewed the scavengers in their territory as "crops" or "leeks" rarely killed their own assets.

"Quite clever. There might be a Psyker appearing in this area recently."

The Man in Black from the gang nodded in approval, his tone complex and filled with a mix of envy, disgust, fear, and hatred whenever he mentioned "Psykers."

"What? A Psyker!!"

The Jackal Hyena, who had long grown accustomed to life and death, panicked at the mere mention of the word "Psyker."

In this universe, the Extraordinary System known as Psionics was extremely uncontrollable.

Any Psyker who lacked professional training and regulation was a potential source of danger.

The hunters, who were usually hostile toward one another, instinctively formed a circle, warily staring into the darkness that seemed to swallow everything.

"Don't be nervous. Can a mere 'Low-level Psyker' reduced to scavenging really be more dangerous than a gun?"

The Man in Black sneered; though his tone was flippant, he did not dare to slacken his guard in the slightest.

"Emotion Amplification: Greed!"

"Emotion Amplification: Slaughter!"

Click, click, click—

A teeth-grinding sound of bones colliding echoed out. A "person" whose movements defied human anatomy, wearing half of a low-quality white Demon Mask, walked forward slowly with arms wide open.

The corner of the newcomer's bloodless mouth curled up, emitting a sharp, grating noise like chalk scratching against a blackboard.

"I am honored to be targeted by Black Gun."

An eerie mental field plucked at the taut nerves of everyone present, and their vigilant minds were interfered with by psionic power, silently becoming radicalized.

"Mental attachment, puppet manipulation... it's a monster of the Mind System!"

The Gangster, who possessed relatively decent knowledge, struggled against the erosion piercing directly into his mind, his mood instantly plummeting to rock bottom.