Truth

Rovi listened in silence.

Even as a transmigrator, his understanding of this universe came mostly from fragmented information.

Hearing this firsthand intelligence now, he keenly sensed the crisis within it.

The Adeptus Mechanicus had been lurking nearby for three years.

That meant they had a thorough grasp of the sector's situation.

"Then you must have seen many tragedies," Rovi said quietly. "Just like what we're going through now."

"Tragedy? I'd call it inefficiency," Magos Magellan corrected him, his tone icy. "Take last year, for example. Thrace-IV, an agri-world less than five light-years from here."

Rovi's breath caught.

Thrace-IV.

He'd seen that name in the old archives of the Executive Council.

It was one of the largest granaries in this sector.

Its population was three times that of Fertility II.

Half a year ago, all logistics data from that planet suddenly ceased.

The official explanation was "severe Warp Storm communication interference."

"What happened to that planet?" Rovi pressed, curious.

"The Governor of Thrace-IV was a foolish coward," the Magos judged without mercy. "When the first plague corruption appeared, she chose concealment over Purification Ritual."

"To keep her position, she tried to cover up the plague's spread with lies."

The Magos turned his head, his Compound Eye fixed on Rovi as if issuing a warning.

"The result was that when the Ordo's fleet passed by, the entire planet had already turned into a massive pustule."

"The surface was covered in Fungal Carpet, and the atmosphere was filled with lethal spore toxins. There was no saving it anymore."

Rovi swallowed. "So... what did the Ordo do?"

"Exterminatus."

The Magos spat out the heaviest word.

"Cyclone Torpedoes ignited the atmosphere. It was a magnificent Purification Ritual, Advisor."

"In just forty minutes, all organic matter—heretics, daemons, plague, and three million so-called innocent civilians—was reduced to ash."

Rovi fell silent.

Though he'd braced himself, hearing the number "three million" dismissed so lightly sent a bone-deep chill through him.

Before this vast Imperial machine, human lives were not just Fuel.

They were dust, less than Fuel.

Yet what chilled Rovi even more was the Magos's next words.

"What a colossal waste, alas."

Magos Magellan shook his metal head, bristling with tubes, in regret.

"According to our scans, beneath the northern hemisphere of Thrace-IV lay three Tractor Assembly Plants from the Dark Age of Technology, perfectly preserved."

"Sacred relics—destroyed along with the great Tractor Assembly Plants, all because of the weakness of those flesh-and-blood beings."

Rovi lowered his head, hiding the mockery in his eyes by adjusting his sleeve.

In the Magos's eyes, the annihilation of millions of lives was merely a "purification."

But the loss of three tractor factories was the real "tragedy."

That was the logic of the Imperium.

And that was why Rovi had to hold on to this planet, no matter what.

He couldn't count on Imperial reinforcements to be saviors.

If Granary Seven fell.

If the corruption index of Fertility II exceeded a certain threshold.

What awaited them wasn't medical ships or bread—it was Cyclone Torpedoes raining from the sky!

"Please sign here, Advisor."

A Faith Militant approached, handing over an electronic Dataslate.

A requisition handover form.

Rovi sighed, quickly steadying his emotions.

He took the Dataslate and followed the Faith Militant toward the transport's open ramp.

The closer he got to that ship, the stronger the ozone smell in the air became.

The anti-gravity engine's force field made the surrounding rain hang in a strange, suspended state.

Just as Rovi stepped onto the metal ramp—

Zzt.

A sharp, searing pain, without warning, shot through his left chest.

Rovi's hand twitched, nearly dropping the dataslate.

He clenched his jaw, forcing his facial muscles to stay still, and made no sound.

The fragment of Nurgle's Talisman.

The cursed object he kept hidden in his inner pocket, sandwiched between double-layered lead plates.

Normally, when it encountered Nurgle's plague power, it only warmed slightly, like a gentle hand warmer.

But now, it was screaming.

It was releasing heat like mad.

Even through the thick lead plates and uniform, it had burned Rovi's skin red.

This wasn't just a "met its own kind" reaction.

As Rovi signed his name on the dataslate, he used his body as cover, glancing out of the corner of his eye into the deep, dim cargo hold.

Behind the towering piles of supplies, behind the requisitioned fuel rods and water tanks, sat a row of massive black Stasis Field Boxes.

They were secured to the hull with thick adamantium chains.

Every surface of each box was plastered with Purity Seals.

Parchment strips covered in prayers fluttered wildly in the cabin's circulating air, as if suppressing something.

One of the boxes seemed to have an unstable field, occasionally flickering with a sickening red light.

Just one look, and Rovi's retina began to sting.

Whatever was inside was absolutely no holy STC fragment!

If it were a Holy Relic of the Adeptus Mechanicus, they'd enshrine it in a shrine, not lock it up like a caged beast.

A captured daemon host?

The active remains of some Chaos Titan?

Or the limb of a cursed Xenos god?

Rovi dared not look again. He quickly averted his gaze and handed the signed dataslate back to the Faith Militant.

Just minutes ago, Magos Magellan had been scrutinizing the "Wall of Gluttony" with righteous authority, judging Rovi by the harshest standards for any taint of the Warp.

He stood above, representing the purity and truth of Mars.

Yet here, in his own ship, in the depths of this so-called "pure one's" cargo hold, was a forbidden thing a thousand times more evil than everything in Granary Seven combined.

Only they had the right to touch the forbidden.

Because they claimed to hold the truth.

And for a mortal to merely glance at the abyss was to be an unforgivable heretic.

"What are you looking at, Advisor?" the Magos suddenly asked from behind.

Several servo-skulls flew over instantly, their red scanning lasers sweeping across Rovi.

Rovi turned around, his expression respectful as he replied:

"I was looking at the rivet structure of this ship, my lord Magos."

He pointed to a row of rivets along the edge of the hatch, speaking with fascination:

"This triangular load-bearing arrangement is truly exquisite. It's a craft I've never seen in a backwater place like Fertility II."

The red light in the Magos's eyes flickered a few times.

His logic core seemed to accept the explanation.

After all, for a country bumpkin, being captivated by Martian shipbuilding techniques was logical.

"Standard procedure from Mars's Seventeenth Foundry," the Magos said flatly. "If you live long enough, you might get a chance to make a pilgrimage."

"That would be my honor."

Rovi lowered his head, then pulled the parchment-bound illustrated book from his chest.

"Magos, this is what you requested. The prototype blueprint of the Agrippina-VII Adaptive Bio-Harvester."

Rovi held the folio in both hands and presented it before the Magos.

Magos Magellan had already skimmed through it earlier; now they were taking it away.

Every drawing inside was meticulously detailed, as if it were the real deal.

He used precise hydraulic transmission formulas to explain the contraction of those daemon muscles;

He masked the radiation of Warp heat with cross-sections of heat-exchange systems;

He replaced the rampant growth of biological keratin with the mounting logic of adaptive armor.

From a mechanical standpoint, all these designs held together.

Even the most fastidious Tech-Priest couldn't find a logical flaw.

But they only held together "logically."

Without Warp Crystals to supply energy...

Without daemon flesh as a driver...

Anything built from these blueprints would be nothing but a heap of unresponsive scrap.

It simply wouldn't move.

But that was exactly the effect Rovi wanted.

Magos Magellan extended a precise mechanical claw and carefully pinched the folio.

His gaze was far gentler than when he'd discussed the deaths of millions moments ago.

Optical sensors rapidly scanned the lines on the drawings.

A pleased hum emanated from the Magos's vox-grille.

"Exquisite. Using fluid dynamics to channel biological acid—this design indeed carries the remnants of the Golden Age's style."

The Magos placed the folio into a Vacuum Archive Box, as if he deemed it a priceless treasure.

"Your understanding of the Machine Spirit is quite shallow, Advisor, but it is filled with piety." The Magos gave Rovi a rare positive remark.

"This blueprint will be taken back to Mars, enshrined as a sacred data fragment in the hall of the Machine God."

Rovi bowed deeply.

"May truth guide your course."

He sneered inwardly.

Take it away.

Take this false hope away.

Spend two centuries studying this heap of unbuildable scrap.

When two centuries pass, and these Tech-Priests scratch their heads over a machine that will never start, they'll probably just lament their own lack of devotion.

They'll never suspect that the blueprint itself is a cross-dimensional hoax.

Even if they do.

By then, either Rovi will be dead.

Or he'll have climbed so high that even the Adeptus Mechanicus won't dare touch him.

"Initiate takeoff sequence."

The Magos said no more, turned, and stepped into the hatch.

With the hiss of hydraulic systems, the heavy hatch slowly sealed shut.

The engines of the Axe-class Transport spat out blinding blue exhaust.

A fierce gale kicked up mud from the ground, whipping Rovi's coat tails noisily.

The ship rose slowly, soon burrowing into the lead-gray clouds, shrinking into an unremarkable black dot.

Only then did Rovi reach up and press his chest.

The heat from the Amulet Fragment finally began to fade.

But that searing burn had surely left an ugly blister on his skin.

"They're gone."

Tech-Priest Alpha had appeared at some point.

He gazed in the direction the ship had vanished, his red Cybernetic Eye gleaming with undisguised envy.

"They've taken truth with them," the Tech-Priest murmured. "That ship must be loaded with countless sacred knowledges."

But Rovi said to his half-human, half-machine companion, "You're wrong, Alpha."

Rovi pulled a pain-relief ointment from his pocket.

He didn't bother to hide it.

He directly pulled open his collar and smeared it onto the reddened skin of his chest.

The cool touch of the ointment brought him a measure of Clarity.

"They took the trouble away and left us the chance to live."

He straightened his collar, re-fastened the top button, and restored his meticulous image as the Scribe.

"Listen, so-called truth can't save us now. It can't fill our stomachs, nor can it stop the monsters outside..."