Asset Preservation

Rovi stared at the deep red readings, his brow furrowed.

This made no sense.

Nurgle's garden was usually a muddy, cold swamp, meant to nurture fungi that thrived in low temperatures.

Yet the heat here was too high, exceeding the limits a human body could endure.

This abnormal temperature pointed to only one possibility.

"Fever."

Rovi retrieved a troubling entry from his memory banks.

Among Nurgle's vast plague sequences, there existed a rare "Tar Plague," also known as "Boiling Blood Syndrome."

The core pathogen was Nurgle Tar Mold, a mutant strain born from the fusion of industrial pollution and Warp corruption.

It originated from a refinery.

Cultivated by Followers of Nurgle who mixed industrial waste with plague spores, it specifically targeted human populations in heavily polluted environments.

Hosts infected with this plague would have their body temperature exceed the boiling point.

Their blood would burn like magma, eventually turning the host into a walking, high-temperature biochemical bomb.

If Granary Nine was filled with this stuff, there would be no need for Walking Dead guards.

Because every inch of air, every drop of condensed water, could be filled with a lethal virus capable of cooking lungs on contact.

It would be a pressure cooker ready to erupt with plague at any moment.

If he charged in now with these newly fed recruits, they'd likely be steamed to death by the heat and toxic gas before even seeing the enemy.

Rovi put down the red pen, not immediately ordering an attack as usual.

He was a Scribe, not a berserker.

He only fought battles he was prepared for, only made deals with profit.

"Looks like we can't rush to our deaths."

Rovi turned to Father Simon and said:

"Alpha, I need you to adjust the Repair Workshop's production line. Stop making simple plate armor—no matter how thick the steel, it won't block the heat virus."

"I want you to pull out all the Industrial Heat Suits from stock. If there aren't enough, make new ones from asbestos and Lead-lined Fabric. Also, all Respirator Masks need to be fitted with double-layer Activated Carbon Filters."

"This will take time, Advisor," Father Simon calculated. "At least six standard Terra days."

"Then I'll give you seven."

Rovi picked up the communicator and hailed Buck's channel.

"Buck, notify your Armed Scavenger Squad. Cancel tomorrow's leave plan. For the next week, I want you to train them in heat resistance and chemical defense."

"Crank the heating pipes to max and have them run inside in full protective gear. Anyone who passes out gets cut."

"The place we're going is a big oven," Rovi's voice was cold and rational. "I don't want to bring a flock of turkeys that are already cooked before they hit the table."

Finally, Rovi added, "Find all the Flamethrowers in stock. That's the best cure for 'heat sickness.'"

"Fight poison with poison, fight fire with fire."

With all these deployments done, Rovi looked back at the red circle on the map.

Seven days.

That was the limit he could squeeze out.

Hopefully, the core storage areas of Granary Nine wouldn't be burnt to a crisp in these seven days.

Afternoon.

The air purifier in the Supervisor's office was running at full capacity.

Even so, it couldn't fully mask the suffocating scent of the "Ecclesiarchy" in the air.

The smell of Aged Myrrh, Inferior Grease, and Expensive Incense.

This was the Ecclesiarchy's signature scent.

On an agri-world like Fertility II, this smell usually symbolized two things:

Holy Salvation.

Expensive Bills.

Rovi sat behind the desk, hands folded under his chin, watching the guest seated across from him.

Father Simon.

This Ecclesiarchy representative was now squeezed into the Leather Sofa that originally belonged to Kais, like an over-fermented lump of dough.

His ten fingers were covered in all sorts of rings.

There were brass rings set with cheap rubies, and silver rings engraved with scripture.

When he raised his teacup, these metal rings clinked together, producing a crisp and irritating sound.

"Praise the God-Emperor, and praise you as well, Advisor Rovi."

Father Simon took a sip of hot tea, let out a satisfied sigh, and his jowls quivered with the motion.

"The miracle you worked at Granary Seven—even from a parish hundreds of kilometers away, one can smell the reassuring scent of Promethium Combustion. That is the aroma of civilization, proof of the God-Emperor's blessing."

Rovi's face remained expressionless.

"Father, if you came only to praise the heating system, you can head to the Boiler Room. The Servitors there have more time to listen. My time is valuable—every second corresponds to burning Fuel."

Father Simon didn't flinch at the blunt retort.

Instead, he offered an oily, indulgent smile, like an elder watching a mischievous child.

"Ah, the impatience of youth. But that's precisely why you get things done."

Father Simon set down his teacup.

From his wide sleeve, he deftly produced a Parchment Scroll.

He unrolled it on the low table.

It was densely packed with a long list of names and numbers.

"Advisor, regarding the little dispute you handled this morning." Father Simon's finger slid across the scroll, finally stopping at a few names. "The three young men you sent to the Suicide Squad were actually devout believers."

The names of three Rust Gang thugs.

"This is the 'Lost Sheep Donation List,'" Father Simon explained with a smile.

"Though they have some minor flaws in worldly morality—a bit impulsive, a bit reckless—on a spiritual level, their contributions to the Church cannot be ignored."

"Over the years, they've helped the Church purge quite a few heretical ideas and donated many supplies for shrine repairs."

Rovi glanced at the list.

The so-called donations were nothing more than a cut of the protection money the gang collected.

"And?" Rovi countered.

"So, I thought perhaps we could find another way to punish them."

Father Simon leaned in.

"Excessive harshness will upset the balance at the bottom, Advisor. Clear water has no fish—the sewers of the granary need rats to eat the filthier things."

"If you kill all the rats, who will handle the unspeakable garbage for you?"

It was a probe.

And a textbook example of Warhammer-style political maneuvering.

The priest was hinting that Rovi should learn to use not just the light, but also the darkness.

Rovi pulled a quill from a drawer, twirling it between his fingers. "Father, what do you think I'm here for?"

"For order? For justice?" Father Simon ventured.

Rovi shook his head.

His black eyes held a coldness unfamiliar to the priest. "For asset preservation."

Father Simon paused.

"You see them as believers, as rats, or as partners."

Rovi continued. "But to me, they're just bad debts. And the three soldiers who died are my fixed assets."

"If my assets are being worn down at the front while someone behind is stealing parts, causing depreciation, that's a serious management failure."

"This has nothing to do with justice or morality. It's purely... cost control."

Father Simon was silent for a moment.

He re-evaluated the young man before him.

He had initially thought Rovi was just a lucky Scribe with a bit of skill, or perhaps an overly idealistic hothead.

But now, he had to overturn that judgment.

This way of coldly dissecting human lives into data and assets was not only ruthless but radiated an absolute rationality.

Such a man was far harder to deal with than a simple brute.

"It seems I underestimated your resolve." Father Simon sighed and put away the list.

His tone shifted from hollow pleasantries to a meaningful warning.

"Seeing you like this reminds me of your mother, Advisor." Father Simon said slowly. "That poor woman, Martha. May the God-Emperor bless her soul."

Rovi's twirling motion stopped for a split second.

This was a dangerous signal.

In a world full of secrets, when someone starts talking about your past, it usually means they're showing their hand.

Rovi's mind surged with fragmented memories from the original body's past.

It was a cramped room, always reeking of soapy water and filled with coughing.

His mother, Martha, a female worker who had spent twenty years in the Logistics Department's laundry room.

Her hands, long soaked in strong alkaline detergents, were red, swollen, and ulcerated, her fingerprints long worn smooth.

"I remember that day—she died at her workstation, her lungs wheezing like a broken bellows," Father Simon recalled. "That was severe Chemical Pneumonia, compounded by chronic malnutrition."

"By regulation, she was owed a death benefit, plus the little savings she'd hidden under her bed boards—that was meant for you, to let you attend Clerical School."

The priest's eyes flickered with a cunning glint. "But in the end, it seems you never got that money."

Of course Rovi remembered.

That money had been taken by the so-called "Community Mutual Aid Society."

The reasons were high-sounding:

Funeral Expenses, interest on debts incurred before death;

And a "Prayer Fee" that had to be paid to let Martha's soul find peace.

And the man who had notarized it all, persuading the young Rovi to "learn to submit to fate and not be blinded by greed," was none other than Father Simon standing before him.

He had taken half that money as his reward for the prayers.

"You cried so bitterly back then," Father Simon sighed. "You were too young to understand how this world works. The so-called rules are just big fish eating little fish, and little fish eating shrimp."

"The Rust Gang is the predecessor of that Mutual Aid Society—they're part of this ecosystem."

"Now you want to break this ecosystem, just like you wanted to take back that money back then... that's unwise."

He was threatening him silently.

He was hinting to Rovi:

I know your background.

I know you're an orphan with no connections.

I know the scars deep in your heart.

You should also know how deep the roots of these powers run!

The atmosphere in the office grew tense and stifling in an instant.

Rovi set down the pen in his hand.

There was no anger in his eyes, no sorrow, not even a ripple.

Like an auditor checking the books and finding a bad debt from twenty years ago.

A bad debt was a bad debt.

No emotion needed—just balance the books.

"Father, you've got one thing wrong. I'm not targeting them out of revenge."

"Revenge is an inefficient emotional release, a meaningless waste of energy."

He walked to the window, looking down at the busy Granary below.

"I'm targeting them because I'm the manager here now. And they've become redundant code that hinders efficiency."

Rovi turned around.

His back to the light from the window.

His face hidden in shadow.

"You said earlier that the gutter needs rats to eat the filth. That theory is correct to some extent."

"But if the rats start gnawing at the pillars holding up the Granary, or stealing the seeds, then they're no longer scavengers—they're pests."

"As for my past..." Rovi walked up to Father Simon, planted both hands on the desk, and loomed over him from above.

"The past is a bad debt already written off. Dwelling on bad debts is pointless. But I'll make sure the new accounts don't go wrong again."

After hearing Rovi's words, the smile on Father Simon's face froze.

The weapons he'd used to attack Rovi's psychological defenses had all struck empty air.

This young man had no weak points.

He had already cut out his own weak points and replaced them with steel.

"Those three youths—I won't release them," Rovi delivered his ultimatum.

"Not only that, they'll be assigned to the first echelon of the Suicide Squad, sent to scout the most dangerous places."

"That's the only remaining value they have as 'negative assets.'"