Asset Preservation

Rovi stared at the deep-red reading, his brows furrowed.

This made no sense.

Nurgle's backyard was usually a cold, muddy swamp, where fungi that thrived in low temperatures could grow.

But the heat here was far too intense, beyond the limits of what a human body could withstand.

There was only one possible explanation for this abnormal heat.

"High fever."

Rovi searched his memory banks and found a disturbing entry.

Among Nurgle's many plagues was a rare strain known as "Tar Plague," also called "Boiling Blood Syndrome."

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

It had originated in refineries.

Followers of Nurgle had cultivated it by mixing industrial waste with plague spores, specifically targeting human populations in heavily polluted environments.

A host infected with this plague would see their body temperature rise beyond the boiling point.

Their blood would burn like magma, eventually turning them into a walking, high-temperature bioweapon.

If Granary Nine was full of this stuff, then there was no need for Walking Dead guards.

Every inch of air and every drop of condensation could be filled with deadly viruses capable of scalding their lungs.

It would be a pressure cooker, ready to unleash a plague at any moment.

If he led these newly fed recruits inside right now, they would be cooked by the heat and toxic fumes before they even saw the enemy.

Rovi set down the red pen in his hand. He didn't immediately order an attack, as he usually would.

He was a Scribe, not a berserker.

He only fought battles he was prepared for and made deals that would pay off.

"It seems we can't rush off to get ourselves killed."

Rovi turned to Priest Alpha and said:

"Alpha, I need you to adjust the production line in the Repair Workshop. Stop making simple plate armor. No matter how thick the steel, it won't stop a heat-borne virus."

"Find every Industrial Heat Suit in storage. If there aren't enough, make more with asbestos and Lead-lined Fabric. Also, fit every Respirator Mask with a double-layer Activated Carbon Filter."

"This will take time, Advisor." Priest Alpha did some calculations. "At least six standard Terran days."

"Then I'll give you seven."

Rovi picked up the communicator and connected to Buck's channel.

"Buck, tell your Armed Scavenger Squad to cancel tomorrow's rest day. For the next week, I want you to put them through heat-resistance and chemical-protection training."

"Turn the heating pipes up to maximum and make them run in full protective gear. Anyone who faints gets cut."

"The place we're going is a giant oven." Rovi's voice was cold and rational. "I don't want to bring a bunch of turkeys that'll be cooked before they even make it to the table."

Finally, Rovi added, "Find every Flamethrower in storage. They're the best remedy for 'fever.'"

"Fight poison with poison. Fight fire with fire."

Only after making all these preparations did Rovi look back at the red circle on the map.

Seven days.

That was the longest he could afford to wait.

He hoped the area of Granary Nine where the core supplies were stored wouldn't get roasted during those seven days.

Afternoon.

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

Even so, it couldn't completely mask the suffocating "Ecclesiarchy" smell in the air.

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

It was a smell unique to the Ecclesiarchy.

On an agricultural world like Fertility II, that smell usually signified two things:

Holy Salvation.

An expensive bill.

Rovi sat behind his desk, his hands clasped beneath his chin as he studied the visitor seated opposite him.

Father Simon.

The Ecclesiarchy's representative was currently squeezed into the Leather Sofa that had originally belonged to Kais, looking like a ball of overproofed dough.

All ten of his fingers were covered in rings of various kinds.

Some were brass rings set with cheap rubies, while others were silver bands engraved with scripture.

When he lifted his teacup, the metal rings clinked together, making a clear, irritating sound.

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

Father Simon took a sip of hot tea and let out a satisfied sigh. The fat on his face quivered.

"The miracle you worked at Granary Seven could be smelled even in parishes hundreds of kilometers away. The comforting scent of Promethium Combustion—that's the scent of civilization, proof of the God-Emperor's protection."

Rovi remained expressionless.

"Father, if you came here just to praise the heating system, you can go to the Boiler Room. The Servitors there have a bigger audience. My time is precious. Every second is tied to burning fuel."

Father Simon wasn't embarrassed by the blunt reply.

Instead, he wore a greasy, indulgent smile, like an elder looking at a mischievous child.

"Ah, the impatience of youth. But that's exactly what makes you capable of getting things done."

Father Simon set down his teacup.

With practiced ease, he pulled a Parchment Scroll from his wide sleeve.

He unrolled it across the coffee table.

It was covered in a long, densely packed list of names and numbers.

"Advisor, regarding that little dispute you dealt with this morning..." Father Simon ran his finger down the scroll, stopping at several names. "The three young men you sent to the Suicide Squad are actually devout believers."

The names of the three Rust Gang thugs.

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

"Though they have some minor flaws in their secular morals, and can be a little impulsive and reckless, their contributions to the Church on a spiritual level cannot be overlooked."

"Over the years, they've helped the Church root out quite a few heretical ideas and donated plenty of supplies to repair shrines."

Rovi glanced at the list.

These so-called donations were nothing more than the Rust Gang's cut of the protection money they collected.

"So?" Rovi asked.

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

Father Simon leaned closer and said:

"Excessive severity can upset the balance of the ecosystem at the bottom, Advisor. Clear water has no fish. The granary's sewers need rats to eat the filthier things."

"If you kill all the rats, who will help you deal with the garbage you'd rather keep hidden?"

It was a test.

And a classic Warhammer-style political maneuver.

The priest was hinting that Rovi needed to know how to use the darkness as well as the light.

Rovi took a quill from his desk drawer and rolled it between his fingers. "Father, what do you think I'm doing this for?"

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

Rovi shook his head.

His dark eyes held a coldness the priest found unfamiliar. "Asset preservation."

Father Simon froze for a moment.

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

Rovi continued, "But to me, they're just bad debt. And those three dead soldiers were fixed assets."

"If my assets are being worn down on the front line, while someone behind them secretly strips away their parts and devalues them, that's a serious management failure."

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

Father Simon fell silent for a moment.

He took another look at the young man in front of him.

He had assumed Rovi was just a Scribe who'd gotten lucky and had a few tricks up his sleeve—a hot-blooded idealist, too.

But now, he had to reconsider.

To calmly reduce human lives to figures and assets was not just cold. It showed a level of absolute rationality.

A person like that was far harder to deal with than a simple brute.

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

He dropped the false pleasantries and began to speak with pointed significance.

"Looking at you now reminds me of your mother, Advisor," Father Simon said slowly. "That poor woman, Martha. May the God-Emperor protect her soul."

Rovi's hand stopped turning the quill for an instant.

That was a dangerous sign.

In this world full of secrets, when someone started talking about your past, it usually meant they were showing their hand.

Fragments of the original Rovi's memories surged through his mind.

A cramped room that always smelled of soap and was filled with coughing.

His mother, Martha, had worked in the Logistics Department laundry for twenty years.

Her hands had grown red and ulcerated from being constantly soaked in highly alkaline detergents, and her fingerprints had long since worn away.

"I remember the day she died at her station, her lungs wheezing like a broken bellows," Father Simon recalled. "It was a severe case of Chemical Pneumonia, compounded by long-term malnutrition."

"By regulations, she should have received compensation, along with the little savings she'd hidden under her bed. She'd set that money aside so you could attend the Clerical School."

A shrewd glint flashed in the priest's eyes. "But in the end, it seems you never received that money."

Rovi remembered, of course.

The so-called Community Mutual Aid Society had taken it.

The reasons were all perfectly respectable:

Funeral expenses, interest on debts incurred before her death;

and the "prayer fee" that had to be paid so Martha's soul could rest in peace.

And the man who had handled the paperwork and persuaded young Rovi to "learn to accept his fate and not let greed cloud his eyes" had been the very Father Simon sitting before him.

He had taken half the money as payment for the prayers.

"You cried so hard back then," Father Simon said with a sigh. "You were too young to understand how this world worked. The rules were simple: big fish eat little fish, and little fish eat shrimp."

"The Rust Gang was the Community Mutual Aid Society's predecessor. They're part of the ecosystem."

"Trying to break that ecosystem now, just like you tried to get that money back all those years ago... is unwise."

It was a silent threat.

He was hinting to Rovi:

I know where you came from.

I know you're an orphan with no backing.

I know where your deepest scars lie.

You should also understand how deeply rooted these powers are!

The atmosphere in the office became tense and oppressive in an instant.

Rovi set down his pen.

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

He looked like an auditor who'd found a bad debt from twenty years ago.

Bad debt was bad debt.

It required no emotion, only balancing the books.

"Father, you've got one thing wrong. I'm not going after them for revenge."

"Revenge is an inefficient emotional outburst, a pointless waste of energy."

He walked to the window and looked down at the busy granary.

"I'm going after them because I'm the manager here now. And they've become redundant code, an obstacle to efficiency."

Rovi turned around.

With the light from the window behind him,

his face disappeared into shadow.

"You said that the sewers need rats to eat the filthier things. To some extent, that's true."

"But if the rats start gnawing through the pillars holding up the granary and stealing its seeds, then they're no longer scavengers. They're pests."

"As for my past..." Rovi walked over to Father Simon, braced both hands on the desk, and looked down at him from above.

"That past is a bad debt that's already been written off. There's no point dwelling on bad debt, but I'll make sure the new accounts don't go wrong."

After hearing Rovi's words, Father Simon's smile stiffened.

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

The young man had no weaknesses.

He'd cut them out and replaced them with steel.

"I won't release those three young men," Rovi said, delivering his final ultimatum.

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

"That's the only value those 'negative assets' have left."