Star Child

He stood up, looking down at her.

"You've been through life and death, and you've seen the monsters' true faces with your own eyes. The split-open faces, the purple carapaces."

"So tell me, before the monsters' faces split open, did you feel their eyes were familiar?"

The older widow froze for a moment, then stammered in reply:

"Yes, it was the eyes. Fanatical, like they'd give everything away... When my husband and I lived in the Lower Sector before, we'd seen that look. They were from the 'Star Child Mutual Aid Society.'"

"Star Child Mutual Aid Society?" Rovi caught the term sharply.

"Yes, sir. They're an underground group, often handing out free potions in the abandoned pipe zones."

"They said that if you drank their medicine, you could hear the Star God's call, and you'd... never be hungry again."

Rovi pulled a notebook from his pocket.

He unscrewed his fountain pen.

And solemnly wrote down that name.

That was it.

The logical chain closed.

A Genestealer Cult never appears out of thin air.

It always cloaks itself in charity, religion, or mutual aid, taking root in society's lowest depths.

Using people's despair and hunger to spread its blasphemous genes.

"Good, that's what I need you to do."

Rovi closed the notebook and spoke again:

"Put on the uniforms, go to the laundry, the cafeteria, the medical station. Those are places where rumors gather."

"I want you to use your status as 'heroes' widows' to listen and record."

"Who's secretly spreading strange doctrines? Who has weird purple patches on their bodies? Who prays to the sewers at midnight?"

"Write down those names and hand them to me."

"That's your job. No need to carry a gun, no need to risk your lives—just use your ears and mouths."

The three widows looked at the uniforms and keys on the table.

They represented dignity, survival—the hope of living like human beings.

They slid off the bed, dropped to their knees, and pressed their foreheads hard against the cold concrete floor.

"We're willing, sir. We're willing to be your eyes."

Rovi nodded.

He didn't feel the thrill of power, only a certain weariness.

In this rotten world, so-called salvation was just replacing low-level exploitation with a higher form of manipulation.

"Old John, take them to the new dorms. And find them a literate teacher to teach them how to write reports."

"Yes, Advisor."

Back in the Supervisor's office at the top of the tower, Rovi didn't rest immediately.

On his notebook, he drew a red circle around the words "Star Child Mutual Aid Society."

It was like finding a suspiciously large unexplained expense during an audit.

You couldn't launch a full-scale investigation right away.

It would alert the enemy.

And it would make the fraudsters desperate enough to fight back.

Even the Governor couldn't purge a "mutual aid society" with a massive base of low-level believers without solid evidence.

That would trigger a riot.

Historical lessons weren't far off.

In Rovi's mind surfaced the Internal Affairs Riot Assessment Report No. 982, classified in the Executive Council archives.

Twenty years ago, the previous Governor.

Alicia's father.

The late Lord Valantius, during his tenure.

This iron-fisted Governor, after discovering that an organization called the "Iron Spoon Brotherhood" in the Deep Nest was suspected of hiding weapons.

Without any peripheral dismantling or public opinion groundwork.

Directly mobilized three regiments of Arbitrators from the Department of Justice to physically cleanse the Deep Nest.

And the result?

The seemingly loose brotherhood actually controlled eighty percent of the wastewater recycling system in the underhive, along with the maintenance of the heat exchange pipes.

Three hours after the purge order was issued, the underhive erupted in revolt.

They didn't charge up to die.

They directly shut off the heat exchange valves leading to the upper spire.

At the same time, they backflowed untreated industrial wastewater into the water supply system.

It was a catastrophic winter.

The noble spire aristocrats, shivering in their minus-forty-degree mansions, drank foul water reeking of sulfur.

The entire hive city's ecological cycle system teetered on collapse.

Production capacity plummeted by sixty percent.

Old Valantius nearly faced immediate accountability from a senior audit task force sent by the Gothic Sector's Department of Munitions, for failing to pay the Imperial Tithe on time.

At that time, a Strike Cruiser belonging to the Gothic Sector fleet had already docked in the hive city's crowded low orbit.

Its Macro Cannon locked directly onto the Governor's Spire.

If old Valantius hadn't chosen to compromise with the underhive at the last moment—ordering the hanging of several arbitrators who executed the command as scapegoats, and promising to double-repay the shortfall within the next decade—

That Chief Auditor from the Department of Munitions would have unhesitatingly signed off, ending House Valantius's rule in the roar of the Macro Cannon.

That was the ecology of the hive city.

These so-called "mutual aid societies" had, to some extent, replaced the social security functions that the Imperium had failed to provide.

They were the only bonfire where the bottom masses huddled together for warmth in despair.

Rovi couldn't help but recall the visit two days ago from Father Simon, the representative of the Ecclesiarchy, reeking of incense.

The father sat on the Leather Sofa and told him a story about "sewers and rats."

It was a reminder not to underestimate the influence of the underhive gangs.

Therefore, he had to be patient.

He had to have more data to back him up.

Rovi closed his notebook.

He locked it into a drawer with a gene-recognition lock.

"Advisor."

Buck stood before the desk, hesitating to speak.

"Say what you want to say, Buck. Hemming and hawing like a woman." Rovi poured himself a glass of cold water.

"Are we... too cruel?" Buck pointed downstairs. "Using them as bait, and now making them informants. They just lost their husbands. I'm worried the men under me will have objections."

Rovi set down the glass and looked at this veteran, who, despite his fierce face, unexpectedly retained a shred of bottom line.

"Cruel?"

Rovi walked to the window, pointing at the pitch-black night outside.

"Buck, look at this darkness. If we don't do this, what becomes of them?"

"They take that pittance of compensation, get robbed by neighbors, gang-raped, end up as a floating corpse in the sewers, food for the Walking Dead."

"I gave them dignity, gave them a means to live. Even if that means is selling information, it's something they earned with their own skills."

"In this world, the greatest kindness to others isn't charity—it's giving them 'value worth being used.'"

"Only when you're useful are you safe."

Buck was silent for a moment.

He nodded and gave a standard military salute.

"I understand, Advisor. It's for survival... I'll go arrange tomorrow's patrol."

"After you arrange that, take your men and come with me somewhere."

Rovi picked up the Brass Pocket Watch and glanced at it.

The hour hand pointed to 2:15 in the morning.

But he felt no sleepiness.

There was one more thing he had to do.

Granary Seven's edge, Slums Sector C.

This was the festering wound of this steel fortress.

Countless abandoned cargo containers, rusted iron sheets, and plastic tarps scavenged from who-knows-where were piled layer upon layer.

Mold, Machine Oil, old excrement.

The Slums had formed their own unique stench.

Rovi stopped before a container marked C-17, leading a squad of fully armed guards.

These guards weren't wearing standard body armor.

They were wrapped in thick, bulky white full-body Chemical Protective Suits.

The Boltguns in their hands had been swapped for portable Flamethrowers, along with Geiger Counters that emitted a crackling hum.

"Is this the place?"

Rovi's voice came through muffled, filtered by his Gas Mask.

"Yes, Advisor." Buck held a tactical terminal, cross-referencing the coordinates. "According to intelligence, the Fourth Generation... that man's home is here."

Rovi nodded, signaling the operation to begin.

Yellow Biohazard cordons were quickly strung up, sealing off the curious rats peeking from the surroundings.

Then, Rovi pushed open the slightly warped iron door.

Unexpectedly, the inside of the container lacked the nauseating filth of the outside.

Though the furniture was cobbled together from industrial waste, the floor was scrubbed spotless.

Several clean rags hung on the wall as decoration.

In a corner by the door sat a flowerpot welded from discarded gears and wire.

A long-faded plastic flower was stuck into it.

Rovi's gaze lingered on the plastic flower for a moment.

This was the Fourth Generation Hybrid:

A monster with slaughter and devouring etched into its genes, struggling in this hopeless world to maintain a "home" through clumsy imitation.

"Lock this place down. Conduct a full decontamination per Level 2 Biohazard Standard."

Rovi gave the order, his tone cold and hard.

The guards immediately spread out.

The buzzing of Geiger Counters rose and fell, shattering the room's former stillness.

The curtain to the inner room was pushed aside.

A frail woman sat by the bed.

Under the dim light, she was mending a large men's work jacket.

Seeing the squad of chemical-suited soldiers burst in, the woman dropped her needle and thread in terror, shrinking backward.

Rovi narrowed his eyes.

The Scribe's keen professional observation let him catch a key detail in an instant:

As the woman panicked and retreated, her hands instinctively moved to protect her abdomen.

It was slightly swollen.

Rovi's gaze darkened.

This was a variable he hadn't anticipated.

A potential "bad debt" carrying extreme risk.

"Who... who are you? Where's my husband? He said he'd be working late..." Mary's voice trembled, on the verge of tears.

Rovi raised his hand, signaling the guards with Flamethrowers to wait outside, leaving only Buck by his side.

Then, he slowly removed his Gas Mask.

Showing his face was a high-risk move, but also the most efficient way to quickly dispel suspicion and build trust.

"I am Rovi."

His tone was solemn, laced with compassion.

"Agricultural Special Advisor, and interim Supervisor of Granary Seven."

"Ms. Mary, I regret to inform you that your husband died in a factory accident tonight."

Mary's eyes went wide instantly.

Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.

It was as if her soul had been drained away in a flash.

"No... impossible... this can't be..."

After several seconds, she finally let out broken murmurs.

"He promised me... he'd come back tonight with real cookies... not Corpse Starch... real cookies..."

Rovi pulled a transparent evidence bag from his coat pocket.

Inside was the bloodstained diary.

For this moment, he'd had the diary strictly disinfected and even sprayed with a cheap synthetic perfume.

Enough to mask the lingering smell of blood.

To cover the stench of Xenos pheromones.

"This is his last belonging."

Rovi handed the evidence bag over.

Weaving the perfect lie he'd prepared.

"He was rushing a batch of Fuel critical to the Granary when a pipe burst. The leaking high-temperature chemical vapor... instantly melted the area he was in."

"The body is unrecognizable. To prevent chemical contamination from spreading, we've carried out decontamination procedures per regulations."

Death on duty.

No body, only belongings.

A dignity left for the living, and a final veil for the dead.

Mary's trembling hand reached out and took the bag.

Her movements were gentle, as if cradling the most precious, fragile thing in the world.

Through the plastic, her fingers traced the diary's rough cover again and again.

Tears slid silently down, landing on the plastic bag with faint patters.

Suddenly, she looked up.

In her grief-stricken, hollow eyes, a glint of Clarity flashed.

"Sir, you're lying to me."

Buck, standing nearby, instinctively pressed his hand to his holster.

Rovi's heart gave a slight jolt.

"Why do you say that?" Rovi asked softly.

"I knew something was wrong with him."

Mary hugged the diary tightly, whispering.

"He wouldn't eat the rationed Corpse Starch, only drank water."

"In the middle of the night, he'd make strange sounds at the Ventilation Duct, like he was talking to someone, or praying."

"His skin was always cold, even under the thickest blanket, even when I warmed him with my body... still cold..."

She lowered her head, looking at her swollen belly, a bitter smile spreading across her face.

"The neighbors said he was a mutant, a cursed thing. But I didn't care."

Mary lifted her head, meeting Rovi's eyes.

"Sir, did you know? Before I met him, I was grabbed by a gang from the front district. They took turns with me for three days, then threw me on the roadside like trash. That's when my leg was broken."

"Those so-called 'normal people'—they looked at me like I was rotten meat, a damn burden."

"Only him... he was the only one who didn't mind that I was a cripple, didn't mind that I was dirty, and would even bring me flowers."

"He was the only man who ever saw me as a 'person.'"