The lowest level of the Eastern Granary.
The corpse-processing center.
Even though the midday sun was scorching the surface, the humidity here still stayed above 90%.
The dampness of rotting organic matter and fermenting acidic fumes clung to the skin, sticky and clammy.
The walls were mottled, eaten away by dark green moss.
A slick layer of grime forever coated the floor.
With every step, you could feel the faint suction beneath your feet.
The roar of the mixer's metal blades, chopping bones and frozen meat, drowned out every other sound.
Old John stood beside the Conveyor Belt, gripping a long-handled iron hook used to lift corpses.
The skinny old man wore a rubber apron clearly two sizes too big. Its hem hung down awkwardly, spattered with dark red and black-green stains.
He was waving his arms, directing a dozen laborers at work. They all wore Gas Masks.
The corner of his eye caught Rovi approaching. His wrinkled face immediately crumpled into a fawning smile, and he rubbed his hands together as he hurried over.
"Lord Advisor, why would you come all the way down to a filthy place like this?" Old John said, bowing obsequiously.
"Leave it to me. You have nothing to worry about! This batch of—uh, raw materials—I guarantee I'll dispose of it all, cleanly. Not a scrap of bone will be left."
Rovi ignored the empty pleasantries and merely waved a hand, his expression cool.
His gaze passed over Old John's sparse head and fixed on the Conveyor Belt in operation.
The laborers who had suffered brain death last night when their "ethnic will" collapsed were now being roughly hoisted by special iron hooks and sent in a line toward the shredder's opening.
Rovi remained wary of this batch of special "raw materials."
They were more