He's Buying Hearts

The next three days turned Granary Seven into a military camp.

Fifty thousand refugees had their heads shaved and were issued identical gray coarse-cloth uniforms.

Each person wore a wooden tag on their chest with a number printed on it.

Rovi didn't put them straight to work in the fields.

He made them train.

Not marksmanship—discipline.

How to swing a scythe in unison, how to bend in unison, how to freeze every motion the instant a whistle blew.

It looked ridiculous.

A crowd of people with farm tools marching in lockstep through the mud like robots.

But Rovi knew this was about efficiency.

Agricultural production was no different from industrial production at its core.

Standardized movements conserved energy, reduced mistakes, and most importantly, turned this rabble into a precision machine.

Supervisor Kase stood at his office window, watching the scene below, the fat on his face quivering.

"What is he doing? Drilling troops?" Kase ground his teeth.

The Scribe beside him stammered, "He says it's... to improve harvesting efficiency."

"Bullshit!" Kase slapped the Scribe across the face. "He's buying loyalty, building his own power base!"

Kase felt fear.

The old Rovi was just a minor clerk who could handle accounts—someone he could crush at any time.

Now Rovi had fifty thousand obedient "serfs" under him, plus Barker's Defense Force, and even the Adeptus Mechanicus's backing.

If this kept up, Granary Seven would no longer belong to Kase.

"I can't let him keep this up." A flicker of venom crossed Kase's eyes. "Tonight, have those men move."

"But... Barker's people are watching tight."

"Then cause a distraction." Kase pulled a bottle of liquor from his drawer and took a hard swig. "Burn those fermentation tanks. Without that Green Soup, those lowlifes will riot. Then we'll see how he handles it."

Late night.

On the open ground behind the granary, the fermentation tanks stood in neat rows.

A sour stench hung in the air.

Several dark figures crept in silently.

They wore refugee clothes, but their movements were agile, and they carried Molotov cocktails.

"Move fast," the leader whispered. "Light it and run."

They slipped under the tanks.

The leader was about to strike his flint.

Click.

A soft sound.

The safety catch being released.

Several high-intensity floodlights blazed to life, turning the open ground bright as day.

The dark figures instinctively covered their eyes.

By the time their vision adjusted, they realized they were surrounded.

Dozens of Defense Force soldiers stood in the shadows, rifles raised.

Rovi stood at the front, holding a data slate.

He didn't look surprised at all.

"I've been waiting for you," Rovi said.

The leader tried to run, but before he could take a step, a rifle butt smashed him to the ground.

The rest were quickly subdued.

Rovi walked over to the leader and crouched down.

"Who sent you?"

The man clenched his jaw and said nothing.

"Doesn't matter." Rovi stood up and glanced at the data slate. "Number 4492, Battalion 13, Company 4."

"According to your intake physical, your muscle density and bone wear don't match someone with long-term malnutrition. They match... an enforcer."

"Also."

Rovi pointed at the Molotov cocktail in the man's arms. "I never handed out this high-purity Promethium Fuel to refugees either. That stuff's expensive on the black market. Supervisor Kase really spared no expense."

The man's face changed color.

"Take him to the main cafeteria," Rovi said to Barker. "Wake everyone up. Assemble."

The main cafeteria.

In truth, it was just a wide open-air plaza.

Fifty thousand refugees, roused from sleep, gathered here with blank, bewildered faces.

They saw the few people tied to the pillars.

They also saw Rovi standing on the high platform.

Rovi held a loudspeaker in his hand.

"Just now," Rovi's voice was cold and stern, "these people tried to burn down the Fermentation Tanks."

A cry of alarm rose from the crowd.

What were the Fermentation Tanks?

They were their rice bowls.

They were the source of Green Soup.

Burning the Fermentation Tanks meant cutting off their food supply.

Rage spread through the crowd like wildfire.

"Burn them alive!"

"Kill them!"

Rovi raised his hand and pressed it down.

"I did some checking," Rovi continued. "These people aren't refugees. They were hired to cause destruction. Their pockets are full of Imperial Credits, their bellies are full, yet they wanted to smash your rice bowls."

"Why?"

"Because someone doesn't want you to have enough to eat. Someone thinks you're garbage, a burden, that breathing is just a waste of air."

Rovi didn't name Kase.

But every word he spoke cut like a knife into the refugees' hearts.

These people had endured enough scorn and oppression at the bottom.

Now that they finally had a meal to eat, someone still wanted to sabotage it?

"According to my rules," Rovi said loudly, "destroying production tools means the death penalty."

"But I think letting them die like that is too easy for them."

Rovi turned and pointed at the giant Fermentation Tanks.

"Since they wanted to destroy the fertilizer, let them become the fertilizer."

The crowd erupted.

This time, there was no fear—only frenzy.

It was the release of violence long suppressed.

Barker's men untied the few people and dragged them toward the feeding hatch at the top of the Fermentation Tanks.

"No, don't!"

The few struggled desperately.

But under the gaze of tens of thousands of bloodshot eyes, their screams were so faint.

"Thud."

A few dull thuds.

The people were thrown into the churning green liquid.

Their screams lasted only a few seconds before being drowned out by the roar of the mixer.

Rovi stood on the high platform, watching it all.

His face was expressionless.

He knew this was cruel.

But in the world of Warhammer 40,000, mercy was the greatest luxury.

He had to use this ritualistic execution to bind these fifty thousand people firmly to his chariot.

From today onward, these fifty thousand were no longer refugees.

They were accomplices.

They had personally executed their enemies, defending their own food.

This bloody covenant was more unbreakable than any contract.

The next day.

The harvest began.

Fifty thousand Farm Workers, divided into fifty phalanxes, marched into the wheat fields in a mighty tide.

They carried Rovi's custom-made extended sickles in their hands and baskets on their backs.

"Ready."

The whistle sounded.

"Reap!"

Fifty thousand swung their sickles in unison.

"Shwish!"

A single, synchronized sound, like waves crashing against rocks.

A vast swath of wheat fell.

No wasted movements, no murmuring among themselves.

Only mechanical swings, advances, swings.

The efficiency was astonishing.

Standing on the ridge of the field, Alpha the Priest watched, his electronic eyes flickering.

"This... this is practically biological machinery," Alpha praised. "Esteemed Advisor, you've turned these flesh-and-blood bodies into parts more efficient than servitors."

"Because they want to live," Rovi said.

"Servitors have no desires, but people do. Give them just a sliver of hope, and they can unleash astonishing energy."