Now, forget Tark's suspicions—even Alvin himself was starting to wonder if he was Aruman's illegitimate son.
The Deflection Field Device was one thing, but the gun Aruman had given him... If he wasn't mistaken, that thing was the legendary Plasma Pistol that never overheated!
[Item detected: Helical-pattern Subatomic Plasma Pistol (Fine)]
[Effective range: 100 meters; lethal range: 200 meters. Each shot requires 25.73 seconds to recharge, but after five shots it becomes extremely unstable and is prone to overheating and exploding.]
[Energy provided: 1,000 units]
Sure enough, it really was a Plasma Pistol!
Alvin couldn't help sucking in a sharp breath, his eyes filled with shock.
Wait, what exactly was the relationship between Aruman and his predecessor?
Otherwise, why would he give him both a "Deflection Field Device" and a "Plasma Pistol"?
This made no sense!
Alvin sank into deep self-doubt.
Beside him, Tark's eyes were practically glued to the Plasma Pistol. If not for Aruman's threatening glare, he probably would have snatched it already.
"Don't overthink it. We're not related by blood." Aruman seemed inexplicably exhausted. He explained with a hint of helplessness, "It's complicated. I can't explain it to you right now."
But the more Aruman kept it under wraps, the more curious Tark became.
He sidled up and hooked an arm around the Tech-Priest's neck. After glancing at the utterly bewildered Alvin, he whispered into Aruman's ear, "Hey, what's going on? Come on, tell me!"
"Keep this kid safe, Tark."
But Aruman merely left him with that one sentence, shook off Tark's arm, and turned to enter the workshop through the side door of the chapel.
Left standing there, Alvin and Tark exchanged a brief glance, both of them full of questions.
"Kid, looks like you're not as simple as I thought."
Tark narrowed his eyes and scrutinized the boy from head to toe, as if seeing Alvin in a whole new light. "I swear by the Emperor, the last time I saw Aruman this worried about someone's safety was over that senior sister he had a crush on."
I might've just stumbled onto some incredible gossip. Alvin suddenly had a bad feeling.
Boom!
Without warning, a bolt round skimmed past Tark's forehead and blasted a crater into the wall.
Immediately afterward, Aruman's furious roar rang out from the workshop: "Say one more word and I'll blow your head off, Tark!"
Clearly, the old comrade's indiscretion had thoroughly enraged the Tech-Priest.
Tark rubbed his scalp and dragged Alvin toward the chapel exit, grumbling as he went. "Fine, I won't say anything. What are you getting so worked up for?"
How could he not get worked up? Who told you to run your mouth so much?
As Tark dragged him out of the chapel, Alvin's mouth twitched. He figured that if Tark ever died, his big mouth would be to blame.
Next came a familiar routine.
They brazenly walked right past the enforcers and returned to the Underhive through the Mid-hive gate.
The moment he stepped into the Underhive, the air—recycled who knew how many millions of times—and the surroundings, thick with exhaust fumes and radiation, gave him the familiar feeling of coming home.
"There are a lot fewer scavengers," Alvin murmured, gazing at the somewhat deserted streets.
"Because the Iron Hammer Gang is recruiting members in large numbers."
Tark pulled a cheap cigarette from his pocket, lit it, took a slow drag, and said expressionlessly, "Anyone they select can join the Iron Hammer Gang. They get regular meals, and they even hand out standard-issue weapons. Guess what they're planning?"
"What else? They're expanding their territory, then taking over the Nest City." Alvin could guess the Iron Hammer Gang's next move with his eyes closed. They had unified the Underhive, and now they were preparing to go further.
Using free food as bait to recruit a huge number of members was a masterstroke!
Even if you knew what the Iron Hammer Gang was planning, there was no way to stop them.
The reason was simple. People in the Underhive teetered on the brink of starvation every day. Then a gang suddenly appeared, claiming that anyone they selected would receive free food every day.
Not just the Underhive scavengers—even Alvin would probably have joined if he didn't have his system.
That was right. The people of the Underhive never cared who was righteous. They only cared who could keep them alive.
What enforcers? What Emperor?
Those ideals and beliefs were far beyond their reach. The scum of the Underhive just wanted to survive. Nothing more.
Whoever could keep them alive was who they would follow!
"The Iron Hammer Gang has already swallowed up the eastern and southern districts." Tark finished his cigarette in a few drags and flicked it away. He said quietly, "The remaining two districts will be swallowed up too in one or two months at most. We're running out of time."
"I'm well aware of the situation, Mr. Tark."
Alvin paused to think for half a second, roughly estimating how long he'd be away, then continued, "I think I'll need about a month. When I come back, things might take a turn."
"A month, huh?"
Tark furrowed his brow, stared at Alvin in silence for half a minute, then beckoned. "Come with me, kid."
Alvin didn't know what this was about, but he followed Tark anyway.
They made their way through the Underhive's abandoned industrial district, following the maze-like network of crisscrossing sewer pipes until they reached Tark's secret base.
Calling it a secret base was generous—it was actually quite bare-bones. But when Tark opened the sewer hatch, what was inside left Alvin stunned.
Carapace Armor, Frag Grenades, combat knives, lasguns, Plasma Guns, Grenade Launchers, and all kinds of weapons and equipment filled the space. But that alone wasn't enough to shock Alvin. What nearly made his eyes pop out of his head was the Chainsword in the corner!
There was even a Heavy Bolter beside it!
Just how impressive was that?
As the name suggested, Heavy Bolters were generally issued to Astartes or mounted on tanks to provide fire support for their allies.
It was no exaggeration to say that the recoil from this thing could kill an ordinary Astra Militarum soldier!
With its one-inch caliber and modified, extra-large ammunition capacity, it had more than enough firepower to suppress a small defensive position.
As for its power, how could he put it? It was probably something like: You and your cover are equally laughable!
Was this the kind of badass who could survive the Cadian campaign and retire alive?
Swallowing hard, Alvin once again had to consider what it would take to recruit this badass.
"Kid, I don't know why you came to the Underhive, but since Aruman told me to protect you, I have to do something."
As he spoke, Tark handed Alvin the combat knife he carried.
The knife resembled a Bowie knife and had a standard combat-knife design. Its belly was serrated, and its blade had grooves on both sides to reduce weight. It was about twenty inches long, with a keen, gleaming edge. It was obviously well maintained, felt heavy in his hand, and carried a strange chill.
[Item detected: Tark's Catachan Combat Knife (Fine)]
[Standard issue for the Catachan Jungle Fighter regiment. Tark made the combat knife himself before leaving Catachan, and it had accompanied him through hundreds of bloody battles.]
[Energy provided: 0 units]
"Uh, Mr. Tark, what do you mean?" Alvin was at a loss. Was he giving it to him?
"Don't get the wrong idea. I'm not giving you this knife."
Tark lit a cigarette and spoke slowly. "To make sure you stay safe, I'm going to train you here for three days and teach you a few survival skills. Wouldn't want you dying at the hands of some scum."
"Uh, Mr. Tark, actually—"
Alvin's heart sank halfway. It wasn't that he looked down on Tark; he just thought this was too dangerous.
If this were any other, more normal Astra Militarum soldier, he wouldn't be so reluctant.
What kind of person was Tark?
A Catachan Jungle Fighter, and—at least as far as Alvin knew—a tough bastard who'd crawled out of the living hell that was Cadia. Training with him was practically a death wish!
"Kid, I'm going to teach you your first lesson."
The moment he finished speaking, Tark, cigarette dangling from his lips, appeared behind Alvin like a ghost.
A small knife with a gleaming edge came to rest against Alvin's neck. Its icy chill crept up his spine and into his brain, and his expression instantly stiffened.
"Kid, in the Astra Militarum, you address people by their rank during training."
Tark kept the cigarette between his lips, not even spilling a single ash. He spoke softly into Alvin's ear like a demon. "Don't worry. I'll teach you how to become a qualified six-year-old Catachan in no time!"
Before you continue