Let's Go Find Talent in Prison

Fu Haoran stood in an idle factory within the Hive World, watching a Servitor install five fully automated food production lines.

Compared to the machines of the Warhammer Universe, the production lines before him were bloated, "crude"—technological creations deemed backward by the Machine Cult.

But Fu Haoran was satisfied. These five lines from the 2K World could alleviate the current food shortage.

Fu Haoran had considered buying finished products, but many problems followed.

For instance, how would he explain the packaging on the finished goods?

And the source of the food?

Then there was the price issue.

Though the unit cost wasn't high, when the quantity piled up, it became an astronomical figure.

Even someone who was already a multi-billionaire felt the money in his pockets couldn't hold up.

After mulling it over, Fu Haoran simply brought in the production lines. Instant noodles, sausages, and bread—all could be produced.

Though it couldn't fundamentally solve this messy food shortage, it could at least hold things together for a while, let the Mid-Hive folks have something to eat, and get through the immediate crisis.

Still, the production lines needed some workers to assist.

"Wade, recruit a batch of workers. We start today."

Wade nodded but didn't move. He hesitated. "My lord, the wages... what standard? Our accounts..."

"I know there's no money." Fu Haoran cut him off, pulling a can from a box at his feet. No label, no trademark.

Fu Haoran pried it open. The aroma of meat mixed with grease burst out instantly.

"Luncheon meat. Two cans a day. Enough for wages?"

Wade was a bit surprised. He'd eaten luncheon meat before—it tasted quite good.

"Enough, my lord. This is far better than Corpse Starch."

"But, my lord, isn't this wage too high?"

Now it was Fu Haoran's turn to be surprised. "This is too high?"

"Yes," Wade quickly explained. "Under-hivers fight tooth and nail for a day just to get a mouthful of moldy Corpse Starch."

"If they ration it, it can last them two or even three days."

"Luncheon meat, at least, is made from real meat mixed with starch."

"It will definitely become hard currency in the Hive World."

"Once word gets out about two cans a day, we'll be swamped with people!"

Fu Haoran froze.

He'd almost forgotten—this was Warhammer.

"I understand. Don't change the price, but only recruit our own people. They need to eat to work."

Wade opened his mouth, then just gave a heavy salute. "Yes! I'll go now!"

As he turned, his steps were lighter.

The news spread like wildfire through the Under-hive.

Free meals—two cans of real meat a day—spread like a virus.

Even the greasiest smuggler wouldn't dare make up such a lie.

By nightfall, five thousand people packed the open ground.

Fu Haoran stood at the second-floor observation window, looking down. One glance, and his heart sank.

Too many small figures were mixed in the crowd.

Those children were too thin, wrapped in rags, huddled against the wind of the Hive World's eternal night.

Some stood no taller than the waist of the adults beside them, staring with numb eyes, clutching tightly at the hem of whoever might be their parent or older sibling.

In some children's eyes, even that numbness was gone—only emptiness remained.

Fu Haoran spun around, staring at Wade. "What's with those children? They look five or six at most!"

Wade lowered his head, his voice dry. "My lord... they're surplus population."

"In plain language."

"Parents died in battle, starved, or just... gone."

Wade couldn't meet Fu Haoran's eyes.

"The Hive's public orphanage shut down ten years ago. No quotas, no budget."

"Kids without parents either fight mutant rats for scraps in the garbage dump, or..."

He paused, his voice dropping lower. "They get taken, sent to those workshops in the Under-hive that the noble lords forbid us from asking about."

"The previous governor didn't care?"

"Care?" Wade's anger flared. "My lord, to nobles, people are just numbers on a tax roll."

"They figure if one batch dies, the lower classes will breed new ones on their own."

"The noble lords only care whether the headcount at the mines and factories is enough to file their reports."

Fu Haoran fell silent.

He knew Warhammer was grimdark—he'd read it in books, played it in games.

But words and a screen were two different things from hundreds of pairs of children's eyes, alive and crowding right in front of him.

Fu Haoran felt a churn in his stomach.

Not disgust. Something heavier.

He was silent for a long time.

So long that Wade grew uneasy.

"List the minors separately." Fu Haoran finally spoke, his voice calm, but Wade heard what was buried underneath.

"All children, register them. Names, ages, whether they have any family left—record everything."

"My lord, you want to..."

"Clear out every empty room in the Governor's Office."

"Convert them into dormitories to house these children. Three meals a day. Pull veteran soldiers from the Guard Regiment to watch over them in shifts."

Wade panicked: "My lord! We can't afford it! Food, manpower, space..."

"I'll figure out the food! You coordinate the manpower! If space isn't enough, expand!"

Fu Haoran glared at him. "The children can't starve. They're not a burden—they're our hope."

Fu Haoran paused, then added: "Also, the widows of our fallen brothers—if they can't support their kids, let them send them here. We'll provide food and lodging. They can visit their children anytime."

Wade was completely stunned.

He stared at Fu Haoran as if seeing this commander for the first time.

"My lord... to do all this, we still need a lot of things..."

"I know." Fu Haoran cut him off, his gaze passing over the thin figures to settle on the towering hive structures, his tone unusually heavy.

"We can wait. They can't."

"We overthrew the old governor not to become new nobles ourselves."

Wade's body jolted, and he nodded firmly: "Understood!"

[Guard Regiment Loyalty +8—"The boss seems... different?"]

[Territory Mob Spawn Probability -7%]

[Hidden Event Triggered: Glimmer of the Young]

[You have sown a promise. In the Hive City, promises are rarer than bullets. Fulfill it, and you may reap loyalty beyond measure.]

[Warning: Once this promise is made, if you fail to keep it, the backlash will be doubled.]

[Universal Points +666, Charisma +3]

The children's matter was set aside for now, but real trouble came knocking immediately.

Wade reported with a grim face: "My lord, to get the production lines running, we need to connect to the secondary power grid, or else prepare our own Promethium generators."

"The Energy Bureau is asking for five thousand Throne Coins upfront, and even a used generator on the black market costs three thousand. And our account..."

He named a number.

Fu Haoran's brow furrowed: "What about trading the canned goods for cash?"

"All channels that can move bulk goods are controlled by the nobles and their guilds." Wade explained.

"If we bring the cans to them, they'll crush the price. We don't know any black market dealers, so it's hard to sell at a good rate."

Fu Haoran's head ached. As a Reincarnator, how could he know any local big shots or smugglers?

Wade continued: "My lord, we need someone who knows the ropes."

"Otherwise... no matter how much we produce, we're just working for others."

Almost simultaneously, a system warning popped up:

[Fiscal Deficit Intensifying]

[Hive City Economic Status Update: Currency credit collapsed; barter penetration has reached 75% of the lower strata. Throne Coins circulate only in noble transactions and tax payments.]

[Riot Risk +12% (Continuously Rising)]

Fu Haoran dismissed the interface and rubbed his brow.

Short on money, short on people, short on channels.

"Where in the Hive City can you find people like that?" Fu Haoran asked.

Wade gave a bitter smile. "Anyone with that kind of skill either became a noble's retainer long ago, or they know too much and got thrown into the Adeptus Arbites' prison as a scapegoat."

Fu Haoran's eyes lit up.

Prison? Jail?

Right, how had he forgotten about that!

If the talent market couldn't find good people, the prison was full of them.

Without some skill and guts, how could you deserve to be personally sent in by the noble lords?

The people there talked well, had talent, and were cheap.

"Let's go, we're paying the Adeptus Arbites a visit." Fu Haoran was brimming with enthusiasm.

"Uh... my lord, as far as I know, the High Judge in charge of the Adeptus Arbites is the son-in-law of an Imperial official."

Wade's expression soured. "His reputation is terrible, and... he's close with the batch of nobles who supported the old Governor. He probably won't be friendly toward you."

"Friendly?" Fu Haoran laughed. "I'm not going to make friends."

"Of course, if the other side insists on us demonstrating how to negotiate politely, then don't hold back."

The system's voice followed.

[Quest Triggered: Prison Talent Market Day Trip]

[Requirement: Recruit a black-market veteran who can help you steal money from the nobles' pockets.]

[Hint: The Warden is a noble's trained attack dog, extremely hostile toward you, and the Black Prison's environment is complex. It is recommended to bring sufficient persuasive power.]

[In the Warhammer World, talent is often equated with prisoners—after all, good people don't live long, but clever scumbags can become big shots.]

[Quest Reward: Universal Points +500]