A Bleak Situation Worsens

The Empire's emblem is the Double-Headed Eagle, one of its heads representing the Machine Cult.

Fu Haoran now had a visceral understanding of that saying.

He pushed open the door to the Mechanicus Cult's station in the Governor's Office's side building, coming face-to-face with a pair of cold, mechanical bionic eyes.

"Priest Kallen, please pull up all the faction and resource data for the entire Hive City." Fu Haoran skipped the pleasantries and got straight to the point.

Priest Kallen's metal head emitted a faint servo whir as it turned slightly. He raised a metal finger and tapped the light screen before him.

Pale blue holographic projections exploded into being, spreading the Hive City's twisted, massive three-dimensional structure across the air. The level of detail was so rich that Fu Haoran truly experienced the power of future human technology.

However, Fu Haoran's gaze was quickly drawn to the content on the holographic map.

The core factories of the Mid-Hive district, the Promethium refineries, the weapon assembly workshops... all were branded with conspicuous noble family crests.

"These fence-sitters switched sides faster than flipping a book during the coup. So they'd had their eyes on these territories all along." Fu Haoran muttered a curse under his breath.

Fu Haoran wanted to cut through the knot with a sharp blade and wipe out these vermin.

But as a descendant of the Chinese people, he was all too familiar with this play.

A new ruler who had just taken power with an unstable foundation could easily be sidelined by the civil and military officials beneath him.

If he turned hostile now, the only outcome would be them joining forces to topple him, his corpse tossed into a cesspit in the Lower Hive.

"Endure for now. Settle the accounts once I have the strength."

Fu Haoran shifted his gaze to the Lower Hive.

The moment he looked, his headache worsened.

If the Mid-Hive was a chessboard carved up by nobles, then the Lower Hive was a chaotic hodgepodge smashed apart and haphazardly reassembled.

Thousands of gang tags densely covered the Lower Hive area.

The projection zoomed in on a narrow passage. "Red Dagger" was marked on the left, "Blue Bone" on the right, and a glaringly thick red line separated them down the middle.

"And what kind of performance art is this?" Fu Haoran pointed at the line.

Wade, who had been silently following behind, glanced at it and explained, "Sir, that's Bloodline Street."

"Red Dagger and Blue Bone fought for three years over a water purification station at the street corner. When they couldn't keep fighting, they drew that line. Whoever crosses it, the other side fights to the death."

"Do they bow and say 'please yield' before they start brawling?" Fu Haoran let out a bitter laugh.

"They usually just throw grenades and Molotov cocktails." Wade replied matter-of-factly.

"The Hive City's a big stage; if you've got the guts, come on up." Fu Haoran couldn't help but complain, rubbing his aching temples.

This wasn't governance—it was raising a nest of vipers.

"Wade, don't just let me look. What are your thoughts?"

Wade, a former PDF officer who had crawled up from the bottom of the Hive City, might not understand the twisted schemes of the Upper Hive nobles, but he truly knew the rules of the Lower Hive.

Scanning the dizzying projection, Wade shook his head directly. "Sir, from what I know, there are over three hundred gangs in the Lower Hive with names worth mentioning."

"As for the actual numbers... it's impossible to count precisely, but it's at least tens of millions of people."

"The garrison we can mobilize is only 150,000. We're short thirty percent of our equipment, and our ammunition reserves are only enough for a few medium-intensity battles."

"To wipe out these gangs one by one... it would take at least a decade, and that's assuming we can keep winning and have an endless supply of logistics."

Fu Haoran's finger dropped, landing on a specially highlighted area in the projection—the Promethium Fuel Complex Factory.

"Can we take this first?"

Wade's expression turned grim. "The Iron Claw Gang holds this place. They're one of the four major gangs in the Lower Hive, with over 50,000 core members. They can field at least 300,000 armed thugs for a fight, and even more peripheral members."

"On top of that, the factory itself is a fortress. The outer walls are reinforced Plasteel. Our previous intelligence shows they somehow got their hands on two decommissioned Storm Bolters and modified them into fixed gun turrets mounted on the high ground."

"The terrain is easy to defend and hard to attack. Unless we can pull off a precise decapitation strike and take out their leader's nest, a frontal assault would be a bottomless pit of human lives. We can't afford it."

Fu Haoran nodded.

Promethium was the Empire's general term for any form of fuel. It could be made into various industrial products, and most critically, it was the raw material for synthesizing Corpse Starch.

Taking it meant seizing control of energy and food.

"This bone has to be gnawed through."

"First, take down a couple of small gangs that don't know their place and have no big backing. Use them to train the troops, grab some supplies, and sustain the war through war..."

Fu Haoran was about to pull out the old playbook of his fellow transmigrator predecessors.

But the next second, Wade shot down that proposal.

"Sir, there are no isolated small gangs in the Lower Hive. Every small gang either pays tribute to a big gang or is outright a front for one."

"Hit one, and you're poking a hornet's nest."

"Then expand the army! If 150,000 isn't enough, recruit up to 300,000! Train them hard!" Fu Haoran refused to give up, offering another suggestion.

But Wade shook his head. "Sir, it can't be done. Recruiting soldiers requires enlistment bonuses and equipment."

"We can't even fully equip a basic set of garrison uniforms and Lasguns right now."

"There are plenty of Lasguns stockpiled in the warehouse, but forty percent are in need of repair, and the rest are missing compatible power packs."

"Then let veterans train the new recruits, and use combat as practice!" Fu Haoran was furious.

"That won't work either." Wade continued to refuse.

"Our logistics for a single sortie are already stretched thin. If we lose, we lose equipment and morale."

"If we win, the spoils might not even cover the losses. The reason gangs all choose brawls is because ammunition resupply is a perennial headache."

Fu Haoran was choked speechless.

This wasn't how it was supposed to go!

Why did every idea he came up with get slapped down by reality?

"Damn it, so we're holding a golden bowl and begging for food? No, the bowl's even got a leak!"

The more Fu Haoran thought about it, the angrier he got: "Let's go, ransack the place! See what the previous Governor left us!"

Wade's mouth twitched involuntarily. Only this new Governor, who played by no rules, could say "ransack the predecessor's stash" with such righteous indignation.

The vault door groaned open with the sluggish grinding of massive gears.

Fu Haoran stood at the entrance, the anticipation on his face freezing instantly, then collapsing.

Empty.

The opulent vault was completely empty!

The imagined piles of gold bars, neatly stacked credit coin chests, rare minerals shimmering with tempting luster... none of it was there!

"This..." Wade was dumbfounded too.

In the dead silence, Fu Haoran noticed a small object on the floor with a metallic chill.

He bent down and picked it up. The moment his fingertips touched it, he identified the material.

It was a fragment of a micro-gear!

On its surface was etched a dense string of Gothic serial numbers, and the edges were still stained with undried, specialized lubricant only the Machine Cult used, carrying a pungent smell of machine oil!

"Tech-Priest, I need an explanation."

Fu Haoran glared viciously at the Tech-Priest Kallen who had followed him.

A certain Governor with no way out was already furious enough to bite someone.

If it truly came to the point of utter desperation, Fu Haoran wouldn't mind pulling off something ruthless and then vanishing!

Whoever wanted the Governor's seat could have it!

He was done!