Ten Thousand Ways to Use an Ox or Horse

The experiments continued.

The dim lights of the Alru Group underground containment facility illuminated figures being dragged from cages or collapsing beside interrogation tables.

Beyond the eternal stench of mold and machine oil, the air now carried more unsettling scents:

The stinging odor of disinfectant, the sour rot of chemical reagents, and the faint, rust-like smell of blood.

Another player was dragged back by two White Butcher guards in gas masks, their faces obscured, and tossed like a bag of trash into the crowded cage that already held twenty people.

His ID was [Dont Want to Get Out of Bed Today], and his status bar was currently hung with a dizzying array of icons: [Mild Organ Failure], [Neurotoxin Tolerance Testing], [Allergic Reaction to Psionic Suppressants]...

He lay twitching on the floor, blood-flecked foam bubbling from his lips, as his final words stuttered through the area channel:

"Br... brothers... I feel like I'm dying again... they gave me a shot... it was green... bubbling... tasted like the thick soup Grandfather Nurgle has been brewing for a thousand years... ugh..."

"Hold on, brother! It costs 5 Imperial Coins to respawn!"

[Soul of Cadia] in the next cage shouted while gripping the bars.

"Can't... hold on... my vision is turning yellow... now green... The Emperor protect me, I think I see Grandfather waving at me..."

[Dont Want to Go to Work Today] finally failed to hold on, his body ceasing its tremors a few minutes later.

The system prompt scrolled by coldly: [Player Dont Want to Go to Work Today has died. Cause of death: Comprehensive toxic failure. Respawn cost: 5 Imperial Coins. Forced logout.]

"How many is that now?"

Wang Zhong leaned against the cold iron bars, his voice raspy.

He had just witnessed three experiments firsthand, ranging from brutal bone marrow extraction and spinal taps to the injection of suspicious, colorful reagents, and finally, the donning of that helmet—the one said to detect psionic potential, which turned brains into mush.

[Mechanicus Oil-Lover on the Run] kept a maddeningly calm record in the channel: "Counting this one, since we were locked in, we have observed thirty-seven instances of non-combat attrition."

"The experimental content covers basic physiological tolerance, neurotoxicology, psionic potential activation, and gene sequence screening."

"The conclusion is consistent with our previous deduction: we are being systematically quality-checked."

"Quality-checked?"

Schrodinger's Loyalist touched his arm, which was still aching from having blood drawn, "Like checking livestock?"

"Worse than that."

Tax Brother looked grim, "At least livestock can hope to be fattened up for meat. Us? If the experimental value is low, we're just scrapped."

As if to confirm his words, the heavy blast door at the entrance of the underground space slid open once more.

This time, it wasn't the white-coated researchers who entered, but a squad of heavily armed soldiers with equipment clearly superior to the previous capture force.

They surrounded a middle-aged man in a crisp, dark blue uniform, a standard business smile plastered on his face.

The man held a data pad, his gaze sweeping over the cages like a farmer inspecting his inventory.

He stopped in the center of the open space, cleared his throat, and the loudspeaker carried his voice to every corner, his tone that of trained, polite coldness:

"Gentlemen... well, let us call you temporary detainees for now."

"Following a preliminary assessment by the Alru Group Life Science Department, it is regrettable to inform you that the vast majority of you have failed to meet the expected standards for potential value in advanced biological research and genetic development."

The area channel was instantly flooded with "???" and "Damn it!".

"What does that mean? Saying we're useless?" [Want Silent King's Crown but cannot afford] said with grief and indignation.

"Be precise," [Mechanicus Oil-Lover on the Run] corrected, "it means our bodies have little value as experimental material."

"The system-generated game bodies might be too clean or uniform at the genetic level, lacking natural mutations and showing no traces of Warp contamination. For researchers pursuing breakthroughs and mutations—ahem, for researchers pursuing technological breakthroughs—they lack surprises."

The man in the purple uniform continued his speech, his smile unchanging: "The prosperity of the Empire and Aurelian is built upon the hard work of countless people."

"Since you are currently unable to add bricks and tiles to the temple of science, contributing your strength to more realistic construction is also a glorious destination."

He waved his hand, and the soldiers immediately sprang into action, slamming the butts of their blast rifles against the iron cages with a clatter, roaring:

"Get up! Line up! Move! Move it!"

"Where to?" a player shouted.

The man in the purple uniform glanced at the questioner and smiled: "A place where your remaining value can be fully utilized."

"Under the Simans Chamber of Commerce, Alru No. 3 Refinery is in urgent need of a batch of... fresh labor."

A refinery.

Manual labor.

One of the classic destinations for the cattle and horses at the bottom of the Hive City.

The players were driven forward, once again traversing the deep, cold corridors, and boarding transport pods that resembled steel coffins.

There was no flight this time; the transport pods rumbled downward along tracks through the intricate steel intestines of the Hive City. The temperature gradually rose, and the air began to fill with a strange, nauseating mixture of sulfur, molten metal, and some kind of cloying chemical agent.

After an unknown amount of time, the cabin doors opened, and a wave of heat rushed in.

What met their eyes was a cavernous space so vast it was dizzying—or perhaps, the literal manifestation of hell in the industrial age.

The towering dome was lost in rolling thick smoke, and several winding, incandescent streams of molten metal crawled slowly through trenches like the blood vessels of the earth, emitting a dark red glow.

Massive gears, pistons, pipes, and conveyor belts formed the skeleton and nerves of this space, the roaring sound deafening.

Everywhere one looked, there were mountains of ore, barrels of foul-smelling chemical raw materials, and the true hive-city workers—ragged, stumbling, and hollow-eyed—shuffling between them.

Even more eye-catching were the overseers patrolling the area.

They wore crude protective suits and brandished electrified long whips or thick metal rods, their faces twisted with undisguised cruelty and indifference.

"Welcome to Factory No. 3, you pieces of trash!"

A one-eyed overseer captain, carrying a buzzing power whip, walked up to the line of newly arrived players. His voice was as hoarse as grinding, rusted gears. "In this place, your lives are worth only two things: labor hours and output! Don't understand? That's fine!"

He casually lashed out at a native worker nearby who had slowed down from exhaustion. Electric sparks exploded, and the man screamed as he collapsed to the ground, his back scorched black.

"This is the language we speak here! Do you all see clearly now?"

The overseer captain sneered. "Now, work zone assignments! Slag clearing, ore sorting, pipe unclogging, catalyst hauling... Just look at your soft, pampered skin—hmpf, go to the sorting zone first!"

"Pick the waste rock out of the raw Promethium ore with your bare hands! The minimum quota is fifty baskets per person, per day! For those who don't finish..."

He weighed the power whip in his hand, the implication clear.

The players were driven to an open area covered in gravel and black raw ore.

Native workers were already laboring there mechanically; they showed no reaction to the newcomers, their eyes vacant.

"So," Tax Brother picked up a heavy, sharp-edged piece of black ore and looked at his empty inventory, which only had five slots, an absurd expression on his face.

"We, the Fourth Calamity, over five thousand players, arrived in the Warhammer 40K universe, started off owing the system a breathing tax, and on the second day, we were snatched up by a black-hearted corporation and sent straight to work as... assembly-line miners?"

"And there are no robotic arms for assistance, no automated screens, just pure manual labor."

Slaanesh Chosen Reserve looked at the one-eyed overseer holding the whip behind him with an amused expression and spoke in the area channel.

"Okay, family, we've successfully made it into a sweatshop, only this is one factory where you can't just grab your bucket and run!"