2. Midnight

Tujea ran past, gun in hand, the moonlight of Litatera falling on his back, sliding straight down his coat, hanging at the hem as if the clothes were sweating. «-(¯`v´¯)-« »-(¯`v´¯)-»

The boots he was wearing weren't very good; every time his feet hit the ground, the reaction force made his soles feel sore and numb.

There was no way around it; it was just an old-fashioned pair of "animal skin" boots, neither warm nor heat-resistant. In fact, it wasn't made of animal skin at all.

Tujea didn't have any spare money to spend on such things; almost all of his meager salary went towards ship tickets, food, and some cheap organic candies. These were practically everywhere, even on cargo ships, where vendors sold them.

These candies come in twelve flavors, and some say there's one hidden flavor. Tujea doesn't know if it's true or not, but he's never been able to tell the difference.

Moreover, they taste terrible.

Just like the taste that was filling his mouth right now. He was familiar with it, but he never liked it.

In the name of the Emperor, who would enjoy drinking blood? Especially the blood of others.

No, I don't have time to keep thinking about these things right now.

Tujea forced himself to discard this unhelpful nonsense, and he looked up to examine his most important objective at that moment.

Thanks to the low-rise buildings in the area, he could easily see the church's towering spire. In the moonlight, it looked slightly eerie, but it also pointed out a way for him, a complete stranger in a foreign land.

So Tujea immediately turned around and went into another alley. Of course he didn't know the way, but he knew in his heart that playing a game of cat and mouse with his pursuers on the main road was no different from courting death.

Fortunately, there's never a shortage of alleyways in the Hive City.

They are to the Hive City what blood vessels are to humans. His boots ventured into the filthy puddle, his Shadow danced and twisted on the low brick wall, and his lungs strained to keep him breathing.

Oxygen. Tujea began to daydream again. Humans are addicted to oxygen; we are slaves to oxygen. We take deep breaths when we are under too much stress, we take deep breaths when we feel tired, and we take deep breaths even when we are about to die.

We need oxygen, I need oxygen.

He took a deep breath, suddenly stopped, turned around and fired. The dirty corner of his coat fluttered wildly as Tujea stared wide-eyed at the sparks flying from the muzzle, watching his bullet pierce a man's chest.

Its momentum hadn't diminished, and it pierced another man's right hand, the one holding the gun. Two thugs barked and ran up from behind them, their brutally modified Autogun gleaming. The sharpened steel plates reflected the moonlight, blinding Tujea.

Without further hesitation, he emptied his magazine, turned and continued running, still remembering to reload.

"Kill him!" someone yelled. "He wants to go to church!"

Bullets whizzed past him. Tujea took another deep breath, trying to maintain his breathing rhythm. On the ground, chemical waste was slowly flowing through the exposed sewage pipes.

They reacted with something unknown, and the acrid smoke drifted throughout the depths of the alley, violating the meager human dignity that investigator Tujea, as a loyal Imperium citizen, enjoyed.

They cruelly made him cough, disrupted his breathing rhythm, and made him pause in his steps.

Everything has its price, and he was a step too slow. As a result, a bullet followed closely behind, shattering the smoke and viciously piercing his right shoulder.

Tujea grunted, but didn't stop running.

The Hive City the city vary in size, and the quality of their members naturally varies as well. Some are equipped enough to take on the most elite law enforcement teams, while others can only work with illegally modified Autogun.

They rarely had the chance to fire, so when they did, their aim was practically nonexistent. Most of them were the kind of idiots who would point their guns at themselves and check their weapons before a fight even began, but the problem was, luck usually runs out.

They're already idiots, so they're bound to be a little luckier.

But he wasn't, so he was usually very unlucky.

Another bullet flew in at that moment.

Tujea heard its voice, and a sudden sharp pain shot through his left abdomen. Then came a chill, creeping up from deep within his veins. At that moment, the pain left him, leaving only a mechanical calm.

He stopped, turned around, raised his gun, and pulled the trigger—he killed a tattooed bastard and pierced another man's throat, blood splattering and creating a mottled stain on his companion's face.

Moonlight streamed down overhead, and the dirty Autogun was slowly raised. Tujea gripped his gun, trying to aim at the last two thugs.

He was at least several dozen meters away from them. If he hadn't been injured, even on a night like this, Tujea was confident he could take them down with just two shots. But not now. Thanks to the injury to his shoulder, his hand holding the gun was trembling uncontrollably.

He had to aim, just like his enemy was doing.

No.

Tujea suddenly put away his gun, turned around and ran.

He knew he couldn't hit it.

His hand, clutching his abdomen, had become sticky, and his vision was blurring. This meant that the bullet, which had come from behind, pierced his coat and back, and finally lodged in his abdomen, had unfortunately triggered massive bleeding.

Otherwise, he couldn't have become so weak in such a short time.

Tujea had some basic medical knowledge, so he understood that massive bleeding was almost a death sentence.

Bullets continued to whiz past his ears, and the two remaining thugs were howling; to Tujea, their voices sounded like the cacophony of mutated dogs. He wasn't sure if he'd been hit again, but he hoped not. He ran, the smoke still swirling around him.

Before everything went dark, the last thing Tujea saw was a shadowy figure that was too tall.

At this very moment, there are only five minutes left until midnight in Litatera.

--

"He will survive," a man said.

"He better not be dead," a woman said angrily. "I still have a few scores to settle with him."

"Don't do it in the church," the man said. "You can settle these things with him elsewhere, I have no problem with that, but not in the church."

"I understand, Pastor. Besides, I owe you one."

"No, we're even," the man called the pastor replied nonchalantly.

Hearing the conversation coming from not far away, Tujea slowly opened his eyes, or rather, he opened them a tiny crack.

He didn't turn his neck, but instead cautiously observed his surroundings out of the corner of his eye.

It took him a while to adjust to the flickering candlelight and the cold. Neither was easy given his current physical condition, but he could still think—humans are always good at thinking.

The first thing he was certain of was that the woman who had spoken was Gore, the one he was looking for. This was certainly not good news, but it was no longer enough to distract Tujea.

He closed his eyes again, pretending to still be fast asleep. However, the pastor walked towards him.

"Also, Mr. Investigator," the pastor stopped a few steps away and spoke softly, "How did you sleep?"

Tujea reluctantly opened his eyes and slowly sat up from the mattress.

It was perfectly clean before his blood stained it red.

He slowly sat up and found that his injured abdomen and right shoulder were now properly bandaged.

His sense of smell only "awakened" at this moment, as a strong smell of disinfectant rushed into his nostrils. Along with it came a surge of pain throughout his body, as well as a severe headache.

Tujea forced himself to ignore all of this; he put on a stern face and looked at the priest with absolute expressionlessness.

He had expected to see the iconic white robes of the Ministorum Priest, but he was wrong. He only saw a man dressed as a commoner, with no memorable features whatsoever. If he had to describe him, he was simply tall and pale, nothing more.

Tujea immediately became alert, a professional instinct he had developed. As an investigator, he possessed an exceptional sensitivity to anything unusual, and this pastor was certainly unusual.

The Ecclesiarchy has a complete and rigorous system of promotion rites, and any devout person who can be assigned to serve as a priest in a Hive City region must possess extremely high zeal.

→

They are not like missionaries who can adapt to local conditions and create various variations of the Ecclesiarchy to suit local customs. These people are the driving force behind the Ecclesiarchy's control over the minds of the masses. Therefore, in their daily lives, they set an example by abiding by the various rules and regulations brought about by their faith.

One such point is the dress code; the Ecclesiarchy clearly stipulates that all pastors must wear standard pastoral robes on non-rest days.

Tujea decided to speak, but he planned to communicate with the pastor at a rather slow pace. However, his plan failed before it could be implemented.

"You bastard!" a woman yelled as she walked towards him, her voice extremely agitated. "You ruined my exchange!"

The female employee's face flashed before Tujea's eyes. Then, very sensibly, he raised his hands and gave a negative answer.

"No, I didn't. I didn't damage any of your property, Citizen Gore. Only six guards in your exchange suffered minor injuries. As for the bullet holes and shattered glass doors, those were caused by the thugs who were targeting me."

"You're quite the talker!"

Gore roared, clearly furious, but didn't take another step. She stopped behind the priest, her rough face flushed red.

She wore a prosthetic eye, her nose was crooked, and she had clearly been injured in the past. There was a large old scar on the side of her face, with very obvious stitches.

This meant that the person who performed the surgery on her was an incompetent doctor, which was completely inconsistent with the precision of the prosthetic eye. Her hair was a light chestnut color, and she had, without any formal training, tied it up in a high ponytail, just like some thugs who sought to be unique.

Just looking at this Gore, Tujea conjured up an inspiring story in his mind of a young man who struggled to survive and endured many hardships.

Then he said, "My eloquence is indeed highly appreciated by my superiors. Thank you for your praise, Ms. Gore."

After saying this, he subtly glanced at the pastor.

"You fucking--"

Gore's face twitched violently. Logically, someone like her should have immediately drawn her gun and pierced Tujea's head completely.

He understood them. Dignity was a very interesting word in the Hive City; sometimes it was worthless, and sometimes people would bleed for it.

For a minor leader like Gore, losing his dignity and being unable to regain it is probably more terrifying than death.

But she did not draw her gun.

Tujea frowned deeply.

"You're trying to provoke Gore, Mr. Investigator," the pastor interjected at just the right moment. "That's not a good thing, I think—"

His voice was interrupted by a shout coming from outside the church.

"Hand him over, priest!" someone roared. "We know he's in there! Hand him over!"

Tujea turned his head and began to trace the direction from which the sound came, taking the opportunity to observe the interior of the church.

The church wasn't very large, and it didn't even have chairs for potential worshippers. However, it was filled with statues. Statues of the Emperor of all sizes filled every corner and every step.

Some were made of wood, some of stone, and some even of crystal. Each one was polished to a spotless shine. Then there were candles; there seemed to be no electricity here, and a few candlesticks provided the meager light, one of which was placed beside him.

I'm going out for a bit.

The pastor nodded to Gore, said this, and then turned and hurried away without taking any weapons. Tujea watched him leave through the side door of the church, stretched out his right hand, grasped the candlestick, and slowly stood up.

"Sit down, you idiot," Gore said dismissively. "And get your filthy hands off that candlestick; I donated it."

Tujea ignored her, but released her hand.

He slowly walked to a simple wooden bed that had clearly been used as a makeshift operating table, his coat and hat hanging on its edge.

It has wheels at the bottom, handles for pushing along the edge, and an extra small platform on which sits an iron tray containing two bullets and a well-maintained, blood-stained scalpel.

The armrests were very rounded, indicating frequent use, and the wood was a dark red color. Combining all these factors, Tujea concluded that this wooden bed was probably designed to be used as an operating table.

In other words, that pastor might frequently do similar things, healing people and bringing bloodshed and strife to one of God's earthly dwelling places?

That's really strange. A priest who isn't devout and frequently breaks the precepts? Not only that, but even people from the Hive City dare to come to his door to provoke him and demand that he hand over the person?

Tujea slowly reached out, took back the hat, and slowly put it on.

"Where's my gun?" he asked without turning his head.

"Here I am," Gore replied with a sneer. "You don't want to go back, do you?"

"Otherwise what?" Tujea asked.

In front of her, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out another handful of candies. He picked one out, quickly unwrapped it, and popped it into his mouth.

This time, the flavor that exploded on his taste buds was none of what he was familiar with; it was a very, very special flavor. He didn't know how to describe it, but his intuition told him that it might be true sweetness.

It's not sour, not astringent, and not a strange, awful sweetness, but a sweetness overflowing with fragrance. It's mellow, rich, and filled with an intense sense of happiness.

Tujea was momentarily speechless, and the second half of his prepared statement was swallowed back down.

Behind him, Gore let out a burst of laughter.

"An investigator eating such cheap candy? How ridiculous! Aren't you bunch of Adeptus Arbites lackeys all rolling in money?"

"Obviously, except for me," Tujea said slowly, turning away. He left the candy wrapper behind and put it in his trouser pocket. He didn't want to look at the wrapper, which could be very useful to him, for the time being.

"Come on, who knows what you came to Litatera for? You bunch of sons of bitches will always cause trouble."

"What kind of trouble?" Tujea asked.

"You know it yourself," the Hive City man replied with disgust.

"If you're referring to mutants, illegal Psyker, dangerous contraband that's been banned, or cults plotting conspiracies, then these aren't things we created. They've always existed, and we're one of the people who deal with them."

"Is your solution to hang everyone involved in the law enforcement team, regardless of their innocence?"

Tujea sighed slowly, took the coat from behind, and draped it over himself.

The noise coming from outside the church was getting increasingly louder.

"First, you need to understand one thing, Citizen Gore," he said slowly. "There are indeed innocent people in this world, but we have no right to pronounce judgment on them."

He extended his right hand.

"Now, give me my gun, if you don't want that priest to die."

Gore continued to look at him with disdain, unmoved.

"He won't die, you idiot."

How do you know?

Gore didn't answer, but walked towards the small side door through which the pastor had left. Tujea frowned, but followed him anyway, various doubts still lingering in his mind.

His arrival in Litatera was impossible to leak; sometimes even the investigators from the Adeptus Arbites themselves didn't know his whereabouts.

Despite a minor mishap along the way, many on Starport heard the captain's curses, and news of an investigator's arrival in Litatera shouldn't have spread so quickly.

Regardless of how the man who guarded the door of the [Giggle Kiss] bar recognized him, the local police officers' reaction was strange enough. They actually allowed an investigator to move freely within their jurisdiction instead of assigning someone to restrain him.

And now, those people can not only quickly find him wandering around like a headless fly in the Hive City, but they even have the courage to rush to a church and demand that the Ecclesiarchy's pastor hand him over.

Of course, there's one last question, the most important one.

How was he rescued?

With these answers in mind, Tujea followed Gore toward the side door. Behind them, the candlelight still flickered, but the Emperor's statue had silently changed its appearance.

Fresh blood began to spread on the floor.