Hidden in the Dark

"Morality is of no benefit to our work, Tujea (a website address)"

"Yes I know."

"You should discard those outdated principles. This world no longer needs so-called justice; we're all just animals."

"Yes, you are right."

"Why are you so stubborn?" the man asked.

He was drunk, his cheeks flushed, his eyes swollen like two glass marbles stuck in their sockets, lubricated by a disgusting, sticky substance, gleaming with an unpleasantly greasy sheen.

Behind him was an entire wall made of fogged glass, with towering gray buildings coldly overlooking everything below them from beyond. The Imperial Aquila insignia on them was soaked by artificial rain, turning into a constantly flickering, pale white.

Tujea's gaze passed over the drunken man and landed on the Aquila; he was drawn to them. Then he noticed the buildings were multiplying, multiplying relentlessly.

They were like ever-growing tumors or viruses; the Aquila logo was constantly protruding from the surface of the gray building, transforming into a real iron bird soaring into the sky, flying everywhere in the rain of technology.

They have no feathers, and their eyes blaze with fire; they use these eyes to watch over everyone.

They are screaming.

"Morality is utterly useless!"

Suddenly, the man roared and grabbed him with such force that he felt as if he were about to be crushed. Tujea wanted to answer him, but he couldn't, because he suddenly realized that the face was somewhat familiar, especially those swollen eyes.

They were green, hungry, dull, and lifeless.

A scream caught in his throat, the nightmare dissipated, and only then did Tujea release it.

He sat up abruptly, a sharp pain shooting through his abdomen again, though it had lessened somewhat. His screams still echoed in the church, sounding distorted. At the same time, a peculiar odor emanated from his mouth.

He frowned, immediately realizing that he had been given some kind of drug.

It's probably painkillers or hallucinogens; in the Hive City, there's not much difference between the two.

Tujea clutched the back of his head, which was throbbing with pain, and slowly sat up straight.

He found himself still in the chapel, neither dead nor tortured. No one had hung him up, placed a wooden table and about a dozen gruesome knives used for executions, and then sterilized them in a brazier.

No, there are no such things.

Only in that very quiet little chapel did the statues of the Emperor still stand with their eyes closed, their faces filled with sorrow.

Tujea dispelled his reverie, gripping the blankets tightly with his left hand, but his fingertips touched something else. He turned around and saw it was his wide-brimmed hat.

He put it on, then stood up.

The light streaming through the stained-glass windows that formed the church ceiling fell before him, creating a hazy atmosphere. It was almost miraculous that there was hardly any dust in the air.

Tujea had visited some churches, and in his impression, only wealthy areas could afford to do this, because those churches all had cleaning Servitor.

They tirelessly clean every single day; dust and other stains are practically their mortal enemies.

What a simple and clear goal!

Tujea sighed and began searching for the pastor inside the church.

What happened last night was unlikely to be his imagination; the bleeding statue and the glittering black fragment still lingered in his mind. Compared to them, the corpses surrounding the entire church didn't even seem like a "nightmare."

Thinking of this, Tujea couldn't help but raise his head and look at the tallest the Emperor statue.

The sculptor who commissioned its creation sculpted the Emperor's face with exquisite precision; beneath the laurel wreath, his closed eyes are bathed in sunlight. The stained glass alters the color of the sunlight, turning it golden and imbuing the statue with a transcendent power.

"Have they really seen the Emperor? "Tujea suddenly wondered.

If they haven't seen them, then whose deity are these statues we worship?

He paused for a moment, dispelling the heretical and blasphemous thought, and continued his search. He found nothing, but instead spotted his own coat hanging in a corner.

Moreover, its weight revealed something else— Tujea reached into his inner pocket and, sure enough, found his gun, with some rough scratches on the grip.

Tujea released his grip, letting the gun return to the bottom of his inner pocket. He took out a candy and ate it; as the sour taste exploded in his mouth, Tujea habitually glanced at the candy wrapper.

Never disappoint the Emperor, citizen!

I'll try my best.

Tujea folded the candy wrapper into a long strip, pulled up his hat, and tucked it behind his left ear. He walked to the side door of the church and slowly pushed it open.

At this moment, the small circular square in front of the church was already crowded with people. Tujea glanced at them briefly and judged that they were all low-level laborers or ordinary people engaged in some shady dealings.

At the same time, the aroma of food wafted into his nose.

Tujea frowned, and a guess slowly formed in his mind.

He instinctively didn't want to believe it, so he decided to see for himself. He walked out of the church and saw a familiar figure wearing thick gloves distributing food to the laborers in the center of the circular square.

He handed out cheap industrial bowls one after another, and then handed them back one after another.

Order? Tujea could hardly believe his eyes. No offense intended, but he had actually seen order?

He turned up the collar of his coat, half-closed the side door of the church, and silently squeezed into the crowd. A variety of smells assaulted his nostrils, none of them pleasant. He walked silently through the crowd, observing the identities of those who filled the square.

What he saw confirmed his suspicions: most of the people were manual laborers, dressed in shabby clothes. But there were also mothers with children and groups of teenagers.

They came from various backgrounds, and some of them were obviously thieves, according to Tujea. Instead of stealing, they stood obediently in the line, their hands always in their pockets, very deliberately, almost as a reminder.

"Yes, we are indeed thieves, but we don't steal anything here."

"I must be crazy," Tujea told himself.

The crowd was oblivious to this, continuing its silent, surging movement like a gray ocean. Tujea was like a silent, rootless reef, gradually being pushed to the forefront by the tide.

The aroma of food, along with the steam, hit his face directly, bringing a wave of warmth. Hunger surged up immediately, and only then did Tujea realize his current situation.

He looked down at the large wooden buckets placed on a handcart, the thin porridge floating and being stirred with an iron ladle, a large spoonful being scooped up. Finely chopped, unidentified fungi swirled inside before being poured into another gray bowl.

A hand wearing thick gloves handed it to you.

"The Emperor bless you, sir," Reverend Horst said with a smile.

Tujea nodded and silently accepted it.

He picked up the bowl, bewildered, and left the crowd. The porridge was still hot, its warmth spreading from his hands. Tujea slowly walked to a corner and began to eat.

His taste buds were greeted by a salty flavor; the porridge was fragrant, and the mushrooms were also very delicious.

A few minutes later, Tujea noticed him licking the rim of the porridge bowl with his tongue, savoring the aftertaste.

He lowered his hand and began to wait in the corner. About ten minutes later, the crowd that had filled the square dispersed one by one. The morning light of Litatera gradually emerged from the pale gray clouds, shining on everyone's shoulders.

Tujea exhaled a breath of stale air and slowly walked towards the pastor who was tidying up the cart and the gray bowls.

He quickly approached him, but the pastor did not look up, remaining intently focused on his cleaning work. So Tujea reached out and placed the bowl he had received into the pile of empty bowls on the cart.

This incident seemed to open up a new avenue for conversation in him.

Do you do this often?

"Once a week," Horst said.

His gloves were covered in stains from the thin porridge.

Why would you do such a thing?

What kind of thing?

"This kind of thing is not included in the Ecclesiarchy's doctrine of helping the poor; in some areas, it is even explicitly prohibited."

"Who told you I was helping the poor?" Horst looked up and asked rhetorically.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm giving back to these devout believers for their support of the church." The pastor took off his gloves, revealing a smile.

Tujea glanced down at his hands and saw no trace of blood. His nails were neatly trimmed with distinct knuckles, showing no signs of frequent sword handling. However, there were thick calluses on the inside of his right thumb and on the left side of the first joint of his index and middle fingers.

He clearly holds a pen every day and writes quite a lot, and not with a quill pen.

Copying scriptures? A guess formed in Tujea's mind. The Ecclesiarchy priests did indeed copy a wide variety of books daily, but this person...

Tujea frowned, forcing himself to clear his mind once again. He could no longer connect these hands with the bloodstained hands he had seen last night.

"Are they supporting you?" he asked, trying to soften his tone so the conversation sounded more like casual conversation than interrogation.

"Of course, the security around the church is maintained by all of them. Like I said, the second district of Litatera is a quiet little place; the law enforcement officers don't come here much. But it's still very quiet."

The pastor chuckled, turned around, pushed his cart, and went back into the church through the side door. Tujea followed him, closed the door for him, but continued to ask questions.

"You didn't kill me, why?"

"Why would I kill you?" the priest retorted again.

Tujea remained silent and did not answer.

The pastor pushed his cart through another door of the church, behind which was probably where he lived.

A few minutes later, he emerged wearing a white robe that only priests could wear, his pure skull swaying in front of his chest, and a string of prayer beads bound to his right hand.

"I am the priest of the God-Emperor, I do not kill," the priest said calmly.

For a moment, Tujea was at a loss for words to refute.

He remained silent, while the priest began to speak eloquently. The statue of the Emperor behind him closed its eyes in contemplation, and for some reason, the sense of compassion seemed to have diminished. Tujea removed his hat and began to listen to the strange priest's words.

"Actually, Mr. Tujea, what you should be more concerned about right now is not me, but that nobleman who wants to capture you. Even if he's engrossed in the party, he should have realized something's wrong by now. You'll soon be facing more pursuers, and they won't take me or this church seriously."

The pastor squinted.

"Unbelievers." He uttered this word lightly, and a chill suddenly descended upon him.

Tujea gripped his hat tightly.

"In short, you have many things to consider. But you don't need to worry too much. Litatera is a very inclusive city where anyone can find a way to survive. You are no exception, Mr. Tujea. Also, do you need any advice?"

What suggestions?

"Change your clothes," the pastor said, gesturing. "We're in a small town, and news travels fast in small places. They might not know what you look like, but they probably already know what you're wearing."

"Therefore, if you are interested in this, you can look for a lady named Anais. Her shop is just east of the church, with a pure white sign that's easy to spot. Trust me, Mr. Tujea, you'll be amazed by her craftsmanship."

Tujea nodded silently, no longer hesitating. He put on his hat and prepared to leave; he had already made up his mind.

The priest named Horst was shrouded in mystery, as was the church. But none of that was his immediate concern. His priority was to survive and report everything that had happened on Litatera to his superiors.

A nobleman who dared to murder Adeptus Arbites investigator. Who knows what else he might do? Tujea disliked Litatera, but he wouldn't stand idly by and watch someone's conspiracy fester in this world.

He walked toward the side door, but the pastor called him back at that moment.

"Oh, by the way, sir. There's one more thing."

"What is it?" Tujea asked without turning his head.

How did that bowl of porridge taste?

". very nice."

"Is that so? That's good." The pastor smiled and nodded, watching him leave the church.

The side door closed, and the footsteps faded into the distance, but he still maintained his smile. A few seconds later, a voice came from behind the tallest the Emperor statue.

What do you think he will do?

"I don't know, maybe it's a case of using killing to stop killing," the pastor said. "I'm looking forward to seeing his faith crumble."