If this place could still be called an industrial district...
The old tank factory where he had made his fortune had already been buried beneath ruins by Ork artillery fire. Who knew how long it would take to clear all this away?
Those workers... oh, right, those citizens and scavengers who had poured in from the lower and middle hive levels could only be wished good luck.
The industrial district's terrain was complex, and people flowed everywhere.
The attacks they faced were scattered, coming from every direction.
The Ork special forces who had infiltrated the area lurked in the shadows, attacking workers who had stepped away from the endlessly running production lines to catch their breath.
They skinned their scalps and stuck them in every corner, using fear to crush their morale.
Still, this was not entirely bad... After seeing what had happened to their companions, those still clinging to false hopes gave up the foolish notion of compromising with the Orks.
People were resilient. With only the barest food rations, they could unleash astonishing willpower and endurance.
People were also fragile. A long, hopeless, brutal war could shatter their minds, and bodies scorched by the heat of molten iron would collapse as well.
Yarrick had left, taking every combat-capable unit with him. All that remained at Domisilon's side were some gang enforcers, along with the far more numerous workers and militia.
He had survived through his cunning, his familiarity with the lower hive's sewers, and traps, holding out until the Orks withdrew.
Silently sitting down on a half-burned sofa, Domisilon casually pressed out a wavering flame with his finger and looked over his office.
This office where he had spent several decades contained quite a few hides from monsters in the hive sewers, along with realistic paintings commissioned from