Lower City was and how rampant the plague was, it was perfectly normal for a new sect to emerge in such chaotic times.
In the face of an epidemic, it is only natural for some people to use the banner of "purifying the disease" to win over the hearts and minds of the people.
However, we can't completely disregard what Venka said.
The Ecclesiarchy has zero tolerance for unauthorized sects. If things really escalate, even he can't suppress them.
"Bishop, please calm down." Dominic put down his notes, his tone softening.
I roughly understand what happened.
"But to conclude that the governor condones heresy based solely on the testimonies of a few low-ranking recruits is far too arbitrary."
"The situation in the Lower City is complex; sectarian movements often arise overnight, and the governor's office may not be able to keep up in time."
"I don't think so..." Venka was about to say something, but Dominic raised his hand to interrupt him.
"Rest assured, Bishop, I will investigate this matter," Dominic said confidently.
"If it truly is a heretical cult, I will never tolerate it."
"But before the investigation is completed, please remain calm and do not let it affect the Tithe handover."
"After all, delivering 3 billion troops on time is our primary task for this trip."
He emphasized the words "top priority," the subtext of which was clear: don't let sectarian matters interfere with important matters.
Bishop Venka, of course, understood.
He stared at Dominic for a few seconds, knowing that the other party had already made concessions, and that pushing further would only backfire.
He snorted heavily, gripped his scepter, and turned around. "I hope the Major General will keep his word."
Before leaving, he turned his head, revealing eyes filled with murderous intent.
"The glory of the God-Emperor cannot tolerate the slightest blemish."
After saying that, he turned and left, the corner of his red robe sweeping across the door frame, exuding a fierce aura.
The room returned to silence.
Dominic leaned back in his chair and rubbed his throbbing temples.
There's just one problem after another.
Dorito, a strange cult emerged in the Lower City.
He didn't believe Lynn would deliberately condone heresy, but a sliver of doubt inevitably crept into his mind.
The timing of this Plague Cleansing Cult's emergence was too coincidental; it appeared right after the outbreak of the plague, and its development speed was ridiculously fast.
In just over ten days, they were able to infiltrate the first batch of recruits, which shows they are no ordinary folk cult.
Moreover, Venka was right about one thing.
Is the Governor's Office truly unaware of such a large religious sect?
Dominic rubbed his temples and began to think about how to investigate.
Torture like Venka? No way.
People from the Lower City may appear weak on the surface, but they are rebellious to the core.
The more they fight, the more defiant they become, and the more likely they are to incite public anger, which could lead to a mutiny among the soldiers and cause even greater trouble.
He's a soldier, but that doesn't mean he doesn't understand human nature.
To deal with these new recruits who are used to working their way up from the bottom, a hard approach won't work; you have to use a softer one.
Dominic pressed the communicator and called his adjutant, "Go, fetch Sergeant Hoffman."
Hoffman was a well-known veteran in the fleet, having spent thirty years in the Astra Militarum before transferring to the Navy. He had dealt with all sorts of people.
He excels at dealing with rank-and-file soldiers; he can talk the dead back to life.
Let him lead a group to extract information; that's a hundred times more effective than the torture instruments of the Ecclesiarchy.
Not long after, a burly old soldier with an old scar on his face entered and saluted respectfully.
"Major General, you wanted to see me?"
"Hmm." Dominic pointed to the interrogation records on the table.
"Among the new recruits at Starport, there's an organization called the Plague Cleansing Cult. Take a few veterans with good communication skills and go investigate."
Hoffman raised an eyebrow. "Just arrest them?"
"No." Dominic shook his head.
"Don't put on airs, and don't interrogate."
"As a veteran, I'd go over and chat with them, offer some 'spiritual rations,' and talk about life in the Lower City and the plague."
"Remember, do it slowly, and don't let them notice."
He thought for a moment, then added, "The key is to find out what kind of sect this is, who its leader is, and what they usually do."
"And what god do they actually believe in?"
"Understood." Hoffman grinned, revealing a few teeth stained yellow by tobacco.
"Leave this small matter to me."
The veteran was indeed efficient.
That afternoon, he took a few veterans, along with several packets of cheap tobacco and two barrels of diluted malt liquor, and strolled over to the new recruits' temporary rest area.
The rest area was a large communal sleeping area temporarily partitioned off with alloy panels. Hundreds of new recruits were crammed into it, and the air was filled with the smell of sweat and the Lower City.
Most people sat silently, their eyes vacant, either staring blankly or sleeping.
As soon as Hoffman went in, he found a corner to sit down, opened his cigarette pack and tossed one to a few recruits next to him, then lit one for himself with a lighter.
"New here?" He exhaled a smoke ring and asked casually, "Which district of Lower City?"
The new recruits were initially wary, clutching their cigarettes but not daring to smoke.
But seeing Hoffman in his faded sergeant's uniform, with no officer's arrogance on his face, but rather a rough, unrefined air that comes from working at the bottom, my guard lowered a bit.
"Near the No. 13 sewage pipe in the Lower City," a young man with a scar on his face replied softly.
"Sir, you... you're also from Hive City?"
"Me? My hometown is in the Hive City of Calion III, which is even dirtier than this wretched place of yours." Hoffman chuckled and kicked the wine barrel next to him.
"Here, have a drink? Don't be shy, you won't get any once we're on the battlefield."
He opened the barrel and poured the murky liquid into the bucket for several people.
The aroma of malt mixed with the smell of alcohol spread, and the eyes of several new recruits lit up.
Life in the Lower City was tough; alcohol and cigarettes were luxuries.
The old soldier in front of them not only gave them cigarettes and alcohol, but also chatted with them about things in the Lower City. There was no scolding or stun gun. This was a kindness they had rarely encountered in their lives.
After a few drinks, they started talking non-stop.
They talked about everything from the stench of sewage pipes to gang warfare, from moldy nutritional paste to the devastation after a plague outbreak.
When the topic of the plague came up, the faces of the new recruits all darkened.
"Back then, I really thought I was going to die." A blond youth took a big gulp of wine, his voice muffled.
"The people around me mutated one by one, turning into man-eating monsters."
"We hid in the abandoned factory, without food or water, just waiting to rot there."
"And then?" Hoffman asked, following up on the question.
"Later, the people from the Plague Cleansing Cult came," the young man said.
"Wearing a gray robe and a mask, so you can't see her face."
"They brought food and clean water."
"The leading apostle can tell if you're sick just by placing his hand on your forehead; it's incredibly accurate."
Another tall, thin recruit next to him nodded in agreement. "Yes, you can tell even those in the incubation period."
"My neighbor's older brother didn't have any symptoms at all, but they still managed to find out."
Hoffman's heart skipped a beat, but his face remained impassive:
"Wow! That's amazing! Even the Tech-Priest's detector isn't this accurate."
"What about the infected people who were identified? Were they killed?"
"It's not exactly killing." The tall, thin man shook his head, his tone complex.
"They'll try to reason with you, saying that once you get the disease, it's incurable, living is just suffering, and you'll also bring trouble to your family."
"They say this is a test sent down by the God-Emperor; if you walk into the fire, your soul can return to the God-Emperor's side."
"Most people are willing to go," the blond youth added.
"Since we're going to die anyway, a more dignified death might at least bring some food to our families."
"They really do distribute food to the surviving families; they're not lying."
"What about those who aren't sick?"
"Those who aren't sick should join the church and follow them." The young man scratched his head.
"They say that if you join the religion, you'll have a place to live, food to eat, and protection from plague."
"It was by following them that we survived until we were drafted."
"Speaking of which... we should thank them."
Hoffman listened quietly, occasionally taking a puff of his cigarette.
This sect doesn't sound like a cult.
They didn't engage in sacrifices or incite people to cause destruction; instead, they were doing disaster relief and saving lives—they were quite benevolent.
He then asked, "Now that you've joined the religion, what gods do you worship? Do you worship Chaos Gods?"
Upon hearing this, the new recruits turned pale with fright and waved their hands frantically.
"Sir, don't talk nonsense! We worship the Emperor, the God-Emperor!"
"The sect says they came to save people on the orders of the God-Emperor. Their doctrine is similar to what the church says, except... it's more practical."
"Yes, we worship the Emperor!" the tall, thin man emphasized.
"The only difference is the prayer gesture; everything else is the same. It's definitely not some evil god!"
Hoffman asked a few more questions, about who the sect leader was and where the headquarters was, but the recruits all shook their heads and said they didn't know.
They only knew that the most powerful one was called " Priest," but no one had ever seen his true face. Usually, it was the apostles below who did the work.
After they had finished chatting, Hoffman left them half a pack of cigarettes and left the rest area with his men.