Images of the first two outposts flashed through Dominic's mind.
The orderly Monastery No. 331, the epidemic prevention line with the roar of gunfire, the mysterious apostle in gray robes, and the lieutenant general in the soldiers' words who was eager to claim credit.
The clues, like a tangled mess of oil-soaked hemp, were entangled under Brevis's dim sky.
But he hadn't forgotten that the secret letter also contained a third set of coordinates, a place designated as a "Level 1 Safe Resettlement Zone" by the Brevis authorities.
According to the Governor's Office's public announcement, it was one of the few untouched areas in the Lower City that had not been ravaged by the plague, and it was also one of the strongholds where the Plague Cleansing Cult specifically settled surviving disaster victims.
The official announcement was written in a grand and impressive manner, stating that food was plentiful, medical care was complete, and order was maintained, making it a model for post-disaster reconstruction.
Dominic, having traveled this far, has seen many of the "official rhetoric" from the Hive City.
The more perfect a place is touted to be, the dirtier the secrets it often hides.
They entered the underground world and approached the coordinates along the network of pipes, their footsteps extremely light.
The sapphire ring on his middle finger emanated a constant coolness, completely erasing any trace of his Psychic Power.
The two Sisters of Silence beside him were like two silent shadows, their footsteps falling silently, their breaths almost blending into the darkness.
The deeper you go, the cleaner the surrounding environment becomes.
There were no more rotting corpses and sewage everywhere, and the mold on the walls had also decreased significantly.
But the Aquila reliefs carved at intervals, like those in the monastery, have subtle, distorted details along the edges of their wings.
Faint human voices drifted from the end of the passage, noisy and numb, like a group of soulless puppets whispering.
Dominic lay in the shadows at the entrance of the passage, looking up.
It was a huge underground plaza, which was originally supposed to be a large freight distribution center for the Lower City.
The dome is tens of meters high, and thick load-bearing columns are wrapped with winding pipes.
At this moment, thousands of disaster victims who had just been evacuated from the epidemic area are gathered here, densely packed in the center of the square.
Most of them were dressed in rags, emaciated, and their eyes held a bewilderment and numbness from surviving a catastrophe.
Some people sat on the ground holding their already cold children, some huddled in corners shivering, and others muttered incomprehensible gibberish over and over.
This is what disaster victims should look like.
Dominic frowned slightly.
He had read countless disaster relief manuals issued by the Imperium Administratum the Interior and knew clearly that in this galaxy ravaged by Chaos and Xenos, winning a battle was never the end.
The truly difficult task is always post-war appeasement.
Ordinary people who have not been tempered by faith and lack a strong physique often have minds as fragile as a sheet of paper.
People like this have witnessed their own kind mutate and devour their relatives, heard the howls of zombies in the dead of night, and teetered on the brink of death countless times.
Such people are most prone to developing negative emotions such as despair and fear.
And these emotions are precisely the best nourishment for Chaos.
This is how it is in so many worlds: the front lines repel the army of Chaos, but the rear collapses due to the suffering of the refugees.
This allowed the forces of Chaos to take advantage of the situation, ultimately leading to the collapse of the entire realm.
Logically, those who survived this plague of Nurgle would also suffer severe psychological trauma.
But when he saw the new recruits waiting to be drafted, most of them were numb and obedient, and very few of them broke down hysterically.
He originally thought the selection process was strict, only choosing people with strong willpower.
Even today, he sees the "guards" surrounding the square.
Those were dozens of armed apostles clad in heavy Power Armour.
Unlike the ordinary believers in the monastery who wore gray robes, these apostles were covered in finely crafted dark purple Power Armour.
The armor was engraved with intricate patterns, and the shoulders and breastplate were adorned with dark gold sacred eagle motifs.
At first glance, it looks quite similar to some legitimate Imperium armed forces.
Their visors were tightly closed, and they held elongated Lasgun in their hands. They stood upright like pine trees, exuding a chilling aura.
Rather than a sectarian guard, they were more like a well-trained elite force.
They were scattered around the square, keeping thousands of disaster victims firmly in the center.
There were no shouts or shoves, but the invisible pressure kept all the disaster victims from making the slightest move.
The sense of absurdity instantly gripped Dominic's heart.
This is hardly a "safe haven"; it's clearly an open-air prison.
The so-called resettlement of disaster victims was nothing more than gathering them together and keeping them under strict control like livestock.
But he suppressed the urge to rush out immediately.
He wanted to see what these people were up to by gathering so many disaster victims here.
Not long after, the metal gate on the other side of the square slowly rose.
The heavy pressure valve hissed loudly, and a figure slowly walked out from behind the door.
It was a woman.
She wore a set of exquisitely crafted Power Armour in purple and gold, with smooth and majestic lines. The gothic shoulder guards were raised high and the edges were inlaid with fine gold patterns.
She wasn't wearing a face mask, revealing a face that could be described as perfect.
With a high, straight nose, a cold, sharp lip line, and deep purple eyes as dark as the night sky, every move he made exuded an innate aristocratic air.
It felt as if I wasn't standing in the filthy Lower City, but rather in the royal cathedral of the Uptown.
The most striking feature is her bald head.
His smooth scalp was completely hairless, and under the dim lights of the square, it gleamed with a faint jade-like hue.
This appearance is very similar to those highly respected high-ranking bishops in the Ecclesiarchy.
After all, in the tradition of the Ecclesiarchy, many high-ranking clergy shave their heads to show their piety to the God-Emperor and to cast aside worldly distractions.
Of course, advanced age also plays a role.
She held a staff as tall as a person in her hand, the staff was made of dark gold metal, and the top was inlaid with a perfectly cut purple gemstone.
Inside the gemstone, a faint, swirling light emanated, like solidified Psychic Power flames.
The moment the woman stood still, the previously noisy and chaotic square became eerily quiet.
All the disaster victims instinctively looked up, their eyes involuntarily drawn to her.
The hysterical cries stopped, the numb whispers disappeared, and even the breathing became much softer.
The Sisters of Silence beside Dominic stirred slightly, her fingertips resting on the hilt of the Power Sword at her waist.
There are Psychic Power fluctuations.
It's very gentle, but has extremely strong penetrating power.
The two exchanged a glance for a moment, and Dominic's brow furrowed even more.
Psyker, and not a weak one at that.
How could a folk religious sect in a Lower City harbor Psyker of this level?
The next second, a woman's voice rang out.
Her voice wasn't loud, but it had a strange penetrating power, clearly reaching the ears of everyone in the square.
Like icy stream water flowing over a burning wound, it carries a strange, soothing power.
"Lost people."
She spoke, her voice calm and solemn, "You need not be afraid."
"The plague you see, the ruins beneath your feet, the loved ones you have lost... none of these are calamities."
Her purple eyes swept across the room, her gaze filled with both compassion and the authority of a superior.
"This is the God-Emperor's trial."
As soon as the first sentence was spoken, a slight commotion arose in the crowd.
Dominic sneered.
It's that same old, tired rhetoric again; even the priests of the Ecclesiarchy always say the same thing during disaster relief.
But most of the time, these words are no different from nonsense to disaster victims on the verge of collapse.
But the woman didn't stop.
Her voice continued to flow, accompanied by extremely faint, almost imperceptible Psychic Power ripples, like a fine spider web, silently covering the minds of every disaster victim.
" The God-Emperor tempers your bodies with plague and refines your souls with fear."
"The weak, the defiled, and the impure will all turn to ashes in this trial."
"And you, those who survived."
She raised her voice, and the purple gem at the tip of her staff glowed faintly, "You yourselves are miracles."
"These are pure seeds, personally selected by the God-Emperor from among billions of lost souls."
The commotion in the crowd gradually subsided.
Someone raised their head, and for the first time, light appeared in their cloudy eyes.
Some people let go of the body they were holding and looked blankly at the figure on the high platform.
Those deep-seated fears and despairs seemed to be gently supported by these words, no longer overwhelming them like a tide.
Dominic's expression gradually turned serious.
He recognized it.
This isn't just simple comfort; it's a reshaping of perceptions!