Day 36, Year 988, 41st Millennium
Hive Kathion
Hive Spire
After long, grueling hours of processing mountain-sized stacks of paperwork and making life-or-death decisions for half the population of the Hive City, Valen Korvax finally dragged himself out of his stifling office. He was exhausted and weary of the endless toil. However, he felt fortunate that the negotiation with the Mechanicus had succeeded. Soon, the manufacturums in his sector would resume normal operations, likely with even greater efficiency. He would no longer need to work the laborers twenty hours a day, which would significantly reduce the risk of rebellion and civil unrest.
Still, the matter of the Planetary Governor's appointment weighed heavily on his mind. No one knew for sure who would be chosen. The various noble representatives offered little useful information during meetings, which dissolved into the usual bickering over power. Though Valen and several other nobles remained neutral, he feared the consequences if a representative from one of the more extreme factions took the throne.
There were three primary candidates for the governorship, and Valen knew little of them beyond basic dossiers—information that suggested each could pose a severe threat to House Korvax and his own stability.
Duke Tras Kegemon: Leader of House Kegemon and ruler of Hive Wyvern. An ambitious strategist and a warmonger at heart, even if he didn't show it openly. To someone versed in psychology like Valen, Tras's demeanor suggested a man ready to crush other houses to consolidate absolute power.
Lady Annes Litus: Leader of House Litus, ruler of Hive Nomos on the other side of Opell III. Though she showed no outward signs of cunning or aggression, the fact that she looked like a young girl despite being 200 years old gave Valen an instinctual sense of unease.
Baron Franklin Most: Leader of House Most. A devious noble with countless illegal businesses and a repertoire of underhanded tactics used to dismantle his enemies.
Regardless of who won, Valen knew he would be affected. He had to prepare contingencies to protect his authority and the stability of his domain.
He walked toward his only place of solace—a private retreat where he could reflect in silence, away from the prying eyes of the world. Before him lay a massive botanical garden covering over four acres at the very peak of the spire, where the air was filtered to absolute purity. This garden was not filled with delicate roses or lilies; instead, it housed rare, hardy flora from distant stars—flowers with strange shapes, thick petals resistant to any climate, and vibrant leaves that glowed under the high-ceilinged luminators.
The value of these plants was immeasurable. As a child, he loved spending time here. The garden had been established thousands of years ago by the ancestors of House Korvax and had been preserved through generations. No leader of the house had ever dared to dismantle it.
Valen strolled along the marble path with a cold, graceful stride. Despite his exhaustion, he felt a flicker of peace. His handsome, stoic face scanned the greenery until his eyes caught a small imperfection at the base of a bright blue flower.
It was a tiny weed, poking through a seam in the soil.
Valen stopped instantly. He knelt, not out of humility, but out of necessity. His black-gloved hand reached out and plucked the weed with surgical precision, tossing it aside with indifference. He could not tolerate even a minor blemish; it disrupted the perfection of his garden.
Suddenly, he heard a sound—the sound of someone holding their breath in terror. As he began to turn, a voice cried out.
"My... My Lord Valen! Please, forgive me!"
A young woman, one of the family's hereditary gardeners who had served here since birth, came running and threw herself onto her knees. She trembled like a frightened bird, her forehead pressed against the cold marble.
"It was my negligence! I failed to see the weed... Please, punish me, but do not cast my family out!" she stammered in terror. She knew all too well that most Hive nobles responded to the slightest error with death or horrific punishment.
Valen frowned slightly, looking at the shaking woman with empty eyes. He remembered that when he was a child, a previous gardening family had failed to maintain the grounds. His father, a man far colder and more brutal than Valen, had punished them by turning the entire family into Servitors, sparing only this girl.
She had served faithfully ever since, eventually starting her own family within the spire. It was logical why she was so afraid. However, he truly didn't understand the depth of her terror. Though he was cold and had issued many ruthless orders, he didn't consider himself a petty tyrant. To him, pulling a single weed was not a capital offense. Punishing a skilled laborer over such a trifle was a gross waste of human resources.
"Stand up," Valen said, his voice flat and cold but commanding.
The gardener flinched but slowly looked up at her master.
"Why are you wailing?" Valen asked, brushing soil from his glove. "It was a single weed. I have pulled it. The problem is resolved. I do not have the time to waste on ordering punishments for such trivialities."
"B-but..." the gardener stuttered.
"Stop apologizing and stop being annoying. Otherwise, I will have you turned into a Servitor like the rest of your kin," Valen interrupted, his face showing genuine boredom. The woman's face paled further as the threat touched her deepest trauma.
"Go back to your work. Tend to these flowers as well as you always have. That is your duty. If you cannot do it, I will find a new gardener. Now, go."
Valen turned his back and continued his walk, feeling slightly annoyed, leaving the woman paralyzed with a mix of relief and lingering fear.
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Day 36, Year 988, 41st Millennium
CRUNCH!
The sound of the crushed can echoed like a gunshot in the silence of the dust-choked wasteland. Eric froze. His heart hammered against his ribs, his eyes wide with panic behind the glass lenses of his mask.
The Ork Boyz, standing about 20 meters away, stiffened. It slowly turned its massive, neckless head toward the source of the sound. As the creature lumbered closer out of curiosity, Eric crouched behind the rock, paralyzed. He didn't dare run yet; he didn't know if the beast was faster than him.
Suddenly, the Ork rounded the rock.
Savage red eyes locked onto him. Eric had no choice but to stand and face it. Up close, without the yellow dust obscuring his view, the Ork was terrifyingly massive. Though hunched over, its arms and shoulders were thick with dense, corded muscle—stronger than any bodybuilder Eric had seen in his old life. Its face was a nightmare of dirty yellow tusks and twitching, pointed ears.
The Ork stared at Eric with confusion for a moment before peeling back its lips in a dark, toothy grin.
"Wot's dis? A masky-gitz? Where'd you crawl out from, eh?"
It spoke in a harsh, distorted version of Low Gothic. Eric was stunned that it could communicate at all. In most fantasy media—except perhaps Warcraft—orcs were usually mindless monsters. Seeing that this one could speak gave him a desperate sliver of hope.
Eric gathered his courage, stood as tall as his shaking legs would allow, and shouted through his gas mask.
"Listen! I don't want any trouble! I'm just trying to get back to the Hive City! You go your way, I go mine! We don't have to fight! I have nothing for you!"
His voice came out muffled and strained. He tried to negotiate to prevent a fight, even as his mind screamed about the absurdity of talking to a literal Ork.
The Ork Boyz, whose name was Brugg, tilted its head, processing the "humie's" words with its meager brain. It looked at the small kitchen knife Eric held, then at the round glass eyes of the mask, and let out a booming laugh that stirred the dust around them.
"Yappin' a lot, ain't ya, tiny! I don't care where you're goin'. Brugg don't care 'bout talkin'. Brugg cares 'bout Krumpin'! Come 'ere! Fight me, humie!"
Brugg raised his "Choppa"—a massive slab of rusted iron—above his head and charged.
SWISH!
The heavy blade whistled through the air. Eric dove to the left, narrowly avoiding a strike that would have cleaved him in two. His heart raced even faster, but he noticed something surprising. While the Ork was incredibly powerful and terrifying, its fighting style was... predictable. Straightforward. Even a bit slow compared to the PDF soldiers who had once sparred with him. It lacked finesse or complexity; it simply swung with raw, murderous force.
I can dodge it... I can actually dodge this! Eric thought, ducking under another wide swing.
"Arrgh! Masky-gitz!" Brugg roared, his ears twitching with annoyance. He began stomping his heavy feet, swinging wildly. "Stop jumpin' 'round like a Grot! Fight back! Fight like a humie's s'posed to!"
Eric didn't waste his breath. He focused on maintaining his distance. He knew he couldn't win a test of strength—the Ork's arms were thicker than Eric's legs. He had to stay calm and find a way to escape. But if he turned and ran now, the beast would likely run him down.
Eric bit his lip hard. The pressure was mounting, and he knew he would eventually tire out. He had to take a risk.
He waited for Brugg to overextend on a massive swing. As the Ork stumbled slightly, Eric decided that getting close was too dangerous, but he had to disable it. Recalling a scene from a movie, he aimed for the Ork's face and threw his kitchen knife with all his might.
THUD!
Reality, however, was not a movie. Eric had zero knife-throwing skills. The blade tumbled clumsily through the air, and instead of the sharp point, the heavy handle of the knife smacked Brugg squarely on the bridge of his flat nose.
"OW! You gitz!"
Brugg paused, clutching his nose as dark blood began to leak out. His red eyes flared with primal rage at the insult of being hit by a knife handle. Eric realized his only weapon was now gone. He was empty-handed and defenseless.
He didn't wait. Eric spun around and sprinted toward the distant silhouette of the Hive City, running as if his life depended on it—because it did.
"HEY! Stop runnin' like a Grot!" Brugg's roar echoed behind him, followed by the heavy thud of massive footsteps. "Come back 'ere... Come be Brugg's lunch!"
The word "lunch" sent a jolt of pure terror through Eric's body, pushing him to run faster than he ever had in his life. His gray coat snapped in the wind, his breath coming in ragged gasps inside the mask.
_Lunch?! In your dreams! No way I'm letting a green monster eat me!_ Eric screamed internally, zigzagging through piles of scrap and debris to break the Ork's line of sight.
After nearly two kilometers of frantic sprinting, Eric's legs felt like lead. Every breath through the mask's filter sounded like a dying engine. The heat trapped inside his layers of clothing was becoming unbearable. Sweat soaked his inner shirts and made the rubber seal of the mask slip against his face, causing a stinging irritation.
_I can't... I can't go on..._
Eric spotted a large, rusted metal pipe protruding from a mound of industrial waste. It was old and corroded, but wide enough for him to crawl inside. He used his last bit of strength to scramble into the pipe, backing in deep enough so that the external light wouldn't give him away.
He sat curled in the dark, cramped space, trying to stifle his heavy breathing. He strained his ears for the sound of heavy boots, wondering if Orks could track by scent.
Outside, the dim sunlight faded rapidly. The brutal night of Opell III descended, and the temperature began to plummet.
Survived another day... Eric thought, a mix of despair and tiny pride welling up. He had escaped being an Ork's meal.
If Vann thinks this is 'training,' the man is a total psychopath, Eric cursed. He had expected proper drills and instruction, not being dumped in a wasteland filled with fantasy monsters like Orks and who-knows-what-else.
He pulled his coat tight against the chill of the metal pipe. It was a temporary sanctuary, but his mind raced with worry over his dwindling food and water. The remaining 20 kilometers felt like an eternity.
As the adrenaline faded, the physical toll hit him. His stomach cramped with hunger, but he forced himself not to touch his rations. He knew the next leg of the journey would be harder. Then there was the sharp, stinging pain in his feet. His combat boots, while protective, were beginning to give him terrible blisters.
He sat in the pitch-black pipe, listening to the wind howl through the scrap heaps. It sounded like ghostly screams. Cold, hungry, and in pain, Eric found himself longing for his warm bed in the Upper Hive, for the smell of sweets, or even for that cheap liquid food—anything but this.
If I get back, I'll never complain about the food again...
He curled into a ball, trying to find sleep in the most miserable conditions he had ever faced. He knew he had to rest. Tomorrow, he would have to do it all over again.