"I admire your audacity, Cyril. You're the first person who has ever dared to threaten me, Morozha, to my face while making so many demands."
"Men, bring the box up!"
Two gang enforcers reeking of machine oil carried in a heavy metal box, dropping it with a clang onto the blood-stained floor.
The box wasn't large, about the size of a helmet, its surface covered in rust. All the seams had been crudely welded shut, with slag bulging out like tumors.
On the side, a line of Adeptus Mechanicus warning runes had been worn down until only half-legible, faintly revealing an ominous dark red hue.
Morozha toyed with the still-idling chainblade dagger, the teeth grinding against the air and producing a grating whine.
"Since you claim to have the gift of prophecy, then prophesy what's inside this hunk of metal." Morozha's red cybernetic eye zoomed in and out, his mechanical limb clawing deep grooves into the armrest. "Guess right, and we talk business. Guess wrong, and you become our business."
The surrounding gang members let out a low, rumbling laugh, like spectators waiting for a gladiator to be torn apart by lions.
Cyril did not answer immediately.
He paced around the box, his leather shoes making squelching sounds in the sticky blood pools.
The smell was pungent.
Besides rust and machine oil, there was also a sour stench.
A dark brown liquid seeped from the bottom of the box, still damp.
He stopped and glanced at the enforcers who carried the box. They kept their heads down, their eyes involuntarily darting aside, unable to look at the box directly.
One of them had speckled bloodstains on his trouser leg, a telltale sign of high-velocity spatter.
Then he looked at Morozha.
This tyrant loved to display violence, loved to hang fear on the wall like a medal. The man who was skinned alive earlier was just an appetizer. What was in this box was the main course.
A freshly dead traitor.
And a traitor of no small standing. Otherwise, such a ceremonial method of sealing would not be necessary.
Cyril stopped before the box and extended his gloved right hand, hovering three inches above the metal surface.
[System Prompt: Consume 10 deception value to activate 'Spiritual Sight (Visual Effects Version)'?]
[Current deception value balance: 35.]
Activate.
Vmm—!!
The air trembled. Cyril's originally pitch-black pupils were instantly covered by a layer of flowing pale golden light. Several twisted holographic rune projections appeared beneath his palm, their light dancing on the rusted metal surface as if some ancient sorcery were analyzing the structure of matter.
The surrounding laughter stopped abruptly. The enforcers instinctively took a step back, their gun barrels trembling.
In their eyes, this pale man was touching death with his soul.
But in Cyril's eyes, this was just a gamble you could win if you had the guts.
"Adult male." Cyril's voice became ethereal, as if coming from a deep well. "Time of death less than six hours. Died in great pain. No, more accurately, died in utter despair."
Morozha's finger holding the chainblade froze.
Cyril's finger traced the outline of the contents in the air.
Cyril withdrew his hand, the rune light in his palm shattering into countless specks before dissipating.
He turned around and stared directly into Morozha's flickering cybernetic eye.
"This is a human head."
Dead silence.
Even the sound of breathing vanished from the entire Execution Room, leaving only the dying gasps of a distant ventilation fan.
Morozha stared fixedly at Cyril, the servomotor of his mechanical limb emitting an overloaded hum. A few seconds later, he suddenly grinned, revealing a mouthful of uneven rotten teeth and several metal implants.
"Not bad, you scum."
He violently swung the chainblade dagger.
Screech!
Sparks flew. The high-speed spinning teeth cut into the weld seam. Amid the ear-piercing metallic shriek, the lid was violently torn off, clattering to the floor beside Cyril's feet.
A stench of blood so thick it was nauseating instantly burst forth.
The box was filled with preservative gel, a ghastly pale human head soaking inside.
Its mouth was wide open, hollow and empty. Its eye sockets were two dark, bloody holes.
"It's Silas Six." Scarface's legs went weak, almost buckling when he recognized the head. "Silas Six who managed the accounts... He was drinking just yesterday..."
[System Alert: Detected 'Morozha' awe-level moderate emotional fluctuation and Black Hand Gang core members generating awe-level significant emotional fluctuations.]
[Deception value +10.]
[Deception value +2+2+2+2+2]
[Current balance: 45.]
Looking at the head, Cyril wasn't really shocked. After all, he'd been watching Titans in the Lower Nest for a few months, so he had developed some immunity. He only felt a slight twinge in his gut.
But he had to stay composed and project an air of weariness toward death.
He pulled a handkerchief from his coat, covered his nose and mouth, and took half a step back with a look of disdain.
"Spare me these tedious tests next time. The smell of the dead isn't pleasant, especially fools like this."
Morozha switched off the chainblade dagger and tossed it back onto the table casually. The look in his eyes toward Cyril had changed.
It was no longer the look reserved for a lamb awaiting slaughter, but rather the look given to an equally dangerous wolf.
"Mr. Cyril, please forgive my rudeness. This is the bloody Lower Nest, after all, not as warm as the Upper Nest." Morozha settled back into his Rusty Throne, his mechanical fingers tapping the armrest in a steady rhythm.
He didn't fully believe, but in this world, people with strange abilities could appear at any time. Morozha believed about seventy to eighty percent, and that was enough.
"Since you've demonstrated your precognitive ability, I'll give you a chance to prove your worth. After all, what you're asking for is the entire Black Hand Gang intelligence network, resource channels, and my fundamental underground facilities that allow me to stand firm in the Lower Nest. What you can offer isn't enough to balance that."
Those underground facilities were an old-era armory and a dilapidated gene-modification chamber.
Morozha pulled a grease-stained electronic map from a hidden compartment behind him and threw it in front of Cyril.
"That bastard Crow from the Iron Crow Gang recently got his hands on a shipment. The red-robed ones from the Adeptus Mechanicus specifically requested it."
Morozha leaned forward, his one good left eye gleaming with greed.
"But Crow has hidden the goods extremely well. The delivery should be happening in the next few days. I want you to find it and bring it back. This will make the Iron Crow Gang lose the favor of the Adeptus Mechanicus and prevent them from stopping the expansion of our Black Hand Gang. I, Morozha, once a Sergeant of the 7th Airborne Regiment of the Astra Militarum's Antioch, swear on the Emperor's name that upon success, you shall be my Strategist. The resources of the Black Hand Gang are yours to command, provided it ensures the gang's survival."
Cyril picked up the map. It marked an abandoned power station in the Lower Nest, precisely the Iron Crow Gang's stronghold.
"Deal, respected Sergeant."
Cyril tucked the map into his coat, wasted no words, turned, and prepared to leave first to plan the next steps.
"Scar, pick some capable men. If you can't meet Mr. Cyril's demands, don't come back to see me."
Scarface, who had been trying to sneak away, could only hurriedly follow Cyril. Passing the box, he practically plastered himself against the wall, terrified of catching even a whiff of its bad luck.
Just as the airlock door was about to open, Cyril's footsteps paused for a moment.
In a dark corner of the Execution Room sat a bronze-colored incense burner, emitting faint wisps of pale purple smoke. The scent was subtle, almost completely masked by the smell of blood, but that unique, cloyingly sweet aroma hooked into one's nerves like a grappling hook.
Slaanesh pleasure incense.
And on the wall above the incense burner, in the gear prayer originally used to praise the Omnissiah, several phrases had been retraced with dark red paint. Seemingly repairs, but in reality, alterations.
Changed "Praise the Singing Gears" to "Praise the Screaming Flesh."
Cyril felt a chill run down his spine.
This place was even dirtier than he had imagined. This old veteran Morozha was not just colluding with the Adeptus Mechanicus. He might have already been touched on the back of the head by that invisible hand of Chaos.
He didn't look back and strode out the main door.
Only after the two had passed through two blocks, surrounded only by the never-ending hiss of steam in the Lower Nest, did Cyril slow his pace.
"Scar."
"Yes! Big Brother, your orders!" Scarface now obeyed Cyril implicitly. What he had just witnessed had completely cowed him.
"Has Morozha been frequently receiving guests in red robes recently?"
Scarface looked around nervously, lowering his voice. His coarse, fleshy face showed a hint of terror. "Brother, you're amazing. There is a guy called the Rust Sage. He's the white glove sent by the Adeptus Mechanicus Medical Council to collect resources in the Lower Nest. Every time he comes, he takes away dozens of living people, saying it's for the Sacred Ascension Experiment. But those people probably never come back..."
Cyril lit a cigarette. The flame illuminated his gloomy face. This Sacred Ascension Experiment was most likely another forbidden and taboo project.
The Adeptus Mechanicus Medical Council, Slaanesh incense, and a mysterious shipment that even a local warlord like Morozha coveted.
This wasn't a test of loyalty. It was clearly sending him to poke a hornet's nest.
But this was also the opportunity.
If he didn't stir the water, that Inquisition Black Ship hanging overhead would eventually descend.
"Let's go, Scar." Cyril exhaled a puff of smoke, his eyes murkier than the Lower Nest's smog. "Let's meet this Crow. See what hot potato he's got in his hand."