"Zeke! Cleanup complete!"
[Have You Been Loyal Today?] jogged back from the other side of the battlefield, his face still splattered with the black blood of Razor-Dogs. He was grinning widely:
"Fifty-three regular Razor-Dogs, average recycling value of 140 Imperial Coins each. Even though the Psychic mutant's head was smashed, the psychic crystal plates on its back and its body sold for 480!"
"A total of 7,900 Imperial Coins. They've all been transferred into the Chapter's public vault."
Zeke nodded and opened the Chapter Management interface.
A pale blue holographic screen unfolded before him, densely packed with detailed data from the battle just now:
Every player's kill count, damage taken, healing contributed, degree of tactical order execution...
The system had even thoughtfully assigned everyone a performance score.
"Distribute according to contribution," Zeke said softly.
His fingertips swiped across the screen. Imperial Coins flowed out of the public vault, accurately distributed into the accounts of the forty-three players who had participated in the battle.
[Ding. Imperial Coins +187]
[Ding. Imperial Coins +203]
[Ding. Imperial Coins +165]...
Chimes rang consecutively in the ears of the frontline players.
"Holy shit! I got 210!"
"I got 190! Enough to buy a lasgun!"
"Massive profit! This wave was definitely not a loss!"
Cheers erupted into the freezing wind.
Most of these players had experienced the cruelty of the industrial zone. Back then, they risked their lives stealing ore and only made eight or nine coins a day. Now, a single battle yielded the equivalent of over half a month's hard labor back then.
Watching their excitement, a smile touched the corners of Zeke's mouth, but his hands didn't stop moving.
He transferred 637 Imperial Coins out of his personal account—his personal reward calculated by the system based on his command, kills, and covering fire during the battle.
Then, he distributed it evenly among the fifty-six players who had stayed behind to guard the flanks and rear of the procession.
Twelve coins per person. Not a lot.
But it was enough to buy a week's worth of nutrient paste or purified water. This was his... token of appreciation.
[Ding. Imperial Coins +12]
The same chime rang in the ears of the players who had been holding their rifles, standing guard, and protecting the refugee procession.
The regional channel went silent for a moment.
Then it exploded.
"Boss Zeke, what is this..."
"We didn't fight?"
"Why give us Imperial Coins..."
Zeke immediately spoke into the regional channel: "You didn't 'not fight,' and you aren't without merit. In that battle just now, the players at the front were risking their lives, but what were you doing?"
"You were protecting over two thousand unarmed workers. You were watching for danger that could have pounced from any direction. You were maintaining order in this long procession."
"If you hadn't secured the rear, would the guys at the front have dared to fight with everything they had?"
He paused, his gaze sweeping over the players. Some were holding their guns, watching the darkness around them. Others were continuously supporting elderly people who could barely walk.
"Saving the refugees was my personal choice," Zeke said.
"You could have completely ignored my orders as the provisional Chapter Master. You could have gone off to play on your own—exploring the wasteland, hunting mutant beasts, looting other settlements."
"Maybe you'd earn Imperial Coins faster that way, and maybe the game experience would be more thrilling."
"But you listened."
"You chose to trust me, a stranger you've known for less than half a month. You chose to trust each other with your backs. And you chose to do something on this wasteland that seems incredibly stupid in the Warhammer universe."
Zeke raised his voice slightly:
"Therefore, I won't let you suffer a loss for it."
"This universe is vast. So vast it brings despair."
"We've experienced the price of weakness. I'm sure none of you have forgotten what it felt like when five thousand of us were caught like chickens by a thousand armed guards, and sent to laboratories to be sliced up for research."
At the mention of this, the players grew subdued. That experience had been too oppressive.
After all, they couldn't log off back then. They didn't know if it was really a game or if they had actually transmigrated.
Those memories were etched too deeply: the lights of the interrogation rooms, the cold syringes piercing their flesh, the scalpels cutting open their stomachs.
"In this world, individual strength has its limits." Zeke emphasized every word. "Even someone as strong as a Primarch needs the support of a Legion."
"Even someone as fierce as the Warmaster needed the massive armies of the Great Crusade."
"Right now, we can't even compare to standard Astra Militarum infantry. At least they have formal training, standard-issue gear, and logistical support."
"What do we have?"
"Even though we're immortal, without real power, we are absolutely nothing in this world. In the Warhammer universe, human lives are the cheapest currency."
"Fortunately... we still have..."
He looked at the surrounding players, watching the light gradually kindling in their eyes.
"We still have each other."
"Only united as a fortress of iron will we have a chance to survive long-term in this dark galaxy. Only then can we grow stronger. Only then can we realize the bullshit we bragged about when we entered the game, and truly pilot mechas one day..."
When his voice faded, the channel remained silent for two seconds.
Then, a player with the ID [Three Kingdoms Paving Boy] spoke up first, his voice slightly choked with emotion:
"Zeke, say no more... I get it."
"I used to play that strategy game called Three Kingdoms. I paved roads for the Alliance Leader like my life depended on it, paving all the way from the starting province to Luoyang. I didn't sleep for forty-eight hours straight."
"And after we took the city, the Alliance Leader said paving was an obligation and refused to reimburse me the 80 bucks I spent on it..."
"My heart went fucking cold."
Another player beside him, [Rate Earth Backstab Specialist], chimed in: "That's nothing!"
"I've been backstabbed three times!"
"The first time, my ally took my land in the middle of the night. The second time, management ran off with the funds. The third time was the worst: during an alliance, we agreed to attack a city together. They lured my main force into an ambush and wiped them out, just to raid me..."
"That's why I chose this name."
He smiled. "In a gaming circle where the average person has many ulterior motives, meeting a Chapter Master like you..."
"It's worth it."
More voices flooded in.
"Yeah, exactly! We're all brothers, talking about money makes us sound like strangers!"
"Zeke is righteous! I've been gaming for ten years, and this is the first time I've seen a Guild Master pay out of his own pocket to subsidize non-combatants!"
"Say no more. From now on, if you say go die, I'll die!!"
Someone started it, and incredibly, singing actually rang out across the wasteland. It was off-key, the voices cracked, and they couldn't remember all the lyrics:
"Carrying~ all the hardships of yesterday~"
"To exchange for some perfection and happiness tomorrow~"
Listening to it, Zeke felt his eyes grow wet.
He turned his face away, taking a deep breath of the freezing air to push the rising emotions back down.
When he turned back, his face had returned to the calm expression of a Chapter Master.
"Keep moving."
"Before noon, we return to base."
The procession set out once more.
But the atmosphere was completely different.
The players walked with straighter postures, their gazes sharper when standing guard. They thoroughly enjoyed the looks the refugees gave them—the looks one would give to heroes.
These are looks they could rarely experience in the real world. This sense of honor is motivating them to press forward.
--
Goal = 300 Powerstones.
Next Goal = 300 + 150 = 450 Powerstones.
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