This is the bonus chapter for reaching 500 Powerstones.
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Paul stood at the base of the wall, the blood streaked across his Power Armor gleaming with a dull, crimson hue under the fading sunlight.
He surveyed the town he had just breached. Through the multi-spectral vision of his helmet, he could see the terrified faces peeking out from behind windows.
He saw the deep shadows within the alleyways, and he could smell the pervasive stench of rot lingering in the air.
"Tax Bro."
Paul spoke into the regional channel. "Take the boys from Crimson Strike and set up a perimeter around the town."
"Do not let a single person escape."
"Understood!"
Tax Bro responded instantly.
He vaulted down from the transport truck, his body landing with a heavy thud.
He waved to the players behind him.
"Crimson Strike! With me!"
"Squads One through Three, lock down the eastern exit! Squads Four through Six, secure the west! Squads Seven through Ten, split up north and south!"
"Get the trucks moving! Block the roads dead!"
Over a thousand players from Crimson Strike sprang into action. They split into four torrents, rapidly advancing along the dirt roads encircling the town.
The engines of the modified transport trucks roared, kicking up clouds of dust. Within moments, they had established makeshift barricades at all four points of the compass around Red Town.
The players moved with crisp efficiency and clear division of labor.
In a mere three minutes, Red Town was transformed into an isolated island surrounded by an iron blockade.
"White Scars."
Paul looked over at him. "Take your guys and round up all the residents into the central plaza."
He paused, then added, "If you run into any gang members, arrest them all."
"If they dare resist... no mercy."
"You got it!"
White Scars flashed a wide grin.
"Boys of Crimson Wind! Let's move!"
"Groups of five! Knock on every door! Be polite, but firm!"
"If you see tattoos, weapons, or anyone looking at you funny, tackle them and tie them up!"
"If you run into a tough guy? The guns in our hands aren't for show!"
Over eight hundred players from Crimson Wind scattered into the narrow alleyways of the town like a gale.
They moved blindingly fast. The Type-III Physique Enhancement paired with the Type-III Neural Reflex Enhancement made their movements impossibly fluid. Every single one of them was practically a mini-Astartes.
With those two tasks delegated, Paul took a deep breath. His augmented Astartes lungs filtered the heavy, pungent odor from the air.
"The rest of you, with me."
He stepped forward. The heavy boots of his Power Armor crunched into the muddy surface of Red Town's main street, leaving deep prints with every stride.
Over a hundred players followed closely behind him, their lasguns raised, sweeping their surroundings with high alert.
The sight of the main street silenced every single player.
When White Scars had reported back at the base, he had described Red Town as a place that "ate people."
No one had really felt much about it at the time, assuming it was just standard grimdark flavor for the Warhammer setting.
But seeing it with their own eyes, they finally realized White Scars had put it too lightly.
The street was lined with squat stone houses and shanties. The walls were plastered with some unidentifiable black grime.
There was no drainage system. Sewage flowed straight down the middle of the road, forming a putrid, foul-smelling creek.
And lying next to that stinking creek were... things.
The first 'thing' was huddled in a corner, wrapped in rags.
Upon closer inspection, they realized it was a living person—or rather, it used to be.
The entire left side of the man's body was overgrown with greyish-green moss. The fingers on his right hand had fused together into webbed digits.
His eyes were a cloudy, milky white. Hearing their footsteps, his eyes slowly rolled toward them, and he let out a rattling, wheezing gasp from his throat.
Further down the street lay a second, and a third...
Some had grotesque, swollen limbs. Beneath their skin, writhing tumors could be seen pulsing.
"What the fuck..."
The player [I Want to be a Hive Governor] spoke with a trembling voice. "Are they mutants?"
"Prolonged radiation exposure, combined with drinking contaminated water and eating tainted flora and fauna."
Data streamed across the mechanical eyes of [God-Tier Mechanic]. "The background radiation levels on the surface of Aurelian IV are naturally high. These refugees don't have any protection..."
He didn't finish his sentence, but his meaning was painfully clear.
Even more chilling were the frozen corpses.
At night, the temperature plummeted below freezing. These homeless souls huddled in street corners and under eaves, and when morning came, they simply never woke up.
Some were locked in curled-up fetal positions, as if they had frozen to death while dreaming.
Others were frozen with their arms outstretched in a begging gesture, their stiff fingers pointing accusingly at the sky.
Their clothes were thin and ragged; some were wearing nothing more than a few scraps of cloth.
And right beside these corpses lay dry bones. They weren't complete skeletons. They were bones that had been gnawed on and scattered across the ground.
Some belonged to adults. Some belonged to children.
"Holy shit..."
[Slaanesh's Chosen Reserve] subconsciously covered his mouth, his face turning pale. "Are they... eating people?"
"In this world, it's nothing unusual."
Schrödinger Bro's voice was deathly calm. "During famines in the underhives, there are recorded instances of people trading their children for food."
Paul didn't say a word.
He kept walking, his Power Armor's visual sensors recording everything.
His Astartes emotional regulation system suppressed any physical discomfort.
He thought back to the life of Paul Barnes in the illusion.
The boy who fought wild dogs for scraps of food in a junkyard, and the mutants lying next to the sewage ditch right now...
At their core, there was no difference. They were all consumables, treated as garbage and disposed of by this world.
Along the sides of the street, surviving residents occasionally peeked out through cracks in doors and windows.
A girl, no older than six or seven, huddled under the eaves of a roof, holding an even smaller child tightly in her arms.
Both children wore nothing but thin rags, shivering violently in the morning wind.
When the girl saw Paul and his heavily armed group of "mini-Astartes" approaching, she instinctively shoved her little brother further into her arms. Her eyes were wide, filled with absolute terror.
"Paul..." [Have You Been Loyal Today?] spoke, his voice choking up. "Are we... are we really just playing a game?"
No one answered him.
Because everyone could see it. The genuine terror in the eyes of those residents.
The twisted agony of the mutants, the stiff despair of the corpses... This was an atmosphere that no game engine could ever render.
This was a bloody, miserable reality happening in another universe.
"When GW was writing the lore..." Soul of Cadia muttered, "They definitely used real-world homeless encampments as a reference, right? But in the real world, there are at least charity organizations handing out expired food."
[God-Tier Mechanic] replied, "Here? There's nothing."
"The four factions only care about taxes and minerals. The Planetary Governor doesn't give a damn about human lives. Imperial Law is basically toilet paper in these fringe sectors."
"That's why the so-called Imperial Truth completely fails to protect them. The Emperor rejects faith and enforces the Imperial Truth simply because he's the Emperor."
"And when it actually comes to seeking out 'truth', he loses his mind."
"Throw yourself into the arms of Slaanesh, and they'll at least give you a fleeting moment of pleasure. Throw yourself into the arms of Nurgle, and he'll actually give you the warmth of a loving father."
"Only the Emperor, preaching the word 'Truth', brings nothing but endless despair to his own citizens."
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Next Goal = 700 Powerstones.