Warhammer 40K in a box

Chapter 453 The New Order of D-7
The abandoned maintenance section of D-7 is shrouded in the shadow of the massive steel structure.

The stark white emergency lights barely pierced the darkness beneath the towering dome, outlining the massive, silent silhouettes of the rusty wreckage of the maintenance crane and the abandoned machinery piled up under a gray dust sheet.

The air was cold and dry, with a pungent smell of solidified engine oil and stale iron permeating the lower layers, but even more intense was the acrid smoke from burning low-quality fuel.

Mixed with a unique odor belonging to the large number of imprisoned lives—the smell of sweat, body odor, the burnt smell of rudimentary cooking, and the lingering stench of excrement—it created the distinctive scent of this place where the underprivileged struggled.

Like vines clinging tenaciously to the steel ruins, mutants painstakingly carve out a place to live in this forgotten industrial wasteland.

They made use of every nook and cranny: waterproof tarpaulins, heat insulation boards, and discarded giant cable reels were desperately pieced together, clinging to the underside of the massive maintenance platform frame, beside mountains of parts, or squeezed into the gaps of thick pipes, forming crooked shacks.

The ground was no longer a pure metal wasteland; scattered around were makeshift stoves made from cut-up oil drums, with weak, black-smoking flames flickering inside. Next to them were old containers filled with water and bedding made of discarded insulation cotton and scraps of cloth.

Several such firelight flickered in the narrow passageway between the shacks, their dim yellow glow illuminating the frightened yet curious eyes of the children huddled under their mothers' tattered robes, bearing either obvious or subtle deformities.

The groans of metal expanding and contracting in the corner, or the dull resonance from the pipes in the distance, often startled a suppressed commotion and whispers. But this space was no longer dead silent; instead, it was filled with a rough pulse of life compressed to the extreme.

Heavy breathing, suppressed coughs, low conversations, the occasional sob of a child, and the soft clinking of metal utensils.

However, the imperial order, like a cold steel frame, was rigidly embedded in this spontaneously growing chaos.

At the key vantage point, the beams of powerful searchlights, like the eyes of judgment, mercilessly swept across every corner, dispelling the shadows that were trying to gather.

Embedded in the wall, the surveillance servo skull silently flashed a dark red light in its empty eye sockets, like a sleepless electronic sentinel, coldly recording everything below.

A team of junior officials from the airport's legal department and guards armed with shotguns and with stern expressions set up a makeshift checkpoint at the entrance. Their duties included registering names, distributing drugs to suppress mutations, and coordinating the labor force that had been identified and whose mutation levels were still within acceptable limits.

Their presence serves as a constant reminder that this is not a sanctuary of freedom, but a strictly managed survival zone under the will of the empire.

Sister Figueir and her squad descended upon this shadowy region like silver-white angels of judgment.

They do not get involved in specific management matters; their responsibilities are limited to supervision—with their absolute presence.

Their figures appeared lean and deadly against the backdrop of massive industrial wreckage, their power armor reflecting a cold metallic luster under the stark white light of the emergency lights.

The nuns were scattered in key positions, the deep hum of the oracles filled the air, and their sharp, knife-like eyes swept over every simple shack and every anxious face, paying particular attention to those individuals with significant mutations.

Their very existence is a silent yet crystal-clear law: order cannot be desecrated, and those who transgress it must be purified.

This is a mandatory drug distribution point.

A junior official from the Ministry of Justice stood behind a makeshift metal platform, stammering as he read the register from a data board.

The mutants formed a long, crooked line, their suppressed breathing and uneasy whispers creating a somber background sound in the empty cabin.

Fear made their movements stiff and sluggish, and there were occasional pushing and shoving and brief chaos in the group.

Figesen stood atop a metal base on an abandoned maintenance platform a few meters to the side of the distribution point, his cold gaze sweeping over the entire area like a scanning array.

She stood silently, her posture like a cold statue.

The gaze behind the helmet visor was as sharp as a hawk's, piercing through the chaos of the ranks and precisely locking onto each figure, especially those with significant mutations and suspicious movements.

That gaze itself was like an invisible pressure, weighing heavily on the nerves of every person in line.

Her right hand rested lightly on the handle of the explosive gun, which was branded with a sacred rose pattern, at her waist, in a seemingly relaxed but actually lightning-fast posture.

His arms, covered in terracotta armor, hung naturally at his sides. The power armor's servo joints were in low-power standby mode, emitting a barely audible hum that hinted at the power beneath, capable of instantly transforming into lethal action. When the team was slowed down by a scaly woman holding a crying baby, Figesin's left hand, covered in terracotta gauntlets, almost reflexively and silently rested on the rose-patterned grip of the explosive pistol at his waist.

Her finger did not immediately slip into the trigger guard, but instead rested loosely on the gun handle—the most natural alert posture for a combat nun when she sensed potential chaos or threat.

This subtle yet powerful movement is like dropping a pebble into a calm lake.

The guards who had been watching the nun's every move almost instantly straightened their backs, their fingers instinctively engaging the safety on their weapons.

The scaly woman, who had become the focus of attention, was struck as if by an invisible hammer, her body stiffening abruptly, and the baby's cries in her arms seemed to choke in her throat.

Overwhelmed by fear, she came to a complete standstill, leaving only a slight, uncontrollable trembling due to extreme terror.

"Silence! Maintain order in the ranks!" A nun next to Figesin gave the order through her helmet speaker. Her voice was short, clear, and had an undeniable metallic quality, instantly drowning out all the noise in the room.

The command struck the crowd like a cold whip.

The group suddenly shrank back, and the pushing and shoving stopped instantly.

As if propelled by an invisible force, the scaly woman stumbled as she carried her child to the distribution table, clutching the infant tightly in her arms.

The elderly man behind her, who had difficulty walking, was so startled by the sudden pressure that he swayed and almost fell.

Just then, steady, clear footsteps, accompanied by the deep hum of the power armor's servo system, came from the direction of the entrance gate.

All eyes, including those of Figueisen and her team of nuns, turned toward the source of the sound.

Chen Xi stepped into Zone D-7.

He was dressed in his signature judge's uniform, with Sidgar always by his side. Her ethereal aura caused several mutants with slightly stronger psychic senses nearby to instinctively cower.

Several senior airport officials in dark uniforms followed closely behind.

Chen Xi's gaze quickly swept across the entire scene: the crooked shack, the terrified crowd, the distribution point under the bright lights, the tense officials, the vigilant guards, and finally landed on Figsin, who was standing on a high place with his hand on the handle of his gun.

He didn't stop walking and went straight towards her.

“Sister Figsine.” Chen Xi’s voice was calm, yet carried an unquestionable authority of a judge.

“Your Honor.” Figsin immediately leaped down from the pedestal with swift movements.

She faced Chen Xi, quickly crossed her hands in front of her chest, making a solemn gesture symbolizing the Imperial Eagle—the standard Eagle Salute for battle nuns.

The team members behind her also stood at attention and performed the same salute.

Chen Xi slightly raised his hand to indicate that he did not need to stand on ceremony, and then turned his gaze to the line below, which had fallen into complete silence because of his arrival.

In the stagnant air, only the low hum of the ventilation ducts could be heard.

His gaze was sharp as a hawk's, instantly catching a tiny commotion: a guard roughly shoved away a boy with polydactylus who had clumsily knocked over a data pad.

The boy backed away in fright, knocking over the people behind him and causing a small commotion.

(End of this chapter)