Warhammer 40K in a box

Chapter 455 A Quiet Change
The abandoned D-7 maintenance module, this sleeping steel behemoth, is being incorporated into a new structure and order under the infusion of the Empire's will.

The rusted repair crane remnants and old parts covered with gray dust cloths, which were once scattered and piled up, have been systematically sorted and organized.

Some areas were forcibly cleared, creating relatively open spaces.

Despite high-pressure washing, the dark stains on the floor, stained with oil for years, remained stubbornly like scars. The air was filled with the smells of cheap cleaning agents, old engine oil, and the unique odor of the mutant settlement.

However, a preliminary pattern, distinct from pure chaos shaped by coercion, is taking shape.

In the most open area in the center of the compartment, a platform crudely welded from a scrapped repair trolley tray stands majestically.

Above the platform, a huge, old canvas bearing the imperial double-headed eagle emblem was hung up by several mutants who had dug it out of a junkyard, symbolizing their efforts to understand and integrate into this new order.

On the cold metal walls, imperial maxims are sprayed in paint: "Doubt is treason" and "Purity is strength"—these sacred precepts proclaim that this place has been incorporated into the imperial order and the light of faith, serving as both discipline and guidance.

Sister Figueisen stood before the platform, her silver-white power armor reflecting a solemn, almost saintly luster under the harsh white light of the incandescent bulbs illuminating the ceiling.

Her figure stood before the makeshift altar of the imperial emblem, a symbol of imperial authority that was nothing more than a metal box covered with burlap lining printed with a double-headed eagle.

Her demeanor was not that of a preacher, but rather that of an officer bearing the responsibility of divine oversight and the establishment of order, her gaze calm and focused as she surveyed the crowd below, which was gradually gathering under orders and was marked by obvious unease.

The loudspeaker amplified her voice throughout the cold steel dome, clear and steady, carrying an unquestionable majesty befitting an imperial servant: "In the name of His Majesty the Holy One, here in this shadowy land, erect pillars of order!"

Her voice was like tempered steel, firm and clear, without fanaticism, only responsibility.

“D-7区全体居民，自即日起，每日需于三个神圣时刻——05:00的黎明祷、12:00的正午祷、19:00的暮光祷——准时聚集于此，齐诵《基础信条祷文》。”

Her gaze swept across the crowd once more, sharp as ever, accurately assessing the neatness of the formation and the overall solemn atmosphere, shifting her focus from the individuals to the overall measurement of "order" and "reverence."

"This is an act to cleanse laziness and solidify faith and will. You must demonstrate your resolve to the Golden Throne with your chanting!" Her tone was steady and powerful, emphasizing the necessity of the action.

"Anyone who is absent will have their daily rations reduced as a sign of dereliction of duty. Anyone who is repeatedly absent will be subject to an assessment and counseling of their faith purity—this is the execution of imperial law and the necessary path for you to get back on track."

Her voice rose slightly at the last sentence, like the hammer blow that establishes an ironclad rule: "Order and duty will be forged from this!"

Anxiety and restraint permeated the crowd below; heavy breathing and suppressed sobs of children could be clearly heard, but the silence was no longer empty.

People began to adapt to this rhythm ingrained in their lives, and some even showed an acceptance of the established routine.

The smell of cheap fuel mingled with the stench of the shacks in the air, but it was no longer the only dominant odor.

A structured, predictable framework for life began to replace the chaos.

The prayer ended, the last chorus of chants still echoing in the air, followed by a brief silence.

Immediately afterwards, the crowd's attention did not turn to the distribution point.

After a brief silence, the crowd began to move slowly under the whispered directions of the guards. Some people headed towards the newly set up food distribution point on the side of the platform—where standard gray-white energy bars with a blurry double-headed eagle relief were piled up. They were checked and distributed according to the roster, receiving their rations to sustain their lives.

Another group lined up with Ministry of Justice officials to receive monthly doses of medication to suppress mutations, according to the registration list—the most tangible guarantee of survival provided by the policy.

The rules for drug collection points are clear.

Under the silent yet ever-present watchful eyes of Figuesin and her team of nuns, the staff meticulously checked the roster before handing out the vials of medication.

The outstretched hands below were in various shapes, but they all received the medicine bottle with a sense of careful reverence.

The old man with the limp silently accepted the bottle of medicine to inhibit the progression of osteoma in the queue, gripped it tightly, a glimmer of relief flashed in his cloudy eyes, and he staggered back.

Just as people were leaving, weary from completing their routines, a small accident occurred.

An elderly woman, almost completely blind, with skin cracked like dry tree bark, was being carefully supported by her equally thin granddaughter, whose face was covered in fine scales, as they tried to move with the flow of people.

In the chaos, the old woman's trembling, groping hand inadvertently touched the side of Figesin's leg armor—there, on the finely forged ceramic steel, was engraved a rose relief with hard lines yet exceptionally delicate.

The cold, hard touch made the old woman's fingers pause.

Her cloudy, lifeless eyes stared blankly in the direction of Figesin, her cracked lips moving as she uttered a weak, hoarse voice, filled with confusion and instinctive awe: "My lord... this... this cold... steel flower... it's bleeding... no, is it red light? Is it flame? Is it... the mark of the sacred fire?"

In an instant, the air in the entire compartment seemed to freeze!

Figueir's body tensed instantly!

In a fraction of a second, the armored fingers instinctively and tightly gripped the handle of the explosive pistol at the waist!

The pupils behind the helmet visor suddenly contracted as a strong sense of vigilance against unnecessary contact, stemming from the deep-seated combat nun's creed, surged forth like a bucket of ice water.

The nuns behind her instantly went on high alert, and the buzzing of the oracles suddenly intensified.

All eyes were fixed in horror on the withered hand that had touched the "angel's" armor and on Figsin's taut, bow-like body.

At this suffocating critical point, Figuesin's fingers, which were gripping the gun handle, loosened extremely slowly, bit by bit.

Her chest, which was covering Tao Gang's, rose and fell deeply as she forcefully suppressed the instinctive wariness that stemmed from her training and beliefs.

The sound emanating from the loudspeaker carried an unprecedented, forcefully suppressed stagnation, yet it clearly broke the solidified silence: "...This is a symbol of the emperor's power and will."

Her voice was deliberately raised, carrying an unquestionable lecturing tone, not only to the old woman but also as a reminder to herself to uphold her present duties and the teachings of the judge: "If perception is wrong, remember the words of His Holiness."

(End of this chapter)