Warhammer 40K in a box

Chapter 463 Holy Communion and Preaching

On this holy day of the Ascension of the Emperor, the core of District D-7—the brand-new brass Altar of the Eagle—has drawn the attention of the entire community.

The ceremony of distributing festive coarse grain biscuits unfolded solemnly, the imperial eagle emblem branded on the biscuits standing out clearly in the warm light.

For the mutant communities living in the cracks between steel structures and gradually integrating into the imperial order, this gift from the authorities is far more than just food.

It is like the faint light of a fuel rod deep in a pipeline, quietly igniting hope in the cold.

Beside the altar, coarse grain cakes, still warm from the oven fire, were distributed one by one, their aroma spreading with the steam.

This familiar atmosphere is an echo of daily toil, and also outlines the stable contours under the protection of order.

Residents lined up in long queues in the passageway, their eyes filled with anticipation for the future.

The walls are covered with homemade decorations: copper cores stripped from discarded cables, cut scraps of cloth, and shimmering colored ropes, pieced together to form a rugged yet sincere double-headed eagle pattern.

The air was filled with a mixture of awe, a nascent sense of acceptance of the empire, and the satisfaction of receiving food; the silent steel space finally came alive with warmth.

People respectfully accepted the symbolic gifts.

A burly man with skin as rough as sandstone had large, calloused hands that trembled slightly as he received the pancake.

He closed his eyes and took a deep sniff; the familiar scent seemed to wash away his fatigue and draw strength to move forward—strength derived from the shared sense of labor and protection, just as Sister Figueir had affirmed before the metal plaque inscribed with the names of the fallen.

Some people savored the food with gratitude, their faces relaxed, carefully appreciating the rare flavor and sense of peace it brought.

A young man with extra joints on his arm couldn't wait to take a bite, and the crisp sound was clearly audible.

He squinted contentedly, waving the pancake in his hand at his companion. His eyes sparkled not only with satisfaction at the taste, but also with anticipation of mastering a new skill and contributing to the community.

A woman with scaly skin gently broke off a small piece and carefully placed it into the child's curiously outstretched hand.

The child tiptoed, cupped it in his hands covered with tiny scales, and his innocent smile was like being bathed in the warm holiday sun. He immediately held it tightly to his chest, as if embracing a more beautiful promise.

The woman gazed at the child, her rough fingers stroking his head, silently praying: May these pure eyes see a brighter and more secure future in this haven.

The queue was filled with hushed yet tender whispers.

People showed each other their cakes, sharing their satisfaction.

His words also contained glimpses of his vision for the future of the community—plans to renovate the shacks, and a vague hope that the children might be able to learn skills to make a living in a stable environment.

The hunched-over "old lame man" also slowly joined the queue.

His cloudy eyes reflected the light of the altar, and the simple vision in his heart for the community's children to grow up in a cleaner environment seemed to be slightly illuminated as well.

Even the security personnel on duty didn't look as solemn as usual, tacitly allowing the whispers in the queue and the lively activity brought by the children's brief running around; their tense nerves relaxed a bit during the holiday.

A young security guard watched a child happily spinning around in place, and the corners of his mouth unconsciously turned up slightly. This relaxed demeanor itself was a testament to the tranquility of the community.

The public searchlights overhead seemed softer than usual, adding to the brightness of the celebration.

The light, like a gaze carrying warmth, watches over the tiny glimmers of hope that quietly sprout and stubbornly grow in the cracks of order in this land of steel.

Those who received the bread did not leave in a hurry.

They gathered in twos and threes by the abandoned metal racks in the corner, or leaned against the supports of the huge pipes, savoring each bite with relish.

The aroma of roasting and the soft sounds of chewing filled the air, creating a rare touch of human warmth during the festival in Zone D-7, a shared tranquility permeating the steel-clad space. This brief respite and sharing was not merely about sustenance, but also about drawing strength for the future and the warmth of community.

The children clutched small pieces of biscuit tightly, chasing and playing around the adults' legs, their clear laughter echoing through the pipe structure and leaping through the passageway.

This carefree innocence is the most precious vitality in the steel jungle, and it also carries the community's purest belief that "tomorrow will be better."

The empire's festivals and orderly management fostered a growing sense of belonging among its residents.

This sense of belonging acts like an invisible bond, quietly connecting present comfort with expectations for a shared future.

Sister Figueir's silver-white figure, like a symbol of order, appeared beside the patrol team.

The sound of the power armor stomping its feet was steady and clear. Amidst the laughter and chewing sounds, it was not oppressive, but rather like a solid drumbeat, laying the foundation for this newborn expectation based on order and glimmers of hope.

Distribution is still underway, and a sense of contentment and tranquility permeates the entire space.

The air was filled with the aroma of roasted grains, and even more so with a sense of cherishing the blessings of the moment, and an anticipation for a more stable future, though distant, whose outlines could already be vaguely seen.

Sister Figueir stood before the metal plaque engraved with the names of the guardians and the solemn image of the eagle—her carving knife had personally imprinted the loyalty of the fallen upon it.

Her deep, powerful gaze swept over the crowd gathered below, over every face yearning for recognition and guidance.

The remaining whispers and chewing sounds eventually subsided, merging into a devout silence.

A steady hum came from the helmet's built-in speaker, drawing all expectant gazes.

Her voice rang out through the loudspeakers, clear, powerful, and as firm as a rock: "In the name of His Holy Majesty's supreme glory! On this holy occasion of ascension, may His grace cleanse our hearts and guide us forward!"

As the solemn opening remarks concluded, her scrutinizing yet approving gaze swept across the room below.

"As the ancient words proclaim: 'His divine mercy is like the vast starry sky, shining upon all people! His radiance has mercy on all souls who are steadfast, dutiful, and willing to turn to the truth!'"

“Look at the lines on your hands! They are a testament to your diligence! Look at your straight backs! They are a symbol of your resilience! Day after day, you use these hands to clean the deck of grease, scrape off the carbon deposits from the engines, and carry mountains of supply boxes!”
Every drop of sweat and toil is a silent testament to your dedication to the imperial order! It is a solemn sacrifice as you move towards true faith and practice loyalty!

"This place, D-7, is your home, your fortress, where you toil and live! Your hard work is the solid foundation of this small land! Your resilience is the inextinguishable flame of power! Your loyalty is the beacon that dispels the shadows and illuminates the path to order!"

"Uphold this path! Be dutiful in your duties! Hold onto hope! Remain steadfast in your faith! Maintain the purity of order! In this way, you will surely win dignity and survival under the glorious protection of His Majesty, and together forge a bright future for yourselves—the resilient, loyal, and reborn within the imperial order!"

The echoes of the sermon seemed to still linger in the cold bulkheads.

A silence, imbued with shared beliefs and a brief moment of peace, enveloped the entire room.

Only the surging heartbeat in my chest, like a deep hymn, accompanied the steady crackling of the fuel rods deep inside the pipe.

This sound is the pulse of life today, and also seems to be the footsteps leading to the future that firm belief points to.

In this mutant community rooted in scrap metal, sustained by the imperial order, and teeming with tiny new life, the Emperor's mark is deeply etched.

The festive glow and the daily sweat of the residents nourish the soil, and a sense of belonging and stability is quietly spreading in the space given by order, toward a more promising tomorrow.

Figsin's gaze swept over the crowd like a guardian's, her armored hand instinctively resting on the sacred yet cold embossed flower on the rose-shaped explosive pistol at her waist—her vigilance was like a solid bulwark, protecting this hard-won glimmer of order, and the fragile new shoots that stubbornly sprouted in this land of suffering, pointing towards the future.

This vigilance is also her silent adherence to the responsibilities she has accepted.

(End of this chapter)