Shipping goods from the game to the World of Warhammer

Desmond woke up from his dream and rubbed his sleepy eyes.

His back, where he had hit the wall, was still throbbing, but it had gotten much better. For someone like him, this bruise was hardly an injury; he had been caught by law enforcement before, and as a result, he had spent a week lying in this pipe.

"woke up?"

"Um."

"You shouldn't interfere with me. You're so young, working at the docks won't be good for your body."

"Today, in addition to starch sticks, the ration station also distributed some canned goods."

Desmond seemed oblivious to the other person's previous words. Instead, he took a metal-shelled can from under his pillow, used a wire can opener to skillfully pry it open, and then placed the can, along with a fork, into the other person's hand.

The other person sighed.

The person speaking to Desmond is Aunt Anya, an ordinary contract worker, but she has completely lost her sight several weeks ago.

For an ordinary worker, losing sight often means losing the ability to work, and losing the ability to work also means that life is about to come to an end.

But Desmond didn't want to accept this fate; without the other person, he wouldn't be alive today.

He could no longer remember his childhood. He only remembered hiding under the bed at home, with the screams of his blood relatives and the monstrous laughter that made him extremely uncomfortable coming from outside the room.

Then, he boarded a spaceship. The ship was packed with people, their faces filled with sorrow, staring blankly out of the spaceship.

It was a yellow planet, and then a raging fire broke out on its surface.

There were no sacrifices too great to bear, nor betrayals too small to be forgiven.

After a long voyage, the spaceship docked at this spaceport.

He was an orphan who was forgotten here when the spaceship took off.

It was almost impossible for a child to survive at the very bottom of Blackwing Harbor, but someone lent him a hand, sharing his meager food with him, giving him shelter, and even mending his clothes.

Desmond didn't know why the other person did this until one day he found a paper photograph in which Aunt Anya was holding an infant in swaddling clothes, smiling brightly.

But none of that matters anymore.

Aunt Anya gently took the can of food from Desmond with her calloused hands, felt around in the can, forked a piece of food out of the can, and put it in her mouth.

She didn't know how to describe the food; it was sweet, but not too hard. She seemed to see herself, her stillborn child, and Desmond, sitting together in their Blackwing Harbor bungalow, warming themselves by the fire and knitting clothes.

Anya didn't say anything, but instead used her fork to stick a few more pieces of parsnips into her mouth. Desmond tried to hand her the starch stick as well, but she refused by pushing it away.

Their food is hard-earned, so Aunt Anya always tries to save money wherever possible.

Desmond looked at the remaining cans of food; it should be enough to feed them for a few days.

A noisy commotion came from the outside of the pipe, the sound was unnaturally loud.

Logically speaking, at this point in time, the dockworkers who returned to the lower pipeline area should have already rested.

Those who still have energy often go to the cheapest, lowest-quality bar on the upper floor, exchange a starch stick ration coupon for a glass of fermented liquid full of rust, and then shout and talk at the top of their lungs.

In any case, there shouldn't be such a commotion outside. Could it be that law enforcement has arrived?

Desmond pushed aside the curtain covering the ventilation duct entrance to the outside. Without this thin curtain and the obstruction of the duct, the sounds from the outside became clear.

Many workers gathered under an exhaust pipe nearly three meters in diameter, close to the wall. The exhaust valve on the pipe was slowly rotating on its own, and the rusty shaft made a scratching, rubbing sound.

The roaring sound that the pipe used to make when it was in operation has also stopped.

"Is it leaking again?" A worker who was repairing a welding torch walked up to the exhaust valve to check the condition of the pipe.

With a snap, before he could react, the alloy cover near the valve was blown off like a piece of paper.

No high-pressure steam was ejected.

Instead, there was a pink, fleshy ball surrounding the flames.

The fleshy ball slammed into the center of the gathered crowd like a bowling ball. This thing had two twisted human legs, two short and comical claws, countless writhing tentacles, and an unbelievably large and distorted human face.

The ball of flesh slowly stood up from the ground, and a sound came from its gaping mouth.

That was a voice Desmond remembered all too well.

That shrill, giggling laughter was exactly the same as the laughter of the monsters he had heard on his home planet.

"Help! Monster... monster!"

After a brief period of deathly silence, fear, like a contagious plague, erupted among the crowd.

The demon's two twisted human legs wobbled as it ran, its entire fleshy ball-like body springing up from the ground like a spring, lunging at the burly man holding the welding torch.

The blue flames from the welding torch struck it, but this only enraged the fearsome demon. Its pink claws and sharp teeth in its gaping maw were coated with a layer of primal sorcery energy, and then it lunged at its opponent.

Sharp fangs pierced the strong man's arm, while the demon's claws seized his head. The dimensional fireballs that were originally intended to be launched now appeared directly in the demon's hands, crawling all over the strong man's body.

A scream far exceeding the limits of human physiology emanated from the burly man's mouth. His body began to deform like melting rubber, with hollow, transparent fleshy blisters emerging from under his skin and crowding his body, limbs, and head.

In no time, he turned into a pile of fleshy, transparent foam.

"I love blowing bubbles!"

Looking at its magical masterpiece, the pink freak grinned upwards and then poked its finger into the mass of flesh.

With a soft "plop," one of the fleshy blisters burst, unleashing a scream from a subspace soul. The Fear Demon grew even more excited, and its remaining two claws joined the game.

More pink ferocious demons squeezed out from the holes in the pipes and fell to the ground like rain. They had no tactics, no logic, only the pleasure of enjoying the unknown subspace magical energy at their fingertips, and they hurled those mutated flames into the crowd.

Desmond dared not utter a sound. He retreated into the pipe, leaving only one eye exposed, watching what was happening before him: the entire dwelling place of the working class had become a slaughterhouse for ordinary people, and at the same time a playground for demons.

Suddenly, one of the frightened demons, which was gesturing wildly, stopped what it was doing.

"The smell of toys!"

It sniffed the air, then suddenly looked toward the pipe where Desmond was.