Warhammer: Rebuilding the Golden Age Starting with Farming.

"Although the reactor core of that power plant is already very unstable and the cooling pool is almost completely leaking, it can still generate electricity as long as fuel rods are added."

Gamma-9 paused here, his tone becoming somewhat gloating.

"However, I heard they've been having a tough time lately."

"The fungal farm in that neighborhood has withered, and they can't beat the skinners, so many people have started eating rats and cockroaches."

Andy's electronic eye flashed.

Food shortages are mitigated by electricity; it's like a pillow delivered just when you're about to fall asleep.

Andy glanced back at the three bioreactors in the center of the hall, which were operating at full power.

The first batch of high-yield starch balls has just come out of the pot and is being piled on the iron rack next to it to cool down.

That's a full two tons of high-calorie food.

In this desolate place where starvation was rampant, food was the hardest form of currency, more precious than gold and more persuasive than a bomb gun.

Andy could easily use these starch balls to exchange for access to that power station, or even directly absorb the so-called "Rust Brotherhood" through trade; it's not entirely impossible.

Of course, in places like the bottom of the nest where there is no law, trade often requires a bit of force as a backing.

Gamma-9.

Andy stood up, and the sound of metal joints grinding together made Gamma-9 straighten its back immediately.

"Get the vehicle ready, bring that half-track truck over, and empty the back of the bed."

"Find a decent container and fill it with a ton of starch balls."

"Call all a dozen or so of your armed guards and tell them to dress smartly, so they don't look like a bunch of beggars."

As Andy spoke, he walked toward the workbench in the corner.

There lay a twin-mounted heavy logging rifle that he had just dug out of the scrap heap yesterday and spent the whole night repairing.

This thing was originally planned to be installed on an anti-aircraft turret, with two thick gun barrels exuding a cold killing intent.

Andy picked up the gun with one hand and weighed it in his hand.

It weighs about 80 kilograms.

For an ordinary person, this is a heavy weapon that requires two people to carry; for Andy, it's just a slightly larger rifle.

He slung two boxes of large-caliber ammunition belts over his shoulder, the golden bullets gleaming under the light.

"We're going to visit our neighbors."

Andy's voice was calm yet powerful.

"If they're willing to talk, we'll take them out to dinner."

"If they're not willing to talk..."

Andy pulled the bolt of the heavy logging gun, and a loud metallic clang echoed through the hall.

"Snap—!!!"

Chapter 11 Roger Custer, The Rust Brotherhood

Roger Castle stood in the main control room of the fission power plant, staring blankly at the reactor fuel rod whose reading was stable.

The surrounding area was filled with the buzzing of transformers, and the air smelled of ozone.

The radiation dose here is actually excessive. If an ordinary person stood here for ten minutes, they would start losing their hair.

But Roger didn't care, since he had no hair left to lose.

Most of his head had been replaced with that cold, metallic shell, with only a bit of skin and flesh still attached to his chin.

Roger held a tube of nutrient paste that had been squeezed dry. He used his hydraulically assisted finger to push hard against the tube wall, squeezing out only a drop of green, snot-like gel.

Roger sighed and smeared the drop into his mouth.

It tastes awful, like moldy engine oil.

But this was also his only meal in the past twenty-four hours.

He was the leader of the Rust Brotherhood, the spiritual pillar and technical core of this community, but he was really hungry right now.

In the depths of this industrial world, the idea of ​​tech priests starving to death sounds like a joke, but that's the reality.

The Rust Brotherhood is neither a gang that only fights and kills, nor a cult with mystical beliefs.

They are a group of "technological heretics".

This word is a capital offense in Imperial Truth, but in Roger's view, it's just because they're a little more clear-headed than others.

Most of the members here are like him, who left because they couldn't stand the idiotic rules of the Mechanical Church, such as "reciting scriptures for three days to fix a screw," or because they were labeled as "desecrating the soul of the machine" for privately modifying the machine.

They gathered at this abandoned fission power plant, and with Roger's skills that barely kept the reactor running, they lit a ray of light in this dark underbelly.

Although the core of this old fission reactor is already very unstable and the cooling pool is almost completely leaking, people still have to be sent every day to clean up the radiation fungi that have grown there.

But as long as you fill it with fuel rods, it can continuously produce millions of kilowatt-hours of electricity.

This amount of electricity is enough to power the lighting for ten blocks around, enough to power those lathes salvaged from the junkyard, and even enough to show movies to those kids who like to watch holographic images.

But electricity can't be eaten. Although the current can power their prosthetics, it can't fill the stomachs of the remaining half of their mortal bodies.

Roger turned around and looked at the large screen in the control room.

The map showed the distribution of resources in the surrounding area, with most areas in gray, representing "depletion".

The situation has become very bad in the last month.

All the fungal collection points in the surrounding area have dried up. The cultivation tanks they developed, which could grow edible fungi, have suddenly become covered with black toxic mold for some unknown reason.

Even the mutated rats that used to run around everywhere have decreased in number.

This abnormal ecological collapse gave Roger a deep sense of unease.

Having spent so many years in the bottom nest, he knew that this usually meant something far more terrifying was diverting resources at the top of the food chain.

"Boss, any news from the communications side?"

A similarly semi-mechanized subordinate walked in, holding a freshly sharpened wrench.

This person's name is Ben, a top-notch single-character ID. He was originally a technician who repaired ventilation ducts. He was sentenced to be caned by the mechanical instructor for adding a filter to the duct without permission, and later he ran away with Roger.

Roger shook his head, and his red prosthetic eye flickered.

"No."

Ben's expression turned even worse, even though most of his face was covered in skin grafts.

“This is the third day already,” Ben said in a low voice. “That’s our most elite team.”

Roger didn't say anything, but simply crushed the empty tube of nutrient paste in his hand.

Three days ago, he dispatched a 12-man team led by his adjutant, with the target being an abandoned mining area 400 kilometers away.

The reason was that he found a vague record in that pile of old archives from that era.

There seems to be an underground ecological park there, left over from who knows how many years ago. Although it has been abandoned for thousands of years, according to the design standards of that time, such facilities usually have a self-sustaining system.

Even if only one percent of the production capacity is still operational, it would be a lifeline for the current Brotherhood of the Rust.

Roger even let them take the only all-terrain reconnaissance vehicle that was still running, and also provided them with the only two remaining bomb guns.

Logically speaking, even if they encountered the Skinners gang, they should at least be able to fight them off, if not completely crush them.

But now, all that's happening on the radio is static noise.

That deathly silence made Roger's heart sink little by little.

It seems that the underground ecological park really is a dead end.

Previous expeditions had been the same; no matter how many people were sent, all that was ever heard were screams or absolutely nothing at all.

Some say it's inhabited by chaotic demons, others say it's a den of gene thieves.

Roger didn't know if it was true or not; all he knew was that his brothers were never coming back.

This feeling of powerlessness made him angry.

He was outraged by the absurdity of the world.

Those nobles and bigwigs, living in towers high in the clouds, possessing the best resources and eating uncontaminated synthetic meat, are busy all day with political struggles and collecting so-called "antiques".

They would rather spend hundreds of millions of tons of resources to build a temple that is only symbolic than give even a little bit of technology to Dichao, and they won't even make public the most basic blueprints for a water purifier.

In the eyes of those powerful figures, Roger and his ilk were heretics who had to be eliminated.

Ironically, it is these very heretics who are trying to eke out a living in this hell using their own heretical techniques.

"Get the brothers ready."

Roger suddenly spoke, his voice hoarse.

"Prepare what, boss?" Ben looked up.

“Get ready to catch cockroaches.” Roger pointed to the ventilation vent at his feet. “And those moss growing by the radiation pool. Eating them will give you diarrhea, but it’s better than starving to death.”

“If all else fails…” Roger’s eyes turned fierce, “we’ll raid Zhongchao’s supply convoy.”

Ben gasped.

Robbing the Mechanicus' supply convoy is suicidal; the Arc Rifles of the Guardians can cook a person instantly.

But looking at Roger's resolute eyes, they knew they might have no way out.

Just then.

The red alarm light on the control panel suddenly lit up.

"Waaah—waaah—"

Upon hearing the emergency signal from the outer outpost, Roger lunged at the communications station and grabbed the microphone.

"This is the control room! What happened? Is it the Guardians of the Order?"

If the Christian Guard arrives, their only option will be to blow up the reactor and perish together with it.

The sentry's trembling voice came through the microphone, but it wasn't fear; it was more like... confusion.

"No...not the Guardians of the Faith."

"It was a car, a very big car."

"And...and it doesn't seem like there were any religious symbols on that car."

Roger frowned.

No sign?

In this area, who would dare to drive around in a car without any markings?

"Is that the Skinner?" Roger asked, his hand already reaching for the modified hot melt gun at his waist.

If it's the skinners trying to steal the electricity, then it's easy to handle. Just turn on the high-voltage power grid and roast those lunatics into charcoal.

“It doesn’t look like it either…” The sentry’s voice was filled with confusion. “The car was completely bare, without a single thorn in it, and it looked very… very clean.”

clean?

That word is a joke in the bottom nest. Is there anything in the bottom nest that can be called clean?

He's lived in the bottom nest for so many years, how could he not have seen it?

Without saying a word, Roger rushed out of the control room.

"Everyone, take your weapons! Get on the wall!"

He roared and charged toward the defensive wall surrounding the power station with Ben.

The so-called defensive wall is actually just a pile of abandoned shipping containers with some steel plates welded on top.

Dozens of emaciated Rust Brotherhood members, carrying various cobbled-together firearms, nervously crouched on the wall.

Roger raised his binoculars.

In the distance, a yellow dust cloud rose from the desolate highway littered with gravel and garbage.

A half-track truck is approaching at high speed.