9: So-called order is simply raising the gun barrel an inch higher.

[Incubation Period - Phase Two: Order and Law]

The system notification echoed within the holographic pod, as solemn as the tolling of an ancient bronze bell.

Three badges hovered in the darkness.

[Theme Description: Civilization is not just survival, but rules. Please establish the core laws and social structure.]

[Optional Tasks: Codification (Sociology), Religious Establishment (Occultism), Class Stratification (Administrative Efficiency).]

Li Cang tapped his knuckles against the armrest, producing a rhythmic thumping sound.

For most contestants, this was the moment to lay the foundation. Natural codes, core instruction sets, federal constitutions... but for the Imperium of Man, these were all too lukewarm.

On the wastes of M29 Terra, despair and darkness coexisted. Law required no red tape, only absolute obedience.

Law is the Emperor's Will.

Faith is the Imperial Truth.

Class is Loyalty and Heresy.

"I choose [Class Stratification]."

Li Cang's voice was calm and cold.

"There is no need for nobles, commoners, or slaves. Those decadent classes only breed internal strife."

He drew two bright red lines across the blueprint, crudely carving up the social structure.

"The first: Kindling. Thunder Warriors, Astartes, Custodes. They enjoy the highest honors and bear the heaviest curses. Born to fight, born to burn out."

"The second: Fuel. Mortals, Servitors, Worker Ants. Born to produce, to obey, and to provide the Tithe."

[Extreme social structure detected.]

[Unique laws generated: Tithe / Martial Law.]

[Severe Warning: Public sentiment is extremely unstable; high-pressure military rule is required.]

"That's right."

A cold light flickered in Li Cang's eyes.

In this universe watched by the Chaos Gods, freedom is a soul-poison. Only absolute order can allow humanity to survive on its last breath.

With laws, executors are needed. Or rather, more "Fuel."

He clicked on the flashing crimson icon—[Skirmish Mission: Wandering Refugee Ship].

"Arik, your new recruit regiment is sorted."

...[Deduction Epoch: M29 - Terra Near-Earth Orbit - Abandoned Colony Ship "Void Wanderer"]

This was a relic from the Dark Age of Technology.

Lost for thousands of years in Warp storms, its hull was covered in scars and corrosive rust. Finally, like a beached whale, it crashed on the edge of the Himalayas.

Inside the cabin, emergency lights flickered and buzzed. The air was turbid, thick with the sour stench of mold and despair.

Thousands of survivors in rags huddled in the darkness. Remnants of the old age, they held onto a few sparks of civilization. They prayed in the dark, longing for rescue, longing for order.

Until today.

"Rescue" had arrived.

Boom!

The airlock door was violently breached.

Heavy Ceramite combat boots stepped onto the rusted deck, making a heart-stopping thud. Steel crushed bone; Death was knocking at the door.

The leader, an elderly scholar, tremblingly raised a glowstick. The faint light illuminated the newcomers—five giants as tall as demons, wearing blood-stained, oil-slicked power armor, their heat sinks venting cold mist.

"Is it... the Terra army?"

The old man's voice trembled with humble hope, "We are wanderers, we have technology, we have STC fragments..."

Bang!

The Bolter roared.

The old man's head exploded like a watermelon. A red-and-white mixture splattered against the rusted bulkhead, forming a mural of death. The headless corpse slumped to the floor.

Screams had just begun when they were forced back down throats by an even greater terror.

The dust settled.

Arik Taranis revealed himself.

His Bolter emitted wisps of blue smoke. Bloodshot eyes coldly scanned his trembling kin. His gaze was not that of one looking at humans, but at livestock to be slaughtered—walking protein.

"According to Article One of the Imperial Wartime Laws."

The voice, amplified through a loudspeaker, carried a metallic vibration like the tolling of a judgment bell.

"Those who refuse to submit immediately are Heretics."

He stepped over the corpse and walked toward the crowd. Every step made the deck groan.

"Now, two choices."

Arik held up two fingers, covered in power armor capable of crushing steel.

"One: accept conscription. Become subjects of the Imperium, offering your labor, genes, and lives. This is called the Tithe."

"Two: be branded as Heretics and be purified on the spot. This is called mercy."

Dead silence.

Only the creaking of the ventilation fans could be heard.

The survivors looked at the giant, then at the silent muzzles behind him.

The order they had imagined was law, morality, and protection. Now they understood.

In an era of despair, order simply means—at this very moment, you can still breathe.

"We... accept."

The new leader, a young man, knelt down tremblingly. His eyes were full of fear, but also a longing for survival.

Then, a second, a third... it spread like a contagion. Thousands of survivors, faced with absolute violence and the instinct for survival, bowed their heads and offered their knees... [Holographic Pod Perspective]

[Skirmish completed.]

[Resources Acquired: Population x 3500.]

[Special Talents Acquired: Old Age Technicians x 12, Pure Gene Samples x 50.]

Li Cang nodded in satisfaction.

3,500 people was a drop in the bucket for an empire. For the Thunder Legion, it was life-saving blood.

"Activate the [Gene Alchemy] assembly line."

His fingers moved swiftly across the blueprint like a cold, precision instrument.

"Filter for candidates. Physically strong males with pure genes are to be sent to the lab for modification. Those with technical backgrounds go to the armory. The rest will be laborers or sent to the Biomass conversion furnace."

[Command confirmed.]

[Estimated Output: Thunder Warrior Recruits x 50.]

[Estimated Attrition: Population x 200.]

This is Warhammer logic.

No warmth, only cold filtering.

On the holographic screen, young men were forcibly escorted. Stripped of their clothes and shaved bald, they were pushed onto operating tables like pork on an assembly line.

Most died on the table, turned into meat pulp and flushed into the sewers.

A tiny minority of lucky ones endured the agonizing pain to become Thunder Warriors. In their brief, painful lives, they would burn every last drop of blood for the Emperor.

"This is the price."

Li Cang whispered.

In the footage, Arik made a move.

Instead of returning to the bloody lab, he walked deep into the camp.

There stood a simple shrine fashioned from a discarded engine. Surrounded by skulls and broken weapons, it exuded a savage, holy aura.

Arik removed his helmet, revealing a face festering from genetic collapse. His skin was ashen, his life force overdrawn.

He dropped to one knee, his Ceramite armor striking the rock.

Toward the shrine, toward that unmanifested yet omnipresent will, he bowed his head deeply.

The Emperor's true form was not there. But in the hearts of the Thunder Warriors, the Emperor was everywhere.

"My Lord."

His voice was hoarse, filled with fanatical devotion.

"The Fuel is ready."

"Please give the order... to ignite."

...[Era League - 103rd Judging Panel Livestream Room]

Isabelle took off her glasses and rubbed her temples.

She had seen too many civilizations. Merciful, cruel, rational, insane.

But never had there been one like this, one that made her soul shudder.

People were not treated as people. They were resources, currency, spare parts. Yet at the same time, it displayed a suffocating sense of cohesion.

"This is madness."

Karen muttered to himself, feeling a chill. "This high-pressure rule, this disregard... aren't they afraid of rebellion? It's like dancing on a powder keg."

Isabelle shook her head and put her glasses back on, her eyes shimmering with complex light.

"No, Karen."

She pointed at the refugees in the footage, lining up for modification with eyes full of fear yet burning with a strange light.

"Look at their eyes."

"That is not the look of the enslaved."

"That is... the look of someone grasping at a straw in the midst of despair."

Isabelle took a deep breath and gave her highest evaluation:

"On the wastes of despair, mercy is a cheap and useless luxury. Only this absolute, powerful force that can lead one to survival is the only salvation."

"Even tyranny is better than chaos. Even burning is better than freezing to death."

"This contestant... isn't just creating soldiers."

"He is... creating a god."