3: Bottom position -77

Darkness. A viscous, cold, weightless darkness.

This wasn't the void; it felt more like being stuffed into a high-speed rotating rubber tube that was constantly being squeezed and stretched. Consciousness had no form, leaving only the most primitive sense of "existence" and a continuous, sharp pain of being thoroughly torn apart and then forcibly glued back together.

There was no sound, no light, only chaotic vortices and a distorted sense of time.

That faint pale blue light—the last remaining core module of the system—tightly wrapped around Han Zhe's crumbling spark of consciousness. Like a fragile soap bubble, it drifted with the current in the violent dimensional turbulence, sometimes stretched into a thin line, sometimes squeezed into a small dot. Every impact of the dimensional turbulence dimmed the light a bit more, making Han Zhe's already weak conscious fluctuations even more disordered.

[Energy... continuous loss... Anchor point... recalculating... Deviating from original coordinates...]

[Warning... Encountering... Warp... shallow tide... Contamination risk... rising...]

[Attempting... shielding... ineffective... Insufficient energy...]

Indescribable fragments began to seep in. They weren't images or sounds, but more direct fragments of emotion and perception: boundless hunger and thirst, never-ending wild laughter, exquisite lies, and a soul-freezing indifference and loathing toward all change. Just the brushing of these fragments made Han Zhe's consciousness feel waves of nausea and dizziness, as if his soul were being doused with boiling oil and freezing acid.

He "saw" unspeakable colors boiling in the nothingness and "heard" the death wails of billions of living beings turned into a blasphemous symphony. This was not a realm mortals should touch.

The light of the system module flickered violently, becoming even more unstable. It was burning its last stored energy to combat the pervasive pollution and the tearing of the turbulence.

He didn't know how long he struggled—perhaps just an instant, perhaps a hundred years. Amidst the chaotic vortex ahead, a very faint pull of "order" suddenly appeared. That feeling was like suddenly perceiving the dim light of a distant lighthouse on a stormy sea. The aura emitted by the "lighthouse" itself was not absolutely pure; it was mixed with roughness, savagery, pragmatism, and... a faint, suppressed echo of psychic energy.

[Detected... stable space-time structure... weak psychic resonance... meets minimum refuge standards... Energy nearly exhausted... forced jump-out...]

There was no choice. The light used its last strength to "crash" toward the direction of that faint pull.

---

Thud!

A muffled sound, accompanied by the noise of a heavy object hitting the ground and a few suppressed groans of pain.

Han Zhe snapped his eyes open, only to be blinded by a piercing white light. He coughed violently, his lungs burning with pain. The air he inhaled was thick with dust, engine oil, sweat, and a... faint scent of blood.

Touch returned. A hard, cold, somewhat uncomfortable metal floor. Hearing returned. Around him were humming whispers, the sound of metal scraping, heavy breathing, and a rhythmic, muffled thumping in the distance, like some large machinery in operation.

He struggled to sit up, but found his body felt like it had fallen apart. Every joint groaned, and his muscles were limp and weak. His vision gradually cleared.

He was lying in a narrow, low metal cabin. The walls were unadorned, rough steel plates, covered in welding marks and mottled rust. Dim light cast down from a buzzing, oil-stained fluorescent tube overhead, illuminating the scene inside the cabin.

He wasn't the only one here.

About twenty figures, either sitting or lying down, were squeezed into this cabin of less than thirty square meters. They wore uniform, rough grey-blue jumpsuits covered in oil and unknown stains. Their faces were haggard, their eyes tired, wary, and even somewhat numb. There were men and women, ranging in age from youth to middle age. The common point was that they were all very thin, with sunken cheeks, bearing the marks of long-term malnutrition and overwork.

Han Zhe's appearance clearly drew attention. Several gazes fell on him, filled with scrutiny and doubt. He found himself wearing the same rough, abrasive grey-blue uniform.

[System... restarting... Core module 79% damaged... Basic functions severely limited... Resource conversion unit offline... Construction sequence offline... Advanced unit production offline... Database partially lost... Energy level: 0.7%... Only maintaining minimum life support and information processing...]

A cold electronic voice sounded deep in his mind, weak and intermittent, like a radio with a bad connection. But at least it was alive. Han Zhe felt slightly relieved, but was then immediately overwhelmed by a sense of absurdity and powerlessness. A troop-spawning system? Conquering the sea of stars? Now he couldn't even produce a wrench, his energy was bottomed out, and he had mysteriously appeared in this place that looked like... a prison or a collective dormitory?

"New arrival?" a raspy voice sounded nearby.

Han Zhe turned his head and saw a middle-aged man sitting against the wall. His hair was graying, he had an old scar on his cheek, and his eyes were sharp. Despite his fatigue, he had more alertness and scrutiny than the others.

"I... where is this?" Han Zhe spoke, his voice hoarse and dry.

"The lower cargo hold of the transport ship 'the tenacious,' currently a temporary relocation point," the scarred man said succinctly. "We're the remnants just 'withdrawn' from the front lines—the 3rd Company of the 7th Mining Auxiliary Regiment. Which unit are you from? How did you get mixed in? I didn't see you during registration."

Front lines? Mining Auxiliary Regiment? Remnants? Han Zhe's mind raced. The system had dropped him into a... low-level unit of the Imperium of Man? And among defeated soldiers who had just experienced battle and were being evacuated?

"I... I don't remember," Han Zhe chose the safest answer, rubbing his temples and putting on an expression of pain and confusion. "I remember... an explosion, light... and then I didn't know anything. I woke up here." This wasn't a complete lie.

The scarred man stared at him for a few seconds, seemingly judging whether he was telling the truth. Others in the cabin also cast glances, but most quickly lost interest and sank back into their respective fatigue or dazes. In this precarious environment, an unidentified amnesiac didn't seem worth much attention.

"Hmph, shock aftereffects, common," the scarred man looked away, his tone softening slightly. "Count yourself lucky you didn't die under Ork fire or get left in a scrap heap. If you can breathe, just stay quiet and don't cause trouble. When we reach the next assembly point, someone will naturally re-register and reassign you... if there even is a next assembly point."

Orks? It really was the Warhammer universe. Han Zhe felt a chill in his heart.

"Where... are we going?" he asked tentatively.

"Who knows," the scarred man scoffed. "The big shots upstairs decide. Maybe back to some Hive World in the rear to replenish manpower, or maybe straight to another more desperate front line as cannon fodder." He paused and lowered his voice. "I heard 'the tenacious' itself isn't in good shape. The engines are temperamental, and the navigator was partially broken when the Orks boarded. They don't dare go deep into Warp travel... We're crawling through realspace now, slow as a snail, liable to be targeted by pirates, xenos, or... worse things at any moment."

His words made the atmosphere in the cabin even more oppressive. Several people shifted uneasily.

Just then, the heavy iron door of the cabin made a piercing scraping sound as it was pushed open from the outside. A man wearing the same grey-blue uniform, but with a dirty red brassard tied around his arm, walked in. He was tall, with a rugged face, holding a data slate, and his cold eyes scanned everyone in the cabin.

"Listen up!" His voice was booming, carrying unquestionable authority. "I am Sergeant Major Blake. I don't care which tunnel or drilling team you were from, you're under my command now! 'the tenacious' is heading for the scheduled rendezvous point—the 'Fortitude' fortress on planet Griffin IV. The voyage is expected to take another fifteen standard weeks."

A low moan of lament and complaint rose from below. Fifteen weeks, squeezed into this narrow, filthy lower hold?

"Shut up!" Sergeant Major Blake barked. "Being able to leave that Greenskin-shit-covered mining zone alive is already The Emperor's grace! Don't be ungrateful! Listen, from today on, everyone will be grouped by number. You'll rotate daily for ship maintenance, cleaning, and basic weapons drills! Don't think you can slack off just because you're hiding in the lower hold! This ship needs every one of us to make it to our destination! You!"

The data slate in his hand pointed at Han Zhe. "New face? Number?"

Han Zhe was stunned. The scarred man quickly whispered, "Say 'Unregistered, shock amnesia.'"

"Reporting, Sergeant Major, unregistered, shock amnesia," Han Zhe hurriedly answered, mimicking the scarred man's tone.

Blake frowned, swiped a few times on the data slate, and said impatiently, "Troublesome. Provisional number: Lower Hold-77. Assigned to the 3rd Cleaning and Maintenance Group, same group as Old Scarface." He pointed at the scarred man. "Old Scarface, watch him, don't let him cause trouble. Start work tomorrow!"

"Yes, Sergeant Major," the scarred man—Old Scarface—responded dully.

Blake reprimanded them a few more times, emphasizing discipline and obedience, then slammed the door shut and left.

The cabin fell silent again, leaving only the sound of suppressed breathing and the distant roar of machinery.

Old Scarface moved next to Han Zhe and whispered, "Lower Hold-77? Heh, kid, remember your number. Here, names are useless; your number is your life. Cleaning and Maintenance Group... count yourself lucky. It's at least a bit safer than being assigned to the external armor repair group or the engine room purification team. Follow me, talk less, work more, and stay sharp."

"Thank you," Han Zhe thanked him sincerely. In this completely strange and dangerous environment, this seemingly cold veteran had given him his first bit of guidance.

"Don't thank me," Old Scarface leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. "On this junk ship, in this damned galaxy, one more person sometimes means one more chance to survive... though most of the time, it's just one more person to take the fall."

Han Zhe fell silent. He digested the information he had just received: a damaged Imperial transport ship, filled with the remnants of a Mining Auxiliary Regiment withdrawn from the Ork front, was slowly sailing through the dangerous realspace toward a destination of unknown safety. And he himself, a low-level numbered person with an "amnesia" label, had an almost paralyzed extra-universal troop-spawning system hidden inside him.

Conquest? Even survival had become a luxury.

He tried to call out to the system in his mind, and the response he got was weak and concise:

[Status: Deep energy-saving hibernation. Energy recovering (Source: ambient waste heat, biological metabolic replenishment; efficiency extremely low). Estimated energy required to reach basic scanning function: 71 standard hours. Warning: Low-intensity psychic fluctuations and residual Warp contamination traces detected inside the ship. Suggest host remain alert and avoid suspicious areas or individuals.]

Psychic fluctuations? Warp contamination? Han Zhe's heart sank. This ship was likely more than just "damaged" and "slow."

He leaned against the cold metal wall, feeling the unsteady, faint vibration of the ship's engine beneath him. Outside (if this lower hold had windows) was the endless dark starry sky, with the occasional light of a distant star passing by.

The flight was not over.

This was just changing from a conspicuous, about-to-be-destroyed target into an inconspicuous speck of dust drifting in the dark forest.

And the forest was full of hungry hunters.

Old Scarface seemed to have fallen asleep, letting out light snores. Others in the cabin were also resting with their eyes closed or talking in low voices.

Han Zhe, however, had no desire to sleep. He stared at the buzzing, dim fluorescent tube overhead, his thoughts churning.

System energy recovery would take time. During this period, he had to disguise himself well, blend into this lowest group of the Imperium, learn their rules, and survive.

Then, wait.

Wait for energy recovery, wait for the system to restart even a tiny bit of functionality, wait for... a chance that might never come.

He clenched his fist, feeling his weak arm under the uniform fabric.

host of the troop-spawning system?

Right now, he was just a tiny, numbered speck of dust—"Lower Hold-77"—in the endless war machine of the Imperium.