93: Chapter 93 This is the story of Grey Oglin, or perhaps a psionicist.
Fu Haoran pressed down on Dredd's gun, letting Tychus explain everything from the beginning.
As a one-in-a-million Bone'head Ogryn, or a Grey Ogryn, Tychus's IQ was indeed a tiny bit higher than that of his kin.
But most of the time, he was happy to play the fool.
Since he could remember, he had lived on a Feudal Agri-World, where, with his three-meter height and brute strength, he was called a giant by the other children.
His days were peaceful and happy.
Until a tax ship from the Departmento Administratum landed and took him as war materiel, forcibly dragging him onto the ship; the good days came to an abrupt end.
However, Tychus escaped midway.
He wanted to see the world outside.
And because of this, he earned himself a sector-wide manhunt by the Adeptus Arbites.
The Arbitrator in charge of the case at the time was named Grix. Upon learning that an Ogryn had escaped right under his nose, his brain stalled for several seconds.
"You mean to tell me that an Ogryn, with an IQ generally lower than a three-year-old, stole a transport ship and escaped right under the noses of a dozen of your elite Judicial Police Officers?!"
He then flew into a rage, immediately escalating the case to the level of Chaos corruption.
After all, an Ogryn who suddenly became enlightened was abnormal no matter how you looked at it; it must have been the work of a chosen of Tzeentch!
This was probably the worst Tzeentch had ever been slandered.
The manhunt began.
Ten years.
A full ten years.
Countless times, agents of the Adeptus Arbites conducted one-by-one inspections of Ogryn slave laborers in various mines and gangs.
Tychus would be in the shadows, either standing, crouching, or pretending to move cargo clumsily.
Most of his kin were truly foolish, but he was not.
Thus, time and again, Tychus escaped right from under their noses.
And he did it in a grand, swaggering manner.
Arbitrator Grix viewed this matter as a stain on his life, declaring that such a great humiliation must be washed away, or he would never return to the Sector Adeptus Arbites to report!
The closest he ever came was when Grix stood in a mine, pressing the shoulder of his apprentice, Dredd, and shouting in a breakdown: "Tell me! An Ogryn! Missing for three years in the Hive City! The Empire's most elite agents and Judicial Police Officers can't catch him! Explain it to me! Are you too incompetent, or are you stupider than an Ogryn?!"
At that time, Dredd was filled with grief and indignation, briefly doubting his own IQ.
Tychus was less than ten meters away from Grix at the time, drooling and playing the fool, while carefully pocketing the fine cigar the Arbitrator had left on the edge of the table.
If there were rankings for Bone'head Ogryns, he would definitely be top-tier.
An Arbitrator? So what? Still just a fool.
In the following years, Tychus worked various jobs throughout the Hive City.
Sometimes he acted as a mercenary for gangs, firing a few shots to justify the pay given by his employer.
Sometimes he worked as a laborer in mines or trading posts, doing manual labor and reselling things on the side.
After all, no one would suspect an Ogryn of stealing; even if they found out, they would just treat it as the mindless act of a fool.
Once, while Tychus was working in a mine, he saw the foreman counting goods.
He approached while drooling, pointed at a box, and muttered, "This—heavy."
The foreman cursed, "Get lost, big guy," and as Tychus leaned against the box, his hand had already swiped a whole bag of throne coins from the corner.
The entire process took less than three seconds, and the foreman didn't notice a thing.
However, Tychus never stayed long, because he would always find a way to switch things out and sell all the valuables.
What little conscience he had made Tychus feel that he shouldn't be too ruthless.
At least leave people the means to beg so they wouldn't starve to death.
Tychus never gave notice when changing jobs.
After all, no one cared if they lost a fool Ogryn, and no one would get furious over a slave laborer.
Tychus had absolute confidence in his strength.
And, of course, his IQ.
No one knew that this simple-looking Ogryn loved to read.
Works of the Empire's ancient sages, Ecclesiarchy classics, philosophy papers, art literature—Tychus read them all.
He also loved to appreciate the Empire's sculptures, and had even quietly made small-scale replicas of several using scrap materials in his little shack.
Over the years, he taught himself High Gothic and several Low Gothic variants, and even gained a superficial understanding of Imperial law.
Tychus did all of this with extreme secrecy.
For ordinary Hive City workers, obtaining books was difficult, and suddenly studying profound materials could lead to being reported as a heretic.
But for an Ogryn, it was simple.
He only needed to point at a certain book and mutter: "This—as pillow, comfortable."
Then he could openly carry the book back.
No one would think twice; no one would believe an Ogryn could read.
For most Imperial citizens, an Ogryn who could write his own name was enough to shock the whole family.
If an Ogryn like him were exposed, it would definitely cause the people of the Adeptus Arbites and the Ecclesiarchy to have collective cardiac arrest.
About five or six years ago, Tychus was being exploited heavily in an Underhive mine; he killed the black-hearted mine owner with one punch and, taking several bullied Ogryns and refugees with him, founded the Iron Bone Gang.
The name was chosen randomly, and the original intention was to protect these low-level people so that nobles and gangs couldn't manipulate them.
But later, the gang's second-in-command was bribed by nobles and secretly colluded with a Four-Armed Cult, intending to use the refugees as fodder in exchange for weapons.
He couldn't stop it, so he simply made off with all the gang's valuables overnight and left.
He conveniently burned down his old shack, fearing that the Gothic notes and replica sculptures would expose his identity.
After all, no one would believe an Ogryn could read, let alone understand philosophical works.
But fate never follows the script.
After that escape, Tychus thought he could remain at large, until one day, he walked into a trading post to ask for information about Psyker awakening.
As soon as he entered, he realized something was wrong; there were an absurd number of guards.
Just as he was looking for a chance to slip away, the trading post doors slammed shut.
On a high platform, a red-eyed Arbitrator leading a large number of Judicial Police Officers sealed off the entire trading post.
Arbitrator Grix had arrived in person.
"Apprehending a wanted criminal! Everyone stay where you are!"
The Judicial Police Officers began a large-scale search.
Tychus continued to play the fool, drooling and squatting in a corner.
But this time, Grix personally checked every single Ogryn.
Tychus's heart hammered, and his eyes quietly darted toward the ventilation duct in the corner.
Taking advantage of the chaos, he inched over, praying in his heart: please don't let me be found.
He didn't want to be sent to an Adeptus Arbites lab to be sliced up for research.
Finally, he reached that secluded path and dove into the hidden duct.
He descended rapidly through the pipe, calculating his escape route as he slid; this pipe was a retreat he had scouted long ago, and at the end were escape supplies and several books he often read.
Thud!
He landed at the bottom of the pipe.
It was soft beneath his buttocks and still had body heat.
Looking down—the good news was, it was Arbitrator Grix.
The bad news was, the other man was being sat upon by his buttocks, with a dark gun barrel pressed against his chin.
The air froze for three seconds.
"Ten years," Grix's voice was as raspy as sandpaper. "I finally caught you."
Tychus was stunned.
"Ha, you miscalculated one thing," Grix gritted his teeth. "I'm not a complete fool either."
After ten years of pursuit, Grix had long felt something was wrong; at every crime scene, besides an Ogryn, there was never any trace of a second person.
After eliminating all impossibilities, the remaining answer, no matter how absurd, was the only truth.
This Ogryn had planned the entire escape himself and had played the local Adeptus Arbites for fools for ten whole years.
Finally, Grix had hired a Divination Psyker to pinpoint Tychus's location.
The good news was that the criminal had finally been caught.
The bad news was that the scene was extremely awkward; Grix was being sat on by Tychus, pointing a gun at him but not daring to fire.
Because the gun was loaded, and in this position, a misfire would blow himself up first.
Tychus was also in a difficult position at the time.
But if he got up, he would certainly be unable to avoid Grix's pursuit.
If he sought death by killing an Adeptus Arbites Arbitrator, he couldn't bear the consequences.
The two were deadlocked like that.
Tychus felt he should maintain a certain level of respect for an Adeptus Arbites Arbitrator.
He adjusted his mood, put on what he thought was a wise smile, and looked at Grix as kindly as possible.
Grix's composure broke.
He slammed his Bolter into Tychus's head with one hand and began to curse loudly.
To be honest, Tychus initially wanted to soothe him.
But soon, he also lost his composure.
Damn it, the insults were too foul.
Tychus began his counter-attack. Sonnets, philosophical paradoxes, subtle High Gothic puns, and crude Low Gothic slang were deployed in turns.
He even used binary code to tell a story about a bad gear, mocking Grix for having a brain that wouldn't turn, like a rusted machine.
Fifteen minutes later.
Grix ran out of words and began to howl like a ghost.
Only then did Tychus realize things had gone south; he had driven someone mad, and this crime was even heavier.
Now even he didn't believe he was unrelated to Chaos.
Tychus stood up carefully.
As a result, the old man went completely insane, disregarding everything as he lunged forward in a frantic struggle.
Tychus was a decent man, and he believed an Arbitrator should at least be a decent man as well.
But clearly, Grix was now somewhat—indecent.
Just then, Dredd entered and saw his usually steady and proper mentor now howling like a madman.
Tychus pointed to the statue of the Emperor in his hand, indicating he was not a heretic.
On one side was a mentor who seemed possessed, and on the other was an Ogryn who seemed more like a normal person than a normal person.
The scene fell into awkwardness once again.
He cast a look at Dredd: Are all your Arbitrators like this?
Dredd looked at the wise Tychus and shook his head, his heart beginning to struggle.
The only person on the field who still retained their sanity was an Ogryn.
This was somewhat eerie.
Was it a loss of morality, or a distortion of humanity?
Tychus spoke up, stating: "I will not run away."
Dredd nodded subconsciously.
He then said to Grix: "We can put down our weapons and sit down to talk."
Grix bit into his pectoral muscle, cursing indistinctly.
Tychus winced in pain but didn't strike back.
He looked at Dredd, explaining that he wouldn't run and was willing to go back with them, and recited a passage of scripture praising the Emperor in the most standard High Gothic.
Dredd, who had just come to his senses, felt his mind go blank again.
Tychus suggested: "Please put the gun away; the biggest problem right now isn't me."
Dredd's hollow eyes made Tychus feel like he was talking to a chicken.
Never mind.
Tychus waved his hand and tossed Grix's disarmed weapon toward Dredd.
Dredd stumbled as he picked up his mentor's bolt pistol, looking at him with a dazed expression.
Tychus ignored him and focused on dealing with Grix, who was still biting him.
He was certain that if he killed Grix with one punch, Dredd would definitely shoot him.
He chose a gentle method—three slaps that were neither too light nor too heavy, making the biting and cursing Grix let go.
Grix's eyes turned vacant.
Tychus whispered to him: "Calm down, we are all decent people."
Then he gently picked up the dazed Grix and placed him next to Dredd.
Grix sat on the ground, his hair disheveled and his eyes hollow, still murmuring to himself.
Ten years; this once high-spirited Arbitrator had been driven to this state by him.
Tychus suddenly felt a bit guilty.
It wasn't that he hadn't thought about running. But looking at Grix's state, he suddenly felt that he couldn't hide forever.
If the God-Emperor truly bestowed some mission upon him, then surely it was today.