Zeman was currently missing.
According to fragmented information pieced together by the intelligence department, he had "accidentally" lost contact with the main force during the retreat. Along the way, he had conveniently taken the remaining functional Leman Russ tanks and all the heavy weapon ammunition with him.
He never returned to the Spire to report.
The man was shrewd. Having suffered such a crushing defeat and squandering the corporation's core assets, returning would mean certain death. That old fossil Thor would undoubtedly use him as a scapegoat; even if he avoided public execution, he would be sent to the Servitor modification workshops to have his brain hollowed out and replaced with a chip to serve as a gatekeeper.
Thus, Zeman found a lawless "no-man's land" in the Mid-hive, planted his flag, and declared himself a local warlord. Relying on the residual heavy firepower in his hands, he actually managed to carve out a foothold in that chaotic territory.
The old veteran was now living quite comfortably. As for the Helios Corporation? To hell with them!
Helios Headquarters, Top-Floor Meeting Room.
The atmosphere was even worse than it had been days ago. If before they were merely squabbling over profits, now they were tearing into each other to decide who should bear the brunt of the blame.
"It's all the intelligence department's fault! Why did no one tell me the Underhive had anti-aircraft missiles?!"
"Bullshit! Those were clearly unknown models of war drones! Can your Security Department not tell the difference between a drone and a missile?!"
"The Finance Department is also responsible! If you had approved the budget for those bunker-busters sooner—"
"ENOUGH!!"
Thor slammed his scepter onto the table, shattering expensive crystal glasses. The old man's face turned a deep shade of liver-red, his chest heaving violently. He scanned the room of useless sycophants before fixing his gaze on Jessia, who sat to his left.
Jessia kept her head down, silent.
SLAP—!!!
A sharp, crisp sound of a slap plunged the meeting room into a deathly silence. Thor had put all his strength into that strike, drawing blood from the corner of Jessia's mouth. Her head snapped to the side, her golden hair falling in disarray to cover half her face.
She didn't resist or explain. It was useless.
That slap shattered the last of Helios Corporation's hypocritical dignity and awakened everyone still clinging to their delusions. The situation had completely rotted away.
Helios was now trapped between a rock and a hard place, with its own dying self squeezed in the middle. At Sector Nine, the starship's Machine Spirit had completely taken over the defense systems; anyone daring to approach would be sliced into sashimi by lasers. Meanwhile, the Underhive had become a bottomless pit. The mysterious power rising there not only possessed anti-air firepower that swatted Valkyries like mosquitoes but also high-mobility heavy cannons used for direct fire, and a private army with individual gear so absurd it defied logic.
Seriously, who puts missiles inside a crossbow?!
Although Helios still held considerable resources, they were now effectively paralyzed. From this point on, a dangerous trend began to spread among the Spire's aristocratic circles: forced desertion.
As mentioned before, Forge Seven was located on the edge of the Segmentum Obscurus. The Warp routes were inherently unstable and were now becoming extremely treacherous due to the impending Great Rift. Ships without Warp drives and Geller Fields were simply entering a death trap, destined to be eaten as a buffet by demons.
Consequently, some turned their eyes toward another option: Intra-system ships.
These ships only traveled within a star system using conventional plasma engines. Their primary characteristic was being slow—despairingly slow. For instance, traveling from Forge Seven to the nearest inhabited star system would take roughly two hundred years.
This meant that once you boarded, you would never step off in your lifetime. You would live, age, and die inside that iron box. Your children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren would do the same. If the ship finally reached its destination—assuming no meteorites, pirates, or system failures occurred—the people disembarking would likely be your fourth-generation descendants.
Even so, "tickets" for these ships were being scalped at astronomical prices. Some nobles, completely paralyzed by fear, began selling off their estates to fight for this desperate path of survival. They would rather rot in an iron box than wait for death on Forge Seven. They would cling to any straw, even a rotten one.
More interesting, however, was the other group—the majority of the Spire's residents. These people were peculiar; while they cried out that the end was nigh, they remained physically rooted where they were.
Why? Out of a sense of fluke.
Although the Segmentum communication channels made it clear that the fires of war were raging, they hadn't yet reached the Spires of the Upper Hive. Tens of thousands of deaths in the Underhive were just numbers to them. Helios losing tens of billions was just gossip for tea time. As long as they couldn't hear the cannons, they felt life could go on.
Maybe the enemy wouldn't push up here? Maybe tomorrow the Imperial Navy's main fleet would suddenly arrive and annihilate all the heretics and xenos?
Fueled by such thoughts, the Spire's orgies became even more frequent. Since they didn't know if they would die tomorrow, they might as well enjoy today to the fullest. An atmosphere of doomsday revelry cloaked the entire Spire, the air thick with the scent of alcohol, perfume, and decadence.
Jessia had realized this long ago. She hadn't been to the office for five days, hiding in her luxury estate in the middle levels of the Spire, cutting off all external communications. She turned off all lights except for essential life support.
In the darkness, Jessia sat by the floor-to-ceiling window, holding a half-empty bottle of Amasec brandy. Her hair was a mess; she looked utterly decadent. These past few days, she had been pondering one question: What is wrong with this world?
Forge Seven was a standard second-rate industrial world—nothing special. Why had a monster like that emerged from the garbage heap of the Underhive? Those things weren't just beyond what this planet could build; they were beyond what this era could produce!
As a high-level executive at Helios, Jessia had seen her fair share of black technology. But the technical prowess Andy displayed was completely outside her realm of understanding.
When the "Black Box" was still in her hands, she had sacrificed thousands of lives just to bypass safety protocols and squeeze out a few more tons of high-purity alloy. She had even thought it a magnificent achievement, writing countless reports to claim credit, genuinely believing she was the only one in the corporation who understood ancient core tech.
The result? Look at what that person in the Underhive produced. Hypersonic war drones, high-mobility heavy cannons, and organized units of powered exoskeletons!
If these were all from the same machine, her previous "achievements" were a joke. While she was gloating over smelting good steel, the other side was grinding her intellect and vision into the dirt.
The true source of Jessia's panic and helplessness was the technological dominance Andy brought—a crushing force that transcended multiple eras. Her pride in her schemes, methods, and family influence seemed entirely worthless in the face of such absolute power.
"Phew..." Jessia exhaled a breath of alcohol. Her gaze landed on the coffee table.
There lay a magnetic card: [Special Class Departure Permit].
She had traded her body to that moronic Administrator for this. In three days, a Helios intra-system mining ship, the Grey Hope, would return from the outer asteroid belt and dock at the synchronous orbital station for supplies. This was the closest ship available.
If she wanted to leave, this was the last chance.
But... did she really want to go? To board an iron coffin destined to drift for centuries? To abandon everything here—her unfulfilled ambitions, her honor as a member of the Hell family? To become an exile slowly rotting in the dark, cold universe?
Jessia didn't know. Fear of the unknown, reluctance to lose power, and the instinctual rejection of death fought a chaotic battle in her mind.
Just then, vibrate, vibrate—
The communicator tossed in the corner of the sofa suddenly buzzed. A name flashed on the screen: Perun, the Administrator.
Looking at the name, a flash of disgust crossed Jessia's eyes. She could guess what he wanted to say—likely some party somewhere, some new "toys" arriving, asking if she wanted to join the fun. These people were truly beyond saving.
Jessia didn't answer. She reached out and swept the communicator onto the floor. Then, she picked up the magnetic card and gripped it tightly.
She needed to make a decision—one that might lead to a lifetime of regret, but might also be the only way she survives.