This is the bonus chapter for reaching 600 Powerstones.
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As the inspection continued, the three Primarchs witnessed even more details of the Crimson Dawn's transformative impact on the hive.
In the Third Administrative Zone, they toured a newly constructed public medicae facility.
The hospital had been repurposed from what was once a private nobleman's clinic. A long line of upper hive commoners snaked out the door, waiting for treatment.
"We have established at least one public medicae facility in every administrative zone across every level of the hive. Basic medical services are entirely free, and medicae supplies are provided at cost," explained the player leading this segment, [Studying Med is Worse Than Falling to Chaos]. "Intensive care and surgical procedures require payment, but we've established a medical relief fund. Impoverished families can apply for fee waivers."
Sanguinius stepped into the main triage hall.
An elderly woman was sitting on a bench, cradling her sick grandson. A nurse approached, handing the woman a cup of warm water before gently checking the child's forehead.
"His forehead is hot. Head over to examination room three, the medicae will be right with you." The nurse's voice was gentle. "Don't worry, it's just a common ailment. Our Doctor Keith is excellent. He's a member of the Aurelian Youth League and was trained personally by the Crimson Dawn's head physicians. He'll have this cleared up in no time."
The elderly woman thanked her repeatedly, her eyes red with tears.
"In the past... in the past, if you got sick, you just had to endure it. If you couldn't endure it, you just waited to die..." she choked out. "Now, there's a place we can go, and the medicine is cheap... Thank the Governor. Thank the Crimson Dawn..."
The Great Angel of the Imperium watched the scene in silence.
He could sense the gratitude radiating from the old woman's emotional aura—a pure, unadulterated thankfulness.
He had seen similar scenes on Baal and the worlds protected by his sons.
But there, the gratitude was largely directed toward the Blood Angels Legion, toward him as their Primarch.
Here, the gratitude was directed toward an organization, a system, and a group of people who worked silently and asked for nothing in return.
When the three Primarchs reached the vertical agri-farms in the underhive, they were met with an even more staggering sight.
The lower levels, once choked with garbage and derelict machinery, had been transformed into a thirty-story, three-dimensional cultivation zone.
Every level was equipped with artificial lumen-systems. Nutrient paste circulated through pipes, and leafy green vegetables thrived in the meticulously controlled environment.
"This is part of our hive greening initiative," explained the player in charge of the farms, [Want to Build Wonders Across the World]. "We plan to open at least one hundred public parks in the upper and mid hives, and establish fifty vertical agri-farms in the lower and underhives. Our goal is for the hive to achieve ten percent self-sufficiency in vegetable production within three years."
Ferrus walked up to one of the ground-level cultivation racks.
The Master of the Iron Hands extended his living metal hands, gently touching a lettuce leaf.
The auspex array on his left arm fed data back to him: the leaf's water content, nutritional value, and growth state were all within the optimal parameters.
"Your cultivation technology is highly advanced," he commented plainly. "This is not an STC agricultural template from Mars."
"We reverse-engineered it ourselves from ruins excavated previously," [Want to Build Wonders Across the World] lied with a straight face. In reality, all of the technology had been purchased from the System shop; it was simply disguised to look like local innovation.
"Your approach to utilizing the hive's abandoned spaces is ingenious," Guilliman looked up at the towering tiers of cultivation racks. "It solves the spatial limitations while simultaneously improving the air quality in the lower levels. But most importantly, you eradicated the root causes of the chaos down here, allowing you to implement these measures in peace."
By the time the inspection stretched into the afternoon, the three Primarchs witnessed the scene that would leave the deepest impression on them.
At a construction site in the Tenth Administrative Zone of the underhive, a crew was building a new water purification plant.
The Crimson Dawn officials were dressed in the same rough canvas work clothes as the laborers. Their faces were smeared with plaster as they directed the work while simultaneously hauling construction materials, mixing ferrocrete, and laying pipes alongside the crew.
Under the Crimson Dawn's administration, there were no overseers here. There were no whips.
There was only shared sweat and shared labor. When they were tired, they sat by the roadside to drink water, and then got right back to work.
One of the players accidentally sliced his arm on a piece of rebar, drawing a steady flow of blood.
The nearby workers immediately swarmed him.
"Mr. Phineas! Your arm!"
"Quick! The medicae kit! Who brought the styptic bandages?"
"There's some in the breakroom! I'll go get them now!"
A worker rushed back with rudimentary medical supplies and carefully bandaged Phineas's wound.
The player named Phineas just grinned. "I'm fine, it's just a scratch. Don't worry about it."
"How is this just a scratch?! Bleeding is a big deal!" the worker scolded earnestly. "Governor Cage said safety comes first! Every single member of the Crimson Dawn is incredibly precious to us common folks. You do things fairly and justly, and you never play favorites. We have to protect you. Trade labor for sustenance, earn dignity through effort. Mr. Phineas, you go rest! We'll handle the rest of the work!"
"I can't do that. We have to hit our quota for today..."
"So that more people can drink cleaner water! Mr. Phineas, just listen to us! What's more important, the schedule or your life? Go on, shoo!"
The player was forcibly ushered to the side of the road by the workers to rest.
He sat there, watching the workers continue their bustling labor, and suddenly smiled.
There was a profound sense of... satisfaction in that smile.
Even though he was a player who could respawn and did not fear death, he was still deeply moved by the workers' actions. In reality, he was just a twenty-year-old college student.
To be able to genuinely help these impoverished citizens of the Imperium, to guide them toward a better life... how could that not be a source of immense pride!
Guilliman watched the scene in silence.
A complex light flickered deep within his ice-blue eyes.
On Macragge, the Consuls would also inspect construction sites and express concern for the workers.
But it was always a top-down concern, the sympathy of a ruler for the ruled.
Here, however, these Crimson Dawn officials were truly laboring, bleeding, and sweating alongside the workers.
They considered themselves one of the workers.
This posture, this sense of shared identity, was something the Consuls of Macragge could never achieve.
It wasn't that they were unwilling; it was that generations of ingrained class distinction and aristocratic identity made it impossible for them to truly lower themselves to that level.
"They remain noble. Even under your pressure, Guilliman, they may no longer oppress, but the fundamental distinction of nobility still runs deep within their very genetics," Sanguinius said softly.
"Are you... always like this?"
"Yes, Lord Sanguinius," Cogboy answered. "Core members of the Crimson Dawn are required to participate in grassroots labor on a regular basis."
"Why do you do this?"
"So we do not forget our roots. So we do not forget our original intentions." Blood Angel interjected, his voice resolute. "The vast majority of us come from the very bottom. We have experienced starvation, oppression, humiliation, despair, and even the threat of death. Now that we have the opportunity to change all of this, if we distance ourselves from the bottom the moment we gain power, if we forget our original intentions... then what difference is there between us and the oppressors?"
Ferrus remained silent.
But the Master of the Iron Hands kept his gaze fixed on those laboring Crimson Dawn officials for a very long time.
At lunchtime, Cogboy led the three Primarchs to a cafeteria.
It wasn't a VIP dining hall, just a standard mess hall for regular staff.
Long tables and chairs, metal ration trays, and the simple, hearty aroma of cooked food hung in the air.
"My Lord Primarchs, I apologize for the austere conditions," Cogboy said, sounding slightly embarrassed. "The Crimson Dawn mandates that all members share the same dietary standard. No special privileges are permitted."
He brought over several ration trays and set them before the Primarchs.
Each tray held two fist-sized potatoes, a block of roasted synthetic protein, and a small bowl of soup made from some unidentifiable vegetable.
The potatoes were boiled, devoid of any seasoning, revealing pale yellow flesh when peeled.
The synthetic protein block looked like a compressed brick; the taste was unlikely to be anything spectacular.
The vegetable soup was a thin broth; one could easily count the number of leaves floating within it.
"This is... your daily ration?" Guilliman looked at the tray, a flash of surprise in his ice-blue eyes.
"Yes, my lord," Blood Angel stated frankly. "The hive's food supply has not fully recovered. High-quality food is prioritized for the scholae, the medicae facilities, and the construction sites. As administrators, it is our duty to share in the hardships of the Imperial citizens."
Sanguinius slowly picked up a potato.
The Great Angel's fingers gently brushed over the rough skin, his amber-gold slit pupils staring intently at the most basic of staples.
He could sense a certain... simple, unyielding will contained within this potato.
"Trade labor for sustenance."
Sanguinius softly repeated the words carved on the statue.
He then peeled back the skin and took a bite.
It was bland and dense.
It was the absolute bare minimum of sustenance, barely enough to fill a stomach, and nothing more.
Guilliman and Ferrus also picked up their potatoes.
The three Primarchs sat in the austere mess hall, eating the simplest of meals alongside the members of the Crimson Dawn.
The other players and staff around them seemed entirely accustomed to the sight, eating the exact same rations themselves.
Some discussed work between bites, while others crumbled their protein blocks into their soup to make it slightly more palatable.
There were no complaints here. No dissatisfaction.
Only a calm acceptance, and the faint, glowing presence of... hope.
Guilliman chewed his potato slowly.
His ice-blue eyes swept across the entire mess hall.
He looked at the expressions on the faces of the players and staff. They seemed remarkably content, showing no signs of distress over the meager food.
They knew they could eat better, but they had chosen to prioritize limited resources for those who needed them most.
This choice represented a formidable organizational discipline and collective identity.
It was more persuasive than any resounding slogan.
As lunch concluded, the inspection drew to a close.
The three Primarchs boarded their Thunderhawk gunships, preparing to return to the City of the Holy Anthem.
The assault ramps sealed, the engines roared to life, and the gunships slowly ascended.
Through the observation armaglass, the full panorama of Kent Hive gradually unfolded before them.
The newly repaired streets stretched outward, the new scholae, medicae facilities, and water purification plants painting vibrant new colors onto the hive's steel jungle.
The entire hive pulsed with a visible vitality. That emotional aura of hope blazed with a blinding radiance to the psychic senses of the three Primarchs.
A brief silence settled inside the Thunderhawk troop bay.
After a while, Ferrus spoke up slowly.
"Their organizational capability and efficiency have exceeded my expectations." The Master of the Iron Hands delivered his rare statement of approval. "Mineral output has increased by twenty percent, and infrastructure repair is progressing three times faster than on a standard prosperous world." He paused. "It seems my decision to hand them control of Kent Hive was correct."
Sanguinius nodded gently.
The Great Angel stared out the window at the receding hive, his amber-gold slit pupils distant and profound.
"I saw their salvation," he said softly. "They view the salvation of over ninety million Imperial citizens as a singular, collective endeavor. They have not abandoned a single soul worthy of saving. They treat every life as something precious."
Guilliman remained silent.
The Ultramarines Primarch leaned back in his seat, his ice-blue eyes half-closed, his fingers unconsciously tapping his sword hilt.
He was deep in thought.
What he had seen in Kent Hive was like a boulder dropped into the calm lake of his mind. The ripples spread outward, ultimately shaking certain deeply ingrained beliefs.
On Macragge, across the Five Hundred Worlds of Ultramar, he had championed the rule of law, civil welfare, education, and healthcare, establishing the most perfect and humane system of governance in the galaxy.
He was incredibly proud of it.
But today, he had witnessed another possibility.
A far more... radical possibility.
The members of the Crimson Dawn, those administrators, those so-called Aurelian Youth League members... they truly stood on the exact same battleline as the common citizens.
They ate together, lived together, worked together, and sweated together.
They offered kindness to the diligent, and delivered punishments—stripping benefits, mandating labor, and conducting public critiques—to the slothful.
They were pragmatic and responsible, completely devoid of any desire for luxury or excess.
Perhaps the Consuls of Macragge possessed some of these qualities as well.
But the members of the Crimson Dawn possessed something they lacked: a genuine, internal identity that viewed themselves as nothing more than ordinary laborers.
This was not a top-down dispensation of grace, but a bottom-up collective construction.
That was what shocked him the most.
The Crimson Dawn wasn't merely managing the Imperial citizens; they were leading them to forge a new path.
"This place is far more logical than Macragge..." Guilliman murmured softly to himself.
Ferrus looked over. "What did you say?"
"Nothing." Guilliman opened his eyes, a decisive light flashing within his ice-blue gaze. "I was simply wondering if the Kent Hive model could be replicated across the entire planet."
Sanguinius turned to look at Guilliman.
The Great Angel's lips curved upward in a slight smile.
"I had the exact same thought. The administrative authority over a single hive is likely no longer sufficient for them."
Ferrus was silent for a few seconds.
Then, he slowly nodded.
"Acceptable." The voice of the Iron Hands Primarch remained as cold as ever. But his next words caught both Guilliman and Sanguinius slightly off guard. "Those local factions—the Hysman Merchant Guild, the Atens Knight House, the Order of the Omnissian Mind—their core leadership was mostly wiped out in the City of the Holy Anthem. The rest are nothing but useless gluttons. Rather than keeping them around to continue draining this planet's blood, we might as well hand the entire world over to the Crimson Dawn. So long as they can deliver their tithes on time. So long as they can maintain order and maximize efficiency."
He paused. "And, so long as they continue to supply the Iron Hands Legion with Cigarettes and Alcohol."
Guilliman's eyes lit up.
This played perfectly into his hands.
"I agree." The Ultramarines Primarch sat up straight, his voice firm. "The Aurelian System is located on the fringes of the Segmentum Ultima, falling within the sphere of influence of the Five Hundred Worlds of Ultramar. As the ruler of the Five Hundred Worlds, I have the authority to dictate this planet's system of governance."
He looked at both Sanguinius and Ferrus.
"If neither of you have any objections, I move to officially grant comprehensive administrative authority over Aurelian IV to the Crimson Dawn. The initial term... shall be set at ten years. After ten years, we will evaluate their governance and decide whether to renew their mandate, or expand it to other worlds."
Sanguinius smiled and nodded. "I have no objections."
Ferrus also nodded. "Acceptable," he added, "but mineral output must prioritize the Astartes Legions. That is my baseline."
"But of course." A smile of accomplishment touched Guilliman's lips.
Kent Hive. Crimson Dawn.
He wanted to see if this organization, if this model, could truly be sustained on a planetary scale.
If they succeeded...
"Then perhaps," Guilliman said slowly, "this is another possibility for the future of the Imperium of Man that the Emperor saw within His grand design. It could even forge a new path for Macragge, for Ultramar, and for the entire Imperium. A path warmer than the Imperial Truth, more resolute than corruption, and far more hopeful than cold reality."
The Thunderhawk gunships pierced the cloud layer, accelerating toward the City of the Holy Anthem...
The twin moons of Aurelian IV were slowly rising.
The crimson moon looked like blood, the silver moon like frost.
The moonlight washed over the hive's steel jungle, illuminating the newly repaired streets, the schola playgrounds, and the medicae windows.
It also illuminated the Crimson Dawn flag hanging on the wall of the Kent Hive Governor's Office.
The flag, emblazoned with its golden sunrise, stars, gears, and wheat stalks...
Fluttered silently under the moonlight.
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Goal = 900 Powerstones.
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