[Regional Chat]
[The Last God of Gamblers of the Imperium of Man]: "Brothers! I'm back! I just played a round of Fight the Landlord with Guilliman, Sanguinius, and Ferrus!"
[Selling Fried Rice Noodles Outside the Imperial Palace]: "???"
[Selling Milk Cookies Outside the Eye of Terror]: "Holy shit? Seriously?"
[Guilliman's Little Blue Beam]: "I'm turning purple with envy!! Guilliman, my god! Let me teach you how to play basketball!"
[The Last God of Gamblers of the Imperium of Man]: "Guilliman is so incredibly masculine, truly worthy of being the Regent of the Second Imperium! And Sanguinius's smile could blind a dog. If he was in reality, he'd be an absolute idol! As for Ferrus... his temper is terrible, but he's actually a pretty nice guy. He even gave me an armor sample!"
[Blood Angels' Second Emperor]: "I give this cultural export a ten out of ten."
The God of Gamblers' epic feat was like a single spark that ignited the dormant, meme-fueled inspiration of countless other players.
In the days that followed, the atmosphere in the rest zones along the front lines of the City of the Holy Anthem began to drift rapidly off course.
Someone drew a basketball court in chalk in an open clearing and began teaching the Blood Angels how to play Warhammer-style basketball. The rules allowed for reasonable shoulder-checking, but strictly prohibited the use of power fists.
Someone else hauled over an entire mahjong set and started teaching the Iron Warriors how to play Iron Mahjong. The tiles were metal slabs etched with Legion heraldry and tactical symbols, producing crisp metallic clacks when shuffled.
One player even managed to procure a genetically modified, basketball-playing chicken. It was some bizarre creature bought from the System shop that looked like a chicken but possessed terrifying leg strength, capable of jumping three meters into the air.
Warriors of the Blood Angels Fifth Company crowded around the chicken, attempting to teach it how to dunk.
The scene was, for a time, utterly chaotic.
Ferrus Manus initially held a staunchly oppositional stance toward all this.
"Entertainment will corrode discipline," the Iron Hands Primarch stated sternly during a meeting. "The duty of the Astartes is to fight, not to play."
Guilliman offered a rational rebuttal. "Appropriate relaxation can improve combat efficiency. The data indicates that warriors who participate in card games or sporting activities show a five to eight percent increase in reaction speed during subsequent engagements."
Sanguinius spoke gently. "And our sons are happy, Ferrus. Can you not sense it? The pure emotional fluctuations of our sons... such things are precious on the battlefield. Although they are transhuman, they still fall within the realm of humanity. We need our sons to charge into battle for the Imperium, but we cannot strip them of the joy they require as humans."
Ferrus fell silent.
A few days later, someone spotted the Iron Hands Primarch sitting alone inside his command tent, a set of metal mahjong tiles laid out before him.
His living-metal fingers delicately picked up a tile, held it up to his eyes to examine the face, and then referenced a printed rulebook.
A few days after that, Ferrus appeared at an Iron Mahjong table.
His opponents were three Iron Warriors Techmarines.
"Pong," Ferrus discarded two identical tiles. (TL/N: These are all Chinese words that don't really have an English translation so I will keep them as it is, but if someone is interested they can search the game on google.)
"Kong!" A Techmarine excitedly revealed four tiles.
Ferrus stared at the tiles in his hand and fell silent for three seconds.
"Mahjong."
He revealed his hand. A pure flush, winning on a kong replacement.
The three Iron Warriors Techmarines stared at the winning hand before the Master of the Iron Hands, then looked down at the absolute garbage in their own hands, and fell into deep thought.
Ferrus stood up, his living-metal hand gently patting one of their pauldrons.
"Tile proficiency requires practice," he stated briefly. "But tactical thinking is far more important. You were too eager for success and neglected your defense. In simple terms, get good."
With that, the Iron Hands Primarch turned and left, leaving the three Iron Warriors Techmarines staring blankly at each other.
From that day onward, Ferrus no longer opposed recreational activities.
He even issued a statement across the Legion vox-net: "So long as it does not interfere with combat duties, appropriate card games or sporting activities... may be permitted. However, durable materials must be used. Cardboard is too fragile. Switch to metallic compositions."
Upon receiving this feedback via the God of Gamblers, Cogboy made an immediate decision.
In the manufactorums of Kent Hive, a batch of special-issue recreational supplies began to be forged.
[Iron Poker Deck]: Each card stamped from 0.5mm adamantine steel, edges polished smooth, faces etched with colored enamel coating. Total deck weight: 3.2 kg. Capable of stopping bullets.
[Iron Mahjong]: Each tile cast from alloy, 1.5 times the size of standard mahjong tiles, coated with an anti-corrosion layer. Total set weight: 48 kg.
Once these heavy-duty recreational armaments were delivered to the front lines, they instantly won the widespread acclaim of the warriors.
"Now this makes sense."
An Iron Hands warrior weighed a metal mahjong tile in his hand, nodding in satisfaction. "Cardboard is too light. There's no feel to it."
"And you can use these as close-combat weapons," another warrior added. "If you're suddenly ambushed by the corrupted, you grab a handful of tiles and hurl them. The edges will slice right through flesh."
And so, the daily routine on the front lines of the City of the Holy Anthem became this:
During the day, Astartes formed tactical squads, sweeping through the levels to clear out the corrupted, purging the taint with bolter and chainsword.
At night, they returned to the rest zones, sitting around ammunition crates, smoking cigarettes and drinking Alcohol.
They held iron poker cards in their power-armored hands, shouting "Pair of twos," "Joker Bomb," and "Pass."
Slay daemons, play cards. Play cards, slay daemons.
Life for the warriors of the four Astartes Legions was fulfilling and joyous.
Time flowed on within this atmosphere.
The standard Imperial calendar on Aurelian IV flipped to [976.M30-12-31].
For the vast majority of the Imperial citizens on this planet, this day meant absolutely nothing.
It was just another line of dates in a ledger. Just another repetitive shift down in the mines. Just another twenty-four hours of struggling for a mouthful of clean water in the underhive.
But in Kent Hive, this day was fundamentally different from anything that had come before.
The entire hive, from the upper spires to the underhive, from the administrative districts to the worker hab-blocks, was painted red.
It was a warm, festive red, brimming with hope.
Because the Crimson Dawn had designated this day as [New Year's Eve].
"The suffering of the past year ends today."
Blood Angel stood upon a podium in the hive's central plaza, addressing the tens of thousands of citizens gathered below.
Behind him hung a massive Crimson Dawn flag, gleaming under the lumens.
"Starting tomorrow is a new year! Everyone will be given a new life! Out with the old, in with the new! Here, no one shall be left homeless. No one shall suffer from hunger or cold!"
A thunderous cheer erupted from the crowd below.
The children were wearing newly issued grey padded coats. They had been rushed into production by the hive's textile manufactorums over the past few days. Although the fabric was plain, they were thick and incredibly warm.
The workers carried their newly distributed New Year goods: two kilograms of potatoes, a block of synthetic protein, a small packet of candy, and a pair of hand-written New Year couplets.
The content of the couplets had been collectively crowdsourced by the players and was deeply imbued with Warhammer flavor:
First Scroll: Mine the Ores, Forge the Steel, Cast the Imperium's Foundation.
Second Scroll: Trade the Labor, Expend the Effort, Earn Tomorrow's Hope.
Horizontal Scroll: Crimson Dawn.
The streets of the hive had been swept spotlessly clean. Red lanterns hung from every lumen-pole.
They were handmade from scrap metal plating and transparent plas-wrap, lit from within by small LED diodes, casting a warm, soft glow.
Temporary stages had been erected in the plazas of every administrative zone, hosting lion dance performances.
The lions themselves were handmade from scrap fabric, painted in bright colors, and operated by two Aurelian Youth League members who had been trained by the players, leaping and tumbling to the beat of drums.
The younger children formed circles, clapping and cheering.
The aroma of food permeated the air.
Early that morning, over twenty female players had gathered groups of hive women in the public kitchens of each administrative zone to begin preparing the New Year's Eve feast.
"These are called dumplings."
A female player with the ID [Dumplings Must Be Chive and Egg] was personally teaching several women how to roll out the dough. "Mix the flour and water according to the ratio, knead it into a dough, and then roll it into thin sheets..."
Her movements were practiced, and perfectly round wrappers flew from her hands, forming a neat stack.
"For the filling, we're using mashed potatoes mixed with minced synthetic meat, plus a few spices... yes, just like that."
At the stoves on the other side, steam billowed from massive pots.
[Not Eating Rice Balls on the New Year is Heresy] was teaching another group how to make glutinous rice balls.
"You have to mix the glutinous rice flour with hot water, so it gets soft and sticky... The filling is black sesame mixed with powdered sugar. Wrap it up, roll it into a ball..."
The Rice Ball tumbled in the boiling water, gradually floating to the surface as their skins turned translucent.
The flour, glutinous rice flour, sugar, and spices had all been purchased by the players from the System shop.
Aurelian IV was currently incapable of growing wheat or rice. Their primary sources of starch were the potatoes brought by the players and a tuber plant similar to cassava, which tasted vastly different.
But Cogboy had simply waved his hand and approved the procurement requisition.
"It's the New Year. Spending a little money is nothing," he said, signing off on the budget. "It's worth less than a few transport crawlers full of promethium ore."
And so, pots upon pots of dumplings, rice balls, and various other New Year dishes from the players' memories were produced.
Although the ingredients were limited and the seasoning simple...
To the citizens of the hive, this was the first time in their lives they had ever eaten such a bountiful, warm New Year's Eve feast.
The scholae were given three days off. Children ran throughout the hive levels, playing games taught to them by the players.
Hopscotch, dodgeball...
The entire hive was immersed in a joyous, harmonious atmosphere.
The crime rate over these few days plummeted to absolute zero. The remnants of the hive gangs had either been purged, assimilated, or tried to sneak out to cause trouble only to be instantly dogpiled by patrolling players and PDF soldiers.
"Committing a crime on New Year's Eve?"
"Do you have zero festive decency?"
A player hoisted up a petty thug who had tried to steal New Year's goods, glaring at him in exasperation. "Go. Ten days of mandatory community service. You're going to scrub every single lantern in Sector Ten."
The thug shambled off, looking absolutely miserable.
--
Goal = 900 Powerstones.
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