Moments later, Nimrod discovered an abandoned sewage conduit amidst the refuse heaps on the outskirts of Tevarok.
Hive cities develop from the ground upward. When humanity first sets foot on a planet to establish a settlement, they begin with surface encampments, which, over eons, grow vertically into towering spires.
Due to population migrations and other factors, most facilities in the underhive are consequently abandoned.
He slipped into the conduit, treading through the sludge formed by industrial wastewater.
Nimrod advanced through the sewage conduit, wide enough for five men abreast, and after traversing a kilometer, his ears twitched, capturing sound waves that painted a mental image of hundreds engaged in combat.
He pressed forward another few hundred meters, his hearing sketching a scene of pursuit and slaughter, one party chasing another.
A scream pierced the air abruptly. The fleeing figure collapsed into the sewage, followed by another cry as the pursuer fell as well.
Nimrod listened intently. Beyond the two, he detected no other living sounds. How had both fallen?
Moments later, he reached the scene, finding both men dead in the wastewater.
Even in the dim environment, he could discern their anomalies clearly: their shoes were tattered, their soles a bloody mess, marred by countless crisscrossing wounds.
Nimrod scanned his surroundings, his keen senses spotting a cluster of crystals in a corner of the murky sewage.
[Not a creature, but Thorn Crystal.]
Nimrod knew that Thorn Crystals formed in hive city cesspools, sewage conduits, and other areas where pollutants accumulated over generations. Less a plant, they were more akin to a mineral growth, resembling coral, composed of brittle yet razor-sharp crystal clusters.
Fools who stumbled into Thorn Crystals soon discovered their horror. The sharp crystals inflicted thousands of minute but excruciatingly painful wounds.
The greatest danger lay in the toxins and chemical corrosives coating the crystals. Entering wounds, they transformed minor abrasions into severe infections and festering sores, leading to death without medical treatment.
Tragically, most underhive and lower hive denizens lacked access to medical supplies, meaning a misstep onto these crystals spelled a swift end to their wretched lives.
[To find a supplementary ingredient so quickly.]
Nimrod bent down, searching the sewage, and soon retrieved two intact crystal clusters.
He retrieved his spare clothing from his backpack, wrapping each Thorn Crystal in a shirt and pants, respectively, before stowing them in the pack.
Nimrod's spirits lifted, and he continued onward. Where several conduits converged, he spotted a platform.
On the platform, two gangs clashed around a forge furnace, exchanging fire with lasguns crafted from scrap materials.
Among the gang on the platform's left, their heads wrapped in red cloth, the leader raised a scrap laspistol, felling an enemy, then ducked to evade return fire. His eyes suddenly gleamed.
He spotted a boy who did not belong to the underhive. Despite tattered clothing, the boy's handsome features shone through, more valuable than the forge furnace itself.
He charged toward Nimrod, reaching to seize him.
"Kid, get over here."
Nimrod shifted his body, causing the gang leader to grasp at air. In the moment the man lost balance, the boy seized his wrist, pulled him forward, and drove the silver-gray fragment into his abdomen.
From the corpse, Nimrod retrieved five energy cells, tucking them into his clothing's pockets.
The mutant's garment, designed to hold scavenged "treasures," boasted numerous pockets sewn from variously colored scraps.
The Primarch picked up the laspistol, assembled from mismatched parts. The moment it was in his hand, he expertly checked the energy cell.
[Vostonian gangs surpass the craftsmanship of other worlds' gangs. This scrap laspistol exceeds average quality, capable of 23 shots total, with 17 remaining.]
Nimrod bellowed, "Cease fire!"
Though still a boy, his voice carried no trace of childishness.
The warring factions, hearing the command, froze as if scolded by an Arbites occasionally descending to the underhive, their bodies trembling as they turned to look.
Upon seeing Nimrod, their eyes lit up with avarice.
From the platform's right, a gang leader poked his head out and spat.
"Who do you think you are, kid…"
Before he could finish, a brilliant beam pierced the vital spot between his eyes, his corpse crumpling to the ground.
Both gangs gasped in shock. The distance between the boy and the leader exceeded thirty meters, far beyond the maximum range of a scrap laspistol, yet he had killed the leader with pinpoint accuracy—an unimaginable feat.
On the platform's left, a few sharp-eyed members noticed the boy wielded their leader's gun, and their leader's corpse lay at the conduit's mouth.
"The boss is dead!"
The shout jolted both gangs. Instantly, several members' eyes gleamed with ambition. They were lieutenants, and with their leaders dead, the chance to rise had come.
They swiftly turned their guns on their rivals within their own factions.
As for the boy, no matter how skilled, he was just a child. Once they claimed leadership, they could overwhelm him with numbers.
Nimrod had braced to roll and dodge, but he was surprised to find them even more foolish than he'd imagined.
He sprang into action. Since these men had crossed his path, they would form the foundation of his conquest of Vostonia. Now was the time to assert dominance.
"I said… cease… fire…"
As Nimrod spoke, he raised his hand, firing three shots in succession, killing three members of the left-side gang. Two more fell to sneak attacks from their own rivals.
He then dispatched the victor of the other gang, turning his gaze to the crowd.
"From this moment, I am your boss. Disobey, and you'll end like them."
The gang members were stunned into paralysis, too terrified to move. They had never witnessed such unerring marksmanship—consecutive shots, each claiming a life—unheard of in their world.
Thus, on his first day in Vostonia, Nimrod formed his own gang, commanding three hundred and ten souls.
When Nimrod emptied his backpack's fungi into a large vat, every gang member's eyes glowed green with hunger. Were it not for fear of his deadly aim, they would have pounced like ravenous wolves.
Standing atop the platform, Nimrod overlooked the crowd below. Knowing the underhive folk were largely illiterate, he spoke in the simplest, most direct terms.
"I won't shortchange those who follow me, but I don't feed dead weight."
"Your rewards depend on your skills."
"Soup or scraps—it's up to you."
He scanned the crowd, noting most stretched their necks, eyes wide, staring at his feet, while a few still scratched their heads in confusion.
"Now, I have questions. Answer well, and you'll get soup."
"First question: where can I find giant rats, over a meter long?"
The higher the quality of potion ingredients, the better the effects upon consumption.
Nimrod wasn't concerned about revealing the potion formula; he only needed to inquire about two ingredients.
"Me!" The quickest to respond was a scrawny bald man. "Boss, giant rats are everywhere nearby. Plenty are over a meter long. I can't say how many, but every tunnel and conduit is crawling with them."
Nimrod surveyed the crowd. No one contradicted the man; their faces showed regret and frustration.
"Well done. Come up and take a ladle."
The bald man bolted forward, nearly tripping as he climbed the platform, twisting his ankle.
He propped himself up with his left hand, scrambling to his feet as if fearing the boss would retract the offer, then scooped a heaping ladleful.
Smelling the aroma, he crouched beside the vat, eagerly lapping at the broth.
The others watched the quick-witted bald man with envy, ears perked, awaiting the boss's next question.
"Second question: who knows where to find Wire Grass?"