Back in the Hideout, Li Qingyu lit the scented candles, set them by the altar, and placed a bottle of cooking oil—about 150 ml—inside.
The System displayed the process of creating sacred oil. In twelve hours, the product would be ready.
Although on Agri-World 496b he still hadn't seen manifestations of Chaos, in Warhammer 40,000 Chaos was as common as air. It was only a matter of time.
Better to stock up on sacred oil in advance—it would come in handy if he ever had to roast a servant of Chaos.
With production running, Li Qingyu moved on to training: push-ups, squats, shuttle runs under load. After a couple of hours he was breathing hard, squeezed to the limit.
Checking his stats, he noted the progress: Endurance had risen to 13, Energy to 11.
He wiped himself down with a rag, swallowed a few spoonfuls of sour sludge from a ceramsteel barrel, and fell asleep instantly.
When he woke, the first thing he did was check the altar. The candles had burned down—the oil had become sacred.
After storing the product, he lit another candle, loaded a second bottle, and let the process run on its own.
With his house in order, Li Qingyu went out. He needed to carry out the black trader's request and scout the situation at the reactor.
Reaching the stall, he addressed Nibor:
"I need a pipe shotgun, fifty shells, a combat helmet and chest rig, five detonators, and two smoke bombs."
The Black Trader nodded to a lackey; the man disappeared into the back of the shop and returned a moment later with the kit.
"My dearest guest, that'll be five hundred tokens."
Li Qingyu paid and began inspecting the weapon.
The shotgun really was built from plumbing pipe—heavy, smoothbore. A double-barrel, chambered for 35 mm homemade ammunition the trader manufactured himself.
After checking the gun, Li Qingyu put on the armor—homemade pressed-fiber, Class 2, durability 35. For real combat it was paper, but for gang fights it was enough. The opposition mostly used melee weapons and crude homemade guns.
Outfitted, Li Qingyu asked:
"Where's the reactor?"
Nibor spread a fake smile.
"Oh, my dearest guest, going to crush some roaches? Splendid!"
He held out a sheet of paper.
"Here's a route map to the reactor. With this, you won't get lost."
A notification surfaced in Li Qingyu's mind:
Ding! New map discovered: Underhive Reactor.
It was an abandoned chemical plant deep in the Underhive—rusted pipes, ceramsteel frameworks, dim light from rare lamps, tight spaces, and darkness.
Li Qingyu pocketed the map and was about to leave, but Nibor warned:
"Be careful. The Chem gang keeps a lot of 'Chempse' hopped up on drugs, and there's a whole horde of them in there."
Then he added:
"But their brains are fried. Most can't even pull a trigger—at best they'll swing a blade. For them, reciting the Imperial Truth is like understanding quantum physics."
Li Qingyu gave a short nod and left.
Leaving Fertilizer gang territory, he followed the map's directions through the tangled tunnels. A green timer flashed in the corner of his vision:
Deploying: Reactor. 10, 9, 8, 7...
When the countdown hit zero, the world spun—and in the next moment he was in a new space.
This was the "Reactor" map—a cube of five levels of metal platforms. At the center stood a gigantic reservoir running through all floors. The very reactor the Fertilizer gang and the Chem gang were going to war over.
After landing, Li Qingyu pressed himself to the wall and listened. Below, footsteps clanged, voices carried, laughter echoed—noise came from Level One.
He was on Level Five. Carefully, step by step, he moved down, trying not to make a sound.
On Level Two, voices reached him:
"If we take the reactor, we can cook more chems, hook even more people!"
"And then we'll pay a visit to the Fertilizer gang—and that's it, the district is ours, ha-ha!"
Li Qingyu peeked from behind the stairs. Below, beside a barrel, some suspicious chunk of meat was roasting. Around it sat a dozen ragged men with syringes and chemical tattoos—typical Chempse.
He counted them carefully: eleven. Weapons—scrap-metal machetes. Bodies—unsteady. Eyes—glassy. Most were high.
Seeing how tightly they were clustered, Li Qingyu took out two detonators, lit the fuses, and threw them down.
Weapons in Warhammer 40,000 were never about moderation. Each detonator held half a kilo of explosives—in total, a kilogram of pure hell.
The drugged-up Chempse didn't even notice something had landed at their feet. They kept talking to the last second.
BOOM-BOOM!!
The blast shook the reactor, metal screeched, dust rose in a column.
Of the eleven Chempse, seven died instantly. Four still writhed on the floor, choking on blood. One, missing a leg, screamed, clutching the stump.
Li Qingyu went down. The surviving Chempse, guessing from the armor who stood before him, screamed:
"The Family won't spare you! Mama will turn you into chemical pigs!!"
Li Qingyu didn't listen. He raised the shotgun—one blast blew the man's head apart. Then he got to scavenging.