After the war against the orks ended, Herbert was on patrol in the Mid-Hive.
It was called a patrol, but in reality, he was just strolling around.
The Helldivers' cleansing work was incredibly thorough, so thorough that it even left Herbert feeling a trace of shock. He walked through this area, which had just undergone a baptism of blood and fire, and could barely perceive any lingering psychic traces of heretics. It was hard to imagine that this place had once been occupied by a genestealer cult. After all, those cunning heretics were most adept at concealment and infiltration.
How could the Helldivers have so accurately distinguished them from innocent Imperial citizens in such a short time?
Of course, this question, for the Helldivers, might have been a rhetorical one—they didn't need to distinguish; if they saw a white outline, they simply shot them.
It was precisely because of this thorough, no-corner-left-unturned cleansing that Herbert found almost no place where he needed to personally extend the Emperor's glory. However, this also counted as a rare moment of ease. He planned to routinely walk a couple of rounds, confirm everything was fine, then finish up, and then concentrate on figuring out what was going on with the unusual energy emanating from those two astartes.
Just as he was absently walking past a large factory district, a commotion caught his attention.
Herbert saw several players wearing the Helldivers' standard gear, cursing as they dragged a rather well-dressed man out of a factory gate.
Although the man's clothes were a bit wrinkled and stained, their material and tailoring far surpassed those of ordinary hive city residents. In an era where the entire Perditia hive city had become one giant workshop, a person who could maintain such cleanliness and presentability clearly held a not-insignificant status.
The players dragged him to an open space and, without a word, began to punch and kick him. The man curled up on the ground, letting out painful groans. Then, one of the players raised his lasgun, aiming it at his head, and it looked as if his life was about to end.
"Wait!"
Herbert's investigative instinct instantly kicked in, and he almost subconsciously cried out.
The players paused their actions and instinctively turned their heads. When they saw the iconic Inquisition rose knot on Herbert's chest, their faces showed obvious surprise.
Why had an Inquisitor suddenly appeared to meddle in such a matter?
And the man, who was being held down by their feet, initially showed a glimmer of joy on his face when he heard the voice of deterrence. But the moment he laboriously lifted his head and recognized Herbert's identity, that glimmer of joy immediately turned into extreme fear and despair.
He began to struggle wildly, screaming with all his might: "Quick! Kill me! Shoot me now! Shoot me…"
His outburst made the players less inclined to kill him immediately. One of them impatiently delivered another kick, temporarily quieting him.
Herbert had also quickly approached the group. He frowned, his gaze sweeping between the "respectable man" desperately pleading for death and the players, and asked in a deep voice, "What did he do?"
"This idiot…" One player pointed at the man on the ground with his chin, his tone full of disgust, "He withheld a batch of guns and grenades and then sold them to genestealers. Those grenades blew up our squad's chimera! And my dog was on that chimera! We tracked him here by the serial numbers of the captured laser guns."
"I see." Herbert nodded, saying expressionlessly, "If that's the case, then you cannot execute him with a lasgun. This does not comply with Imperial law, and vigilantism will lead to trouble."
"What do you mean?" The leading player frowned, tightening his grip on his gun.
Herbert could clearly feel the dissatisfaction emanating from these players, as well as their faint hostility. He had no doubt that if he insisted on saving this fellow, these fearless Helldivers would absolutely not hesitate to lay hands on him.
But he was not surprised by this—what would a group of people who viewed death itself as their ultimate destination fear?
And he also wasn't worried.
He, Herbert, was not here to save this guy. His mercy had not overflowed to the point of showering it upon a traitor who had aided the enemy.
"What I mean is, you shouldn't shoot him." Herbert said leisurely, pulling a tough synthetic fiber rope from his utility pouch at his waist.
Under the players' confused gazes, he knelt down and wrapped the rope around the respectable man's body.
He tied it skillfully, the knots simple and secure, ensuring he could absolutely not break free, while cleverly avoiding areas like the neck that could cause too quick a death.
"According to Imperial law…" Herbert stood up, walked to a chimera armored vehicle parked nearby, and tightly wrapped the other end of the rope around the tow hook at the rear of the vehicle, "…you should punish him this way."
After doing all this, Herbert easily climbed into the chimera's driver's seat, then leaned out of the driver's window and said to the stunned players, "It just so happens I'm too lazy to walk the rest of the way… Do you want to get in?"
The players first exchanged glances, then expressions of sudden realization appeared on their faces.
They understood what Herbert truly intended to do.
"Awesome, man, you really know how to play." One player gave him a thumbs-up and was the first to jump onto the roof of the chimera. The others followed suit, finding their spots and settling in.
Herbert smiled slightly and replied, "I merely have some understanding of Imperial legal provisions. If praise is due, it should be given to the Departmento Munitorum and the Administratum—this is one of the few things those two departments have done well."
No sooner had he finished speaking than he stomped on the accelerator.
The chimera's engine let out a deafening roar, and its heavy tires began to turn.
At the rear of the vehicle, the traitor's pleas and excuses were instantly replaced by a heart-wrenching scream. His body was violently dragged, rolling and scraping on the rough gravel ground, leaving behind a rapidly expanding trail of blood.
Accompanied by these incessant screams, Herbert drove the chimera, amidst the players' excited cheers, speeding away in a cloud of dust towards Robert's command post.
By the time Herbert's chimera came to a stop outside Robert's temporary command post, the horrific screams from the journey had long since ceased.
The thing being dragged behind the vehicle was completely silent. Rather than a corpse, it was a bloody, mangled mess of remains, thoroughly ground down by high speed and rough terrain.
Seeing its pathetic state, reduced to less than half its original mass, such complete physical annihilation meant that even the most resilient Nurgle Zombies would absolutely not be able to crawl back up from this pile of rotten flesh.