Warhammer Calendar: 148.M42.
For the Imperium of Man, the Indomitus Crusade had long since become history, and the aftershocks of the Plague Wars had not yet fully subsided. On the fringes of the Imperium lay the industrial world of Korol.
At eight in the morning, Byrne pushed open the door to the bakery. "Boss, two loaves of bread."
The owner, busy wiping down a table, said without looking up, "One hundred thousand a piece."
At that price, Byrne complained, "No way. It was eighty thousand last week. It's only been three days—how has it gone up again?"
The owner tossed his rag aside and sighed. "Haven't you heard the broadcasts lately? The Greenskins are attacking again. More than half of the shipping routes from the Agricultural Worlds have been cut off. The Imperial Guard has already begun mobilization. Just bear with it."
Broadcasts?
Hearing this, Byrne recalled that he had indeed heard something. However, he hadn't expected that a new Ork invasion would affect Korol this quickly. He pulled out his wallet, took two banknotes, and slapped them on the table.
Though Byrne was dissatisfied with the frequent price hikes, what could a bottom-dweller of the Imperium do? He could only do as the boss said: bear with it.
The owner picked up the bills and held them against the light to verify they weren't forgeries before pulling the bread from under the counter, bagging it, and handing it over.
Buying finished, Byrne stepped out of the shop. The sign overhead creaked in a gust of wind, shaking loose flecks of coal ash drifting in from the steel mills in the east. The soot made him cough the moment he stepped out. He quickly pulled on a cotton mask, which made him feel a bit better.
Half a month ago, Byrne had been driving when a truck suddenly swerved from the opposite lane. Following a massive crash, he lost consciousness. When he woke up, he realized he had transmigrated. Even worse, he had ended up in the world of Warhammer.
As a Warhammer enthusiast, Byrne knew all too well that this was a tragic universe where the strong die miserable deaths and the weak live miserable lives. Because of unrestrained industrial production, his current planet, Korol, was heavily polluted, and the quality of life for the common populace was abysmal.
His mother had passed away from an incurable disease caused by the harsh environment when he was young. His father had been conscripted into the Imperial Guard years ago and died on the battlefield in less than six months. For the past few years, Byrne had managed to scrape by on the small savings his father left behind and a family trade in mechanical repair.
What about the pension, you ask?
Please, this is the world of Warhammer. Even if one existed, given the Imperium's stagnant and corrupt bureaucracy, there's no telling how much would be left by the time it reached him—and by the time it actually arrived, the grass on Byrne's grave would likely be several meters high.
Leaving the bakery, Byrne visited a few more shops to pick up supplies before heading home. His house was an old residence left by his ancestors; the first floor was a machine shop, and the second floor was the living area.
It was still early, so instead of opening for business immediately, he decided to eat. He went to the kitchen, cut half a loaf of bread, and put the rest in the cupboard for later. He then took his tray down to the first floor, broke the bread into small pieces, and ate it with pickled cucumbers from a jar. This was his breakfast.
The bread was made of corpse starch, and the pickles were a low-grade, genetically mutated variety. Although the names were the same as the food from his previous life, the taste and texture were worlds apart. In the lower depths of the Warhammer world, people didn't deserve "cuisine"; being full was enough.
Byrne swallowed the last dry morsel and grumbled, "Sigh, when will these hard times ever end?"
Just as he finished speaking, the shop door pushed open and a man carrying a large leather suitcase walked in. He was heavily built and wore sunglasses, looking like a governor dressed as a Western cowboy.
The cowboy scanned the room before looking at Byrne and tipping his hat. "Boss, I have something that needs fixing."
Ah, business is at the door.
Byrne, who hadn't had a customer in over a week, gave a quick smile and wiped his mouth. "Easy, easy. Sir, let's see what you've got."
The man walked to the counter, set the suitcase down, and opened the lid. Inside was a thick layer of shock-absorbent foam. Nestled in a central hollow was a metal cube the size of a basketball, shaped somewhat like a Rubik's Cube. Its surface was covered in fine patterns—far more intricate than any circuit board Byrne had seen before his transmigration.
Byrne put on a monocular. After a few glances, he used his inherited knowledge to identify it: the core of a Standard Type III Interstellar Navigation Engine. Aside from lower-level official Imperial vessels, most people who used this engine were either Rogue Traders or space pirates.
Then a thought struck him. There were official repair stations at the port that could fix a damaged core; why would this man go out of his way to come here?
Could he be a pirate?
Adhering to the principle that "less trouble is better than more," Byrne began to decline. "Sorry, I can't fix this core. Sir, you should probably..."
Before he could finish, he found himself staring down the dark barrel of a gun pointed straight at his head.
"Boss, can you fix it now?"
Facing the man's "persuasive" argument, Byrne raised his hands and immediately changed his tune. "Oh! I must have misjudged it. The core is quite badly damaged, but it can be fixed. It'll just take more materials and time."
The man kept his gun steady with one hand while using the other to slap three coins onto the table. "It needs to be fixed today. I'm in a hurry. This is for the repair fee."
Byrne looked at the coins. At first, he thought they were silver coins used in the Upper Spire—and only three of them? That was incredibly stingy. But as he looked closer, he realized with a shock that they weren't silver coins; they were Throne Gelt.
In the entire Patrick System, or even the higher-level Gothic Sector, Throne Gelt was hard currency. According to the official Korol exchange rate, one Throne Gelt was worth one million credits. However, only a fool would use the official rate. With the current inflation of credits, one Throne Gelt could be traded for thirty million credits on the black market.
Three Throne Gelt meant ninety million credits. With that kind of money, Byrne could rent a high-end apartment with an air purifier in the Upper Spire and escape his diet of bread and pickles.
The reward was too tempting to refuse. After weighing his options, Byrne nodded. "Fine, I can fix it. But can I have one more day?"
The man refused flatly. "No. The time is non-negotiable."
Perhaps thinking Byrne wanted more money, the man tossed a heavy pouch onto the table and turned to leave. Before exiting, he added, "I'll be back at five this afternoon to collect the core. Don't disappoint me."
It took a moment after the man left for Byrne to snap out of it. "Sigh, what a guy. Not even a bit of room for negotiation."
After grumbling, he looked at the pouch. "Heh, what a weirdo. Leaving a bag like this and acting like I'd definitely agree just because of the extra cash..."
He picked up the pouch and opened it. Inside were thirty Throne Gelt.
Byrne was silent for several seconds before a wide grin spread across his face.
"Heh... he's a damn good judge of character."