Once inside, the cowboy walked straight to the counter. He looked at the suitcase and asked, "Fixed?"
Byrne nodded. "Of course. You can check it. The conduction circuits and energy interfaces have been restored, and the deep-seated fractures are dealt with. It'll run like new."
The cowboy didn't open the lid. Instead, he took off his sunglasses. It was only then that Byrne saw the man's eyes: the left was a normal deep brown, but the right was a cybernetic prosthetic.
The man turned toward the suitcase, and a red light flickered in the pupil of the mechanical eye, as if scanning the contents. After a few seconds, the light dimmed.
He picked up the case. "Excellent. I knew I wasn't wrong about you—you're far more reliable than those official docks at the port. My name is Case. If there's a chance in the future, I'll come looking for you again."
With that, Case departed.
"Heh, I'm afraid you won't have that chance," Byrne muttered. He let out a long breath, relieved to have finished such a massive job.
However, a much larger problem was looming. Just an hour earlier, he had received an electronic mail—an Imperial Guard conscription notice. In Byrne's eyes, this wasn't a recruitment letter; it was a death warrant.
He knew exactly what joining the Astra Militarum meant in the world of Warhammer. As the primary fighting force of the Imperium, they constantly faced threats from Chaos, xenos, and rebels. The combat environment was brutal; most low-level soldiers were treated as disposable assets. His father had been a mechanical maintenance specialist—someone who didn't even have to stand on the front lines—and he was still dead in less than six months, without even a body left to bury.
According to the notice, Byrne had to report to the recruitment station within half a month. Otherwise, he would be processed as a deserter. In any world, desertion was a capital crime.
The moment he held that notice, Byrne began strategizing how to dodge the draft without being punished. He came up with three potential paths.
The first was physical infirmity. No army recruits the severely ill or the handicapped. Before transmigrating, Byrne had heard of people in small nations faking illnesses or even breaking their own limbs to avoid mandatory service. To Byrne, this was too extreme; he dismissed it immediately.
The second was bribery. Corruption was rampant in the Imperium, and one could indeed buy their way out of service. Many wealthy and powerful individuals chose this path. Unfortunately, Byrne was a commoner. Even with his recent windfall, thirty-odd Throne Gelt wouldn't even tickle the greed of an Imperial bureaucrat. To completely wipe a conscription record, he would need hundreds.
With those two options out, only one path remained—the one Byrne was pinning his hopes on: Joining the Civil Service.
As the saying goes, the end of the universe is a government job.
The Good News: Within his conscription window, there was a qualifying exam for Tax Collectors.
The Bad News: He only had one week left to study.
Before sunset, Byrne went out to register and buy the necessary study materials. At the bookstore, he realized the sheer volume of work ahead: The Compendium of Imperial Tax Law, The Tax Collector's Code of Conduct, A Collection of Past Exam Questions, What Makes a Qualified Tax Collector?, and Five Years of Tax Collection, Three Years of Simulation...
Back home after dinner, Byrne dived into the sea of books. The experience reminded him of his college days, pulling all-nighters before finals.
Three hours passed.
"Chapter 7, Article 32: The Industrial Waste Disposal Tax refers to industrial production..."
Byrne couldn't help but yawn. The desk lamp flickered—the power was unstable again. This was typical for Korol; the neon lights of the Upper Spire stayed on all night, while the Underhive could lose power at any moment.
Before he could finish the page, the lamp died completely. Blackout.
Byrne had candles, but he decided against it. It was late, and between the repair job and the studying, his mental energy was spent. He needed sleep.
Exhausted, Byrne fell into a deep slumber the moment his head hit the pillow. In his dreams, he felt his soul become weightless, floating higher and higher like a balloon until he reached an unknown place.
He looked around. It was a mysterious space filled with white mist. Where am I? he wondered. At least the mist was white, not gray.
After walking for a while, a large round table emerged from the fog. Around it were twelve high-backed stone chairs. Two people were already sitting there, talking.
One looked like a primary school student in a Japanese school uniform, resembling Nobita from Doraemon. The other was a handsome white man in his late thirties, dressed in standard corporate attire.
Hearing footsteps, the boy looked back at Byrne and smiled. "Yo, another one."
Strangely, despite seeing them for the first time, Byrne felt no sense of unfamiliarity. Instead, it felt like looking in a mirror.
Noticing Byrne's confusion, the boy chuckled. "I see you've realized it too. You are Byrne, I am Byrne, and he is Byrne. We just went to different worlds after transmigrating."
Byrne stood frozen for a long time before choking out, "So you're saying... we share the same soul, but it split when we crossed over?"
The boy-Byrne nodded and began his introduction. "Exactly. At first, I didn't know which world I was in, just that it was Japan. Then on my transfer day, I saw Nobita Nobi in my class. That's how I knew I was in the world of Doraemon."
The white man-Byrne followed suit. "Same here. I wasn't sure about my world either. I just knew I became an editor at a publishing house. So far, I haven't found anything 'special.' Rather than a transmigration, it feels more like I was reborn in America twenty years ago."
After sharing their stories, they both looked at Byrne in unison. "What about you? What kind of world did you end up in?"
Byrne walked to the table, pulled out a chair, and sat down. "I'm in the world of Warhammer 40,000. Here's the situation..."
When Byrne finished his brief summary, the other two fell silent. The way they looked at him was like looking at a lamb led to the slaughter.