Marcus's words left many of the candidates exchanging uneasy glances. Before long, a bolder candidate raised his hand.
"Um, Proctor Marcus, sir? Are you sure there isn't a mistake? The Tax Collector positions we're testing for are responsible for collecting revenue within the safe zones of the city. We don't deal with the outlands."
The speaker was a fair-faced young man, likely the son of Upper District white-collar workers. His argument voiced the thoughts of the vast majority; with him taking the lead, others began to murmur in agreement.
Marcus slid up his armored visor, spat on the ground, and let out a cold laugh.
"Heh. 'Safe zones'? In Korol, there is no such thing as absolute safety. Rebel informants hide in the nooks and crannies of the Lower District. Xenos scavengers entrench themselves in the remote mining zones. Even in your precious Upper District, where you think you can sleep soundly, Chaos cultists are performing blasphemous rituals in the shadows."
Marcus paused, his gaze sweeping across the crowd like a searchlight. He began to bark his reprimand.
"You think putting on a Tax Collector's uniform is a guaranteed meal ticket for life?"
"Bah! Utter grox-shit!"
"The Empire doesn't support you so you can be flowers in a greenhouse. It needs you to be warriors—men and women capable of completing a tithe-collection mission in any hellhole imaginable."
Marcus's voice was like a booming bell, every word carrying unquestionable authority. Under his glare, the fair-faced youth instantly shrank back, not daring to utter another word. The noisy chatter died abruptly, leaving only the whistling wind of the wasteland and the ragged breathing of the candidates.
Byrne stood in the crowd, his brow furrowed. Harsh as Marcus's words were, they fit the grim reality of the Warhammer world perfectly. In this cesspool of a universe, comfort was an unattainable luxury; only death and pain were constants. He stole a glance at Selena nearby; the noble lady remained composed, as if she had expected this exact scenario.
Marcus began pacing toward the candidates. "I know many of you chose this path just to dodge the Imperial Guard draft. But let me tell you, the Department of Finance's screening is stricter than the Guard's conscription. The Guard at least gives recruits time to train. From the moment you stepped into this factory, you are facing a trial by fire. There is no retreat."
However, before Marcus could finish his walk, another candidate couldn't resist talking back.
"A 'death test'? This is just murder! If I'd known it would be like this, I never would have come. Send me back. Now."
The speaker was a slightly pudgy youth in expensive clothing—clearly an aristocrat from the Upper District.
Marcus stopped and turned to stare at him. "Oh? You want to be a deserter already?"
The youth raised an eyebrow, hands on his hips, and said arrogantly, "So what if I do? Do you have any idea who my father is?"
Marcus smiled. "Oh? Who is he? Have you asked your mother?"
"My father is the Director of the Blackstone City Tax Bureau. Believe me, with one word from me, I can have this pathetic test shut down instantly."
A ripple of surprise went through the candidates. The Director of the Tax Bureau was a high-ranking official in Blackstone; it was no wonder the youth felt so untouchable. Many waited with bated breath to see how Marcus would react.
"Enough stalling. Get to it, or else I'll—"
The arrogant youth didn't get to finish his threat. Instead, he was met with a bullet.
BANG!
The heavy report of the pistol echoed across the empty wasteland. A bloody hole erupted in the youth's chest, spraying gore and gristle. His smug expression froze, and he fell stiffly to the ground. After a few brief tremors, he was still.
Marcus blew a puff of air across the muzzle of his gun, then looked at the crowd. He said softly, "Anyone else?"
The change was so sudden that many candidates turned deathly pale. Some felt their legs give way; a few with weaker constitutions collapsed entirely, their bodies shaking uncontrollably. They had expected a rigorous test, but they hadn't expected Marcus to commit cold-blooded murder without a second thought.
Holstering his pistol, Marcus glanced at the corpse with disdain.
"Heh. Out here, I don't care if your father is a Bureau Director or the Governor himself—you follow my rules. I said the goal was to survive. Now, let me add this: from this point forward, anyone who tries to quit, provocates, or breaks the rules will end up just like this waste of oxygen."
As Marcus scanned the crowd, candidates looked away, none daring to meet his eyes. Any lingering sense of entitlement had been replaced by sheer terror. They finally understood: this wasn't a game. People were actually going to die.
Byrne stood among them, his expression grim. As a transmigrator, he knew the cruelty of the Warhammer world, but he hadn't expected it to manifest so abruptly and directly.
Satisfied that no more "tall poppies" were going to challenge him, Marcus flashed a grin. "Since there are no more objections, I shall announce the contents of the test."
He drew everyone's attention back to him.
"This factory holds fifty crates of refined minerals. Through a random draw, you will be paired up. Each pair will take one crate and transport it safely back to Blackstone City. The first twenty pairs to arrive will pass; the rest will be disqualified. As for the punishment for failure... heh, you'll find out when you get back to the city."
Once the rules were set, Marcus signaled his men to roll out a waist-high metal bin. He patted the side of it.
"Inside are fifty seat numbers randomly selected from the roster. I will call the remaining names one by one to draw a number. The two become a pair. Remember: once the teams are set, there are no refusals, no changes, and no swaps. Violators will be disqualified on the spot."
Not a single candidate complained. The body on the ground with the hole in its chest was a vivid reminder of the price of dissent.
Byrne knew that a reliable partner would be the difference between life and death. But in this situation, it was all down to the luck of the draw. He could only hope he wouldn't be saddled with a liability.
Just then, a tall youth in the crowd raised his hand. "Um, Proctor Marcus? I have a question."
Marcus stared at him for a few seconds before nodding. "Fine. Ask."
The youth glanced at the corpse, his voice trembling slightly. "Now that Sonny is dead... there's an odd number of us. Someone won't have a partner. What happens to them?"