Warhammer: Love? Chapter 1: Start

"Damn, I finally managed to accumulate enough favorability points!"

The thought of the female protagonist of "XX Kaleidoscope" looking at him with ambiguous eyes imdiately triggers a special CG.

I was interrupted by a pop-up ssage and couldn't click the real "X".

Raynor was furious.

What's even worse is that he accidentally clicked on the one that said, "Co to the World of Warhamr, enjoy a life of loyalty."

Then the pop-up window shattered like broken glass. Instead of scattering, the fragnts collapsed inward and swirled into a vortex.

A seductive electronic voice emanated from the depths of the vortex, a voice so sweet it was almost cloying: "May you reap a 'fulfilling' experience in the multiverse~"

Is this a legitimate contract?

In his final comnt, Raynor's last consciousness was of being sucked into the center of the vortex from the gaming chair.

...

When he woke up again, a flood of information rushed into his mind.

Jim Raynor, 22, is a low-level tax inspector in the "Sector Seven" of the Necromunda hive world.

My parents died in the greenskin raid five years ago.

Wait, greenskins? Hive City? Necromunda?

As a seasoned Warhamr enthusiast in his previous life, Raynor quickly realized what was going on.

Have I really been transported to the Warhamr Universe?

Raynor was sowhat unwilling to accept reality, and struggled to sit up, leaning against the cold wall.

He looked around. It was a room of less than ten square ters, with exposed tal panels on the walls, covered in rust.

A hard bed, a table with crooked legs, and a storage cabinet with a missing door—that was all the family's belongings.

Empty tubes of nutritional supplents and several dirty water bottles were piled up in the corner.

A window? No, it was just a tiny vent, fitted with a greasy filter.

Instead of natural light, the room was filled with flickering neon lights, which cast a sickly purplish-red and ghastly green hue.

"Damn it..." Raynor muttered.

This isn't a dream.

It all felt so real; those mories that weren't his were now firmly rooted in his mind.

He could recall the scene of "himself" being reprimanded by his boss at the tax office yesterday.

He can recall the tension he felt when he secretly hid a small amount of illicit inco.

He can recall the cold rain on the day of my parents' funeral, if the acidic liquid dripping from the cracks in the pipes can be considered rain.

He leaned against the wall to stand up, his legs feeling weak.

He walked up to the ventilation opening and stood on tiptoe to look outside.

The sight suffocated him.

As far as the eye can see, there is a forest of tal.

The towering buildings are cramd together, haphazardly pieced together from rusty steel, decaying concrete, and massive pipes.

Layer upon layer of platforms, suspended walkways, and crisscrossing cables form a three-dinsional maze.

Neon signs flashed on every floor, advertising GG's low-quality stimulants, prosthetics, body modifications, and illegal services that Emperor knew exactly what they were.

Further down, in an abyss almost invisible to the naked eye, red light and smoke rose.

That's the deeper, more backwater area, a place that even the Ministry of Justice is said to be afraid to venture into.

The air was murky, and visibility was less than 100 ters.

In the distance, two giant ventilation towers stretched upwards like the arms of giants.

Perhaps there's slightly cleaner air there, but that's irrelevant to Jim Raynor, a low-level tax clerk.

Necromunda, the Hive World, Warhamr 40K Universe.

Raynor slumped back onto the bed, covering his face with his hands.

As a seasoned Hamr, he knew all too well what the Nest World ant.

One of the most crowded, dirtiest, and cruelest planets in the Milky Way, with tens of billions of people cramd into steel behemoths.

The social hierarchy was rigid, with the upper-class aristocracy indulging in a life of debauchery, while the lower classes struggled to survive amidst pollution, cri, and perversion.

This is a paradise for gangsters, mutants, cultists, and worse.

The ti point, according to the information in my mory, is M41.998.

"The 41st millennium of the Imperial Calendar, the 998th year," Raynor said in a low voice.

"The Great Rift is about to tear the Milky Way apart; Abaddon's thirteenth Black Crusade is brewing."

The Tyranid's main fleet is still in deep space, but their vanguard spores have already spread throughout the galaxy.

He took a deep breath, then coughed from the stench of Hive City.

No, now is not the ti to panic.

First, you have to find a way to survive.

He began rummaging through "his" belongings.

At the bottom of the locker, he found a wrinkled, dark gray tax inspector uniform with a faded eagle emblem on the collar.

The old-fashioned laser pistol is a Ruger L-15, a typical weapon issued to the lower levels of the hive. Its maintenance is worrying, with only two energy magazines remaining.

A stack of paper docunts, mainly tax arrears notices and paynt reminders.

He weighed the small bag of credits in his hand; it was probably enough to buy a week's worth of nutritional supplents.

There were also several half-used hemostatic gels and anti-infective drugs in the lower levels of the nest, which were more valuable than money.

His mory told him that he had to report to the tax office today.

Being late three tis will result in a pay cut, which ans you might not be able to afford the rent for this doghouse next month.

Then he would be kicked out, left to wander the streets, and enter the "kill line".

Raynor changed into his uniform and stuffed the laser pistol into the worn-out holster under his arm.

He glanced at the perpetually gloomy sky outside the ventilation shaft, then pushed open the rickety iron door.

...

The corridor was even darker, with only a few flickering fluorescent lights providing illumination.

The neighbor's door was tightly closed, but the cries of a baby and the cursing of a man could be heard coming from inside.

The floor was greasy, and every step made his feet sticky.

Raynor walked toward the tax office as he rembered, while keeping a watchful eye on his surroundings.

This world is full of life-threatening threats.

Greenskins, chaos cultists, gene-stealing cults, Eldar raiders, and even crazed mbers of the Cult of Omnissiah...

In the lower levels of the hive, there are countless ways to die, but one thing is certain: none of them are pleasant.

During the journey, he noticed several unusual details.

The at at the at stall was glowing green, and people on the street were always talking about soone going missing.

In a hive city, disappearances are commonplace, but along the way...

The news I've been hearing seems a bit too frequent.

In addition, manhole covers on the street occasionally ooze nauseating purple liquid.

Raynor's heart sank.

Purple sli, nurous missing persons cases, and abnormalities in the at.

These clues, pieced together, point to one conclusion.

All signs indicate that a gene stealer has appeared here!

Insect spores have taken root in this area, and the gene-stealing cult is active.

It's even possible that lower-level tyranid units have already hatched.

The bureaucratic system of Necromunda was either completely unaware of this, or aware of it but powerless to address it.

"Damn it, I just arrived and I've already encountered an insectoid invasion!" Raynor cursed inwardly.

I must arm myself, imdiately.

The tax office job can be put on hold for now; survival cos first.

In his mory, he knew a black market dealer who might be able to exchange credits for better weapons and armor.

Located in the "Scrap Hill" market, third passage, the shop is marked with gears and a skull.

Raynor changed direction and turned into a narrower alley.

There is almost no natural light here; everything is reflected from distant neon lights.

The walls were covered with gang symbols and chaotic eight-pointed stars, the latter of which had been roughly scratched off, but the remaining traces were still shocking.

Raynor dared not look any longer, as if his brain would explode if he looked any longer.

He gripped the laser pistol under his arm, his finger resting on the trigger guard.

At the sa ti, he recalled the weaknesses of the tyranid units and the behavior patterns of the gene stealers.

And the basic survival rules of the lower levels of the hive: trust no one, never go into a dead end, and always leave yourself an escape route.

The alleyway winds downwards, with the slope becoming increasingly steep.

A glimr of light appeared ahead; it was the neon sign at the market entrance.

The characters for "waste mountain" flickered with missing strokes.

Just twenty ters from the entrance, a harbinger of danger exploded.

A slight rubbing sound ca from above my head.

Raynor suddenly lunged to the side, simultaneously drawing his laser pistol.

A dark shadow fell from the sky and landed where he had just been standing, the tal floor making a muffled thud.

By the fleeting neon light, he made out the outline of the thing.

It is humanoid, but its limbs are too long, its joints are bent in the opposite direction, and its fingers extend into sharp bone claws.

The head droops, the shoulders have unnatural lumps, and the spine protrudes like a string of joints.

Most importantly, in the darkness, the thing's skin faintly glead with a crustacean-like sheen.

Gene thieves, mixed-race mutants.

Third or fourth generation infected organisms still retain many insectoid characteristics.

"Hiss..."

A deep hiss ca from behind.

Raynor rolled over and turned around, only to see two more identical figures erge from the shadows, blocking his escape route.

Their eyes glowed a faint red in the darkness, and their mouthparts opened and closed, dripping corrosive saliva that hissed on the floor.

Three in total; Raynor had already figured out how to return to the throne.

Raynor leaned against the wall, his laser pistol pointed at the first mutant to appear.

His heart was pounding like a drum, but his mind was unusually clear.

These are not fully realized gene stealers; they have low intelligence and rely on instinct.

The shell is probably not fully hardened yet; a laser pistol could penetrate it.

But he must hit a vital spot, otherwise they can pounce on him through the wound and tear him apart.

"For the emperor!"

Raynor roared, his voice trembling, whether from fear or excitent, it was hard to tell.

The mutants directly in front launched the first attack.

It moved on all fours, rushing towards the ground like an insect, so fast that it left afterimages.

Raynor instinctively pulled the trigger, and the crimson laser beam tore through the darkness, striking the mutant's left shoulder.

The carapace lted through, and green blood spurted out, but the mutant only staggered slightly, his speed undiminished.

The two on the side pounced at the sa ti.

Raynor jumped aside, knocking over a pile of empty oil drums.

The sound of the barrels rolling echoed through the alleyway.

He took advantage of the brief chaos to fire continuously.

One shot missed, hitting the wall and splattering sparks, while the other shot hit the second mutant in the leg, causing him to fall to the ground.

But a third mutant was already close.

As the bone claw swung down, Raynor barely managed to block it with his laser pistol. The tal gun barrel emitted a piercing scraping sound and left deep marks.

The imnse force sent numbness through his arm, and the gun flew out of his hand.

The mutant opened its mouth full of sharp teeth and lunged to bite at his throat.

In that life-or-death mont, Raynor unleashed his full potential.

He slamd his knee into the mutant's abdon, and as the mutant doubled over in pain, he pulled a hidden dagger from his boot.

In his mory, he always carried this small knife for handling personal matters.

The dagger plunged into the mutant's eye socket, all the way down to the hilt.

Green blood and a gel-like substance sprayed all over his face.

The mutant let out a piercing scream and struggled frantically.

Raynor released the dagger and scrambled away.

The other two mutants were hot on their heels.

The injured one limped, but his speed was still quite fast.

Raynor rushed into the market entrance and knocked over a stall.

The stall owner's curses and the sound of goods scattering caused a commotion.

He ignored all of that and ran wildly toward the abandoned pipe area in his mory.

The terrain there is complex; perhaps we can shake them off.

He wandered through the labyrinthine pipes and passageways, his lungs burning with pain.

The footsteps and hissing sounds behind grew closer and closer.

Turning a corner, there was a dead end ahead, a rusted repair door, and piles of decaying chanical wreckage beside it.

"Damn it!"

Raynor leaned against the iron gate, panting heavily.

Two mutants blocked the narrow passage from the front and the back.

They slowly approached, savoring the prey's despair.

The injured one licked its leg wound, while the other scratched the wall with its bone claws, making a piercing sound.

Oh no, I'm going to die here.

It's so ironic that I'll beco part of the insectoid biomass in less than half a day.

Just as the mutant closed to within five ters, preparing to deliver the final blow...

At the edge of my field of vision, a cheap, pink pop-up suddenly appeared.

[System Activation]

A life-threatening crisis has been detected in the host, triggering the trial version of "I Want to Fall in Love Even in the 41st Millennium!"