66: Chapter 66 The Price of Autonomy

The night wind blew from the north, carrying the distinct scent of sulfur from deep within the mineral veins, mingled with the woody smell of cooking smoke, smelling like the unique, unsettling aroma of dinner on this world.

Lin Mo's disciplinary decision for the veteran was posted on the bulletin board the next day.

Public warning, retention of position, return of withheld supplies. Three lines of text, without any superfluous embellishment. The onlookers read it several times; some breathed a sigh of relief, while others frowned. No one discussed it loudly—but the news seeped into every street and alley like water.

That afternoon, the veteran's wife arrived at the door of the Archon's office. She did not enter, but simply placed a bag of freshly baked rye bread on the steps at the entrance and turned to leave.

Lin Mo's assistant chased after her, wanting to return the bread, but she said: "It's not for him, it's for that child named Yang Shitou. If he doesn't want it, throw it to the pigs."

He quickly ran through the consequences of this decision in his mind—the best-case scenario, the worst-case scenario, and the most likely scenario. The most likely scenario is usually a compromise between the worst and best cases, but on this planet, he had not yet verified whether this rule held true.

Yang Shitou that evening stood at the door of the office, looking at the bag of bread, standing there for a long time. He did not throw it to the pigs. He took it back to the dormitory, sliced it thin, and shared it with the three logistics soldiers in his room.

No one mentioned the incident again. But everyone knew that the bag of bread carried more weight than any disciplinary decision.

The clouds on the distant ridge were dyed a rust color by the last rays of the setting sun, like a piece of scorched iron.

But the bread could not change one thing—autonomy comes at a price.

Guilliman's reply, "Prove it is not just a piece of paper," was like a sword hanging over their heads, giving Blackstone Town an opportunity, but also giving it a deadline.

During those days, Lin Mo spread out the data Old Tom had brought back from the Expeditionary Force again—the complete records of the Ultramarines' ancient purge routes discovered on the Abandoned Forge World orbital station.

That route was never completed.

At the end of the data pad was an interrupted record. After marking all the purge coordinates for the main planet of the Green Sector, the unknown Ultramarines officer had written one last sentence.

The text had been altered, but Marcus had used image restoration technology for several days to recover the text beneath the altered layer:

"This area has completed its initial purge. The remaining threat level is below the critical threshold. It is recommended to conduct patrol purges every ten years to prevent the Orks from regrouping. However, one thing is outside the scope of this route—Chaos. The route ends here. My orders were to purge the Orks, not to fight Chaos. The latter is left for higher-level units to handle."

Lin Mo read that passage more than once.

The last words left by that Ultramarines officer ten thousand years ago landed precisely on Blackstone Town's current position—purge the Orks, they had done it. But Chaos was not prey that could be surrounded with a tactical roadmap. Chaos would learn, would regroup, and would wait for the moment the perimeter was weakest to strike.

The latest threat distribution map on the wall of the Intelligence Center did not lie. The arc of Chaos was still there. They were waiting.

Lin Mo stood in front of the map for a long time, looking at the scale next to the ruler, and then used a pencil to draw a small cross at the end of the arc—not to mark a known Chaos stronghold, but to mark a location he suspected existed but had not yet been confirmed by reconnaissance.

After drawing it, he did not erase the cross. If his intuition was correct, he would soon confirm it.

The starlight from afar shone on the ruins, casting mottled shadows. He did not know how long he had been on this planet—time had lost its meaning in the flames of war; only instinct remained: survive the day.

Moonlight filtered through the sparse canopy, casting irregular patches of silvery-white light on the ground like a shattered mirror.

That evening, Lin Mo did one thing—he called a meeting without a loudspeaker. It was not a pre-battle mobilization or a crisis briefing. It was just a dinner for the core team of Blackstone Town, held in his simple Archon office.

A makeshift wooden table, a few handmade chairs, and on the table, hot dishes brought from the small restaurant in town and a large jug of home-brewed ale.

Locke, Old Tom, Alice, Yang Shitou, and Marcus—the five of them sat around the table. No one talked about Chaos, no one talked about the autonomy plan, and no one talked about the next steps for the border.

They talked about how much finer the flour from the newly opened mill in town was compared to before, how much quieter the steam forging hammer in the Arsenal was after the drive shaft was replaced, and about a new immigrant from Riverbend Town who was a technician capable of repairing old communication equipment.

The meal lasted a long time. They finished two jugs of ale.

When the gathering dispersed, Locke stood up and patted Lin Mo on the shoulder. He didn't say anything, but the meaning of the action was—we all know what lies ahead. Let's eat our fill first.

"A bag of rye bread ended a disciplinary crisis,"

"A dinner caught the next unknown storm."

The bag of rye bread sent by the veteran's wife sat in Yang Shitou's dormitory for a long time. After slicing it thin and sharing it with his roommates, he kept two slices for himself. It wasn't because he was hungry—it was because he wanted to remember the look in that woman's eyes.

There was something very simple in them: she knew her husband had done something wrong, but she still wanted to convey the warmth of her home, to let the person who disciplined her husband know—they were not bad people. They were just poor for a long time.

Lin Mo stood in front of the bulletin board for a while, looking at the disciplinary decision he had posted. The words on the paper seemed heavier in the morning light than when he had written them last night.

He stood there for about the time it takes to smoke a cigarette, then turned and headed to the Arsenal. Passing through the square, he noticed the veteran's wife drawing water at the well—when she saw him approaching, she did not dodge, but simply lowered her head and continued to crank the windlass, silently completing her morning routine amidst the splashing sound of water.

Lin Mo walked past her without stopping. But he thought: The weight of this bag of bread was heavier than all three versions of the disciplinary plan he had written combined.

The bag of rye bread was sliced thin in Yang Shitou's dormitory and shared among the three logistics soldiers in the room. The four of them sat around the bed and quietly finished the extra meal. No one said thank you, but each person patted Yang Shitou on the back of the hand as they took their slice of bread.

When Lin Mo passed by the dormitory area in the evening, he heard muffled laughter from inside. He did not go in, but stood at the door for a moment, confirming that the bag of bread had fulfilled its mission, and then turned and left.

The execution of a disciplinary decision and the warmth of bread could coexist. Order does not fail because you are compassionate, and compassion does not disappear because there is order.

Lin Mo stood outside the dormitory area, listening to the muffled laughter inside. He did not push the door open to disturb the moment. After standing outside the door for a moment, he turned and walked back to the Intelligence Center.

The draft of the autonomy plan was still spread out on the table at Article 4, Section 3. He sat down, picked up his pen again, and finished the line that had stalled—writing a clause about the "relationship between livelihood security and the maintenance of discipline."

It was not quoted from the Imperial Code, but told to him by the facts he had seen today: the coexistence of system and warmth is the foundational framework for autonomy to be self-consistent.

By the time he finished writing that line, the light outside the window had turned from orange-red to gray-blue.

After Lin Mo finished writing that line, he did not immediately put down his pen. He leaned back in his chair and flipped through the entire plan from beginning to end—not to check the wording, but to confirm that every clause was supported by real needs.

The line in Article 4, Section 3 lay quietly on the paper, and the ink had already dried. When he closed the folder, he noticed a small smudge of ink on his finger. He rubbed it with his thumb, but it didn't come off. He didn't keep rubbing, letting it stay there.

The oil lamp on the table cast a quiet halo of light in the night air, illuminating the words he had just written, illuminating an expression he had never seen in any Imperial document.

He put down the pen, looked down at the line of ink that hadn't quite dried, and blew it dry.

"I will not give them this opportunity."

The markings on the wall of the Intelligence Center were becoming denser, like a map being filled in inch by inch. Behind every marking were people's names, sweat that had been shed, and nights that had been endured.

Lin Mo sometimes wondered, if one day he could leave this planet alive, what he would remember would not be those tactics and decisions—but the lights shining in the darkness.

"The coexistence of system and warmth,"

"is the foundation for autonomy to be self-consistent."

"—Lin Mo, Autonomy Plan Drafting Notes, Marginalia for Article 4, Section 3"

However, the real threat was not in front—it had been behind him all along, it just wasn't time for it to reveal itself yet.

[ "Who sends letters from within the clouds? When the wild geese return, the moon fills the western tower." ]

"—Li Qingzhao, 'Yi Jian Mei'. A memory fragment sealed within the mirror of the emperor, quietly emerging in the darkness."

The female captive looked back at Lin Mo when she was being taken away. There was no hatred in that look—it was something even more unsettling: she was pitying him. She knew something he did not.