After receiving the answer they needed, the group immediately set out to search for the so-called Iron Man.
"What about the heretics?" Kia asked bitterly, clearly dissatisfied. "Shouldn't we be wiping them out first?"
"There's no need," the acolyte replied calmly, the banner in his hand swaying slightly. Hanging from it was a small vial filled with secretions from their deceased Patriarch's neural gland, clinking lightly with each step. His voice lowered as he explained, "All disloyalty shall be punished… but not today. Not now."
Especially not when they had just lost their Patriarch and so many Angels. This was no time for vengeance.
And truthfully, there was no real need for it either.
The acolyte's gaze shifted slightly, pausing on the scepter in Roy's hand—the same one that once belonged to the High Priest.
He didn't question why Roy held it. Instead, he followed up Kia's concern with a question of his own. "What do you think, Roy?"
"There's no point in purging them for now," Roy answered steadily. "Those so-called heretics may seem numerous, but most are just desperate civilians. Many don't even understand what they're following. They've gathered under a common banner for one reason—breaking into the mid-hive to seize more food and medicine."
"Exactly. A ragtag mob," the acolyte nodded in approval, then shot a glance at Kia. "There's no need to concern ourselves with them. Victory will inevitably return to the Emperor's light—it's only a matter of time."
"…Fine," Kia growled through clenched teeth. "I'll obey."
Satisfied, the acolyte turned to Roy again and said in a quieter tone, "Listen, child. Among your peers, you were always the most devout. The High Priest once said you would one day inherit his legacy."
"I still am the most devout," Roy said dryly, a bitter irony curling his voice. "As always."
The acolyte wasn't surprised. As a fourth-generation hybrid who exhibited almost no visible mutations—aside from his baldness—Roy was virtually indistinguishable from a baseline human. A perfect candidate for priesthood. More importantly, he was capable and strong-willed.
"Regardless, let's find the Iron Man the Patriarch mentioned," the acolyte concluded.
On the way, Kia sidled up beside Roy, her voice low and discontented. "Why are we sparing those who betrayed the Emperor?"
"They just wanted to survive," Roy replied quietly.
"There's no excuse for betrayal!"
"Then what about you, Kia?" Roy shot back wearily. "Why are you so bent on killing them?"
"Two reasons," Kia replied coldly, casting a glance at their kin. "First—attrition. It doesn't matter whose blood is spilled or whose head rolls. You know what I mean, right?"
Of course he did. It was about eliminating dissidents and consolidating control over the cult.
And perhaps, there was also an instinctual loathing—toward plague-spreading enemies, and even toward fellow hybrids who worshiped the Four-Armed Emperor differently. to
"And the second?" Roy asked.
"Fear." Her answer caught Roy off guard.
"For us scum of the lower hive—mutants constantly dodging the Inquisition's enforcement—faith was the only thing that kept me going. It told me my suffering was temporary. That one day I'd return to the Golden Throne. That distant belief… it gave me hope."
She exhaled softly and lifted her arm—tinged faintly purple. As a third-generation hybrid, Kia was nearly human in form—beautiful even—but the xenos blood still marked her. Her lilac skin, and the bony crest on her forehead, exposed her non-human origins.
"But now it's gone," Kia said, pressing a hand against her chest. "Can you understand that? That hollow feeling? Like the very reason for living has been ripped from you—leaving only emptiness and dread."
Would the light of the Golden Throne ever shine on her again?
She didn't know. Didn't dare think about it. Killing helped distract her—it was almost therapeutic. When she killed, she didn't have to think. Just focus on the slaughter.
Cut down anything in her way. Behead the screaming, the charging, the defiant. Maybe, just maybe, if she offered enough blood and skulls, the true Emperor would take notice.
After all, it was the only thing she could do. The only thing she knew how to do. The only thing she was good at.
"Kia's right," Putana chimed in from the side.
Roy fell silent.
Forget it. Let her chop up heretics if that's what helps her cope. It wasn't worth arguing about.
"Just… don't say stuff like that in front of Doraemon," Roy warned. "Our little friend is… how do I put this… idealistic?"
In Roy's eyes, Doraemon always felt strangely out of place in this grimdark world.
By the time they reached the alley, several Genestealer cultists were already gathered around a small mural.
The mural's painted door now stood wide open, revealing a surprisingly large space beyond. The surreal dissonance of the scene left everyone visibly unsettled—until Roy approached with the scepter in hand. Hearing the clack of the staff on the ground, the crowd quickly parted to make way.
"Don't follow me in yet. I'll check it out first."
With that, Roy stepped into the Wallpaper House.
Compared to the last time, there was a new door inside. Without hesitation, Roy turned the knob.
And was immediately hit in the face by a giant locust.
SPLAT.
…What the hell?
Roy, thoroughly confused, peeled the unfamiliar insect from his face.
"Ah! Help me out here! There are too many locusts—I can't catch them all!"
Roy looked up to see Doraemon, clad in blue and comically flailing about with a bug-catching net, darting through a small rice paddy swarming with locusts.
"What happened?" Roy crushed the insect in his hand and instinctively joined the extermination effort.
"Well," Doraemon began, clumsily swiping at more bugs, "I noticed a lot of people here weren't getting enough to eat… so I thought I'd try growing some food."
He pointed around at the small, cultivated patch.
"On this paddy carpet, you can harvest a full crop of rice in just a few hours!"