“Come up and clear the bodies.”
Griffin paused in silence for a second, then turned and waved to the Astra Militarum veterans behind him.
“Pour gasoline on them and burn them.”
Several veterans pulled oil canisters from their packs, unscrewed the caps, and poured the gasoline evenly over the four corpses.
Gasoline mixed with blood, emitting a pungent stench.
Flicking open a lighter, one threw it down casually.
With a loud *whoosh*, flames roared upward, surging taller than a full-grown man.
An orange-red flare illuminated the entire rooftop as a wave of heat came rushing at them, carrying the sickening stench of burning fat.
The four corpses contorted and curled in the fire before turning to ash.
Ross Vance stood in the shadows of the second-floor balcony, watching the entire process from start to finish.
To be honest, before transmigrating, he had seen plenty of bloody scenes in movies, but those were all special effects.
Hearing a real human head ripped off a neck and listening to the cervical vertebrae snap one by one produced a visual and auditory impact on a completely different scale from any film.
Yet he felt no nausea, not even discomfort.
Standing on the balcony as he watched the headless corpse pitch forward, only one thought filled his mind.
This was how it should be.
When dealing with heretics, one must never grant them a swift death.
It wasn’t cruelty or sadism; it was a matter of principle.
The Lex Imperialis made it crystal clear.
The crime of heresy does not deserve a swift death.
Looking at the traditional procedures—pyres, gallows, guillotines—which of them allowed anyone to leave comfortably?
None.
Because the guilt of heretics was far too heavy; dying too quickly would be a sign of disrespect to the victims.
Of course, Ross admitted he was no saint either.
He genuinely felt a surge of satisfaction.
Watching those heretics who were lurking in the shadows watching his base ten minutes ago get crushed one by one like ants by Cecilia…
That sense of control and security was ten thousand times more thrilling than winning a video game.
He turned around, walked back inside, placed his empty teacup on the table, threw on a coat, and headed downstairs.
When he reached the first-floor main hall, Griffin and Cecilia happened to step inside from outside.
Cecilia’s power armor was splattered with blood from her chest down to her thighs.
Her right gauntlet was drenched in the most blood, with bits of flesh still sticking to it, uncleaned.
Ross leaned against the staircase handrail with his hands in his pockets, watching them enter.
Cecilia noticed his gaze first.
She paused in her steps and struck her chest with her right fist.
“My Lord, all four heretics have been executed.”
Ross nodded, a slow grin spreading across his face.
“I saw.”
His eyes swept from Cecilia’s face down to the bloodstains on her power armor, meeting her calm eyes.
“Well done.”
A simple praise.
Yet when Cecilia heard those words, her back visibly straightened.
For a Battle Sister, the Emperor’s approval weighed heavier than any reward.
Griffin stood beside her, hesitated for a moment, and spoke up.
“My Lord, when we got up there, she had already finished three of them.
The last one…”
“I saw that too,” Ross interrupted him, turning to look at Griffin with a slight smile.
“You guys weren’t slow at coming up to clean up the bodies either.”
The scar at the corner of Griffin’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t reply.
Ross straightened up from the handrail and clapped his hands, drawing everyone’s attention.
“Alright, that’s enough for tonight.
Those on guard duty, get to your posts; those off duty, get some sleep.”
He paused, his eyes sweeping over everyone.
“Four ninjas aren’t even an appetizer.
The Hand’s strength in Hell’s Kitchen goes far beyond these few small fry.
If they lose four people today, they’ll send eight tomorrow and sixteen the day after.
Those Japanese are like cockroaches—squash one, and a hundred more scuttle out of the nest.”
Griffin’s expression turned grave once more, and Cecilia set aside her momentary relaxation.
“Murdock’s intel on The Hand should arrive within the next day or two, and our own scouts are looking into them as well.
Until we have detailed intelligence, we won’t launch a proactive attack.”
Ross turned and went upstairs, returning to his room to change into clean clothes.
He then walked down the corridor to an empty warehouse located in the deepest part of the base.
This space was set aside specifically for summonings.
Ross entered the warehouse and pulled the iron door shut behind him.
Standing in the exact center of the room, he looked up at the fluorescent lights overhead and took a deep breath.
This time, he was going all in.
He had run out of patience with a dump like Hell’s Kitchen.
Since transmigrating, he had slept under bridge arches, chewed on apples, been bullied by punks, and then painstakingly built up his assets, assembled a team, struck down Three-Face, and wiped out the Hellhounds.
Every step had been taken with utmost caution, like dancing in a minefield.
He knew this low-key buildup phase had been necessary, but he was truly sick of it.
This filthy, chaotic neighborhood infested with heretics and crime needed to be thoroughly cleansed.
Not swept clean block by block, but turned completely upside down in one single breath.
To achieve this goal, the twenty-three people he currently commanded were nowhere near enough.
Far from enough.
So he was going to summon reinforcements.
Wagering every single drop of his psionic energy.
Ross closed his eyes and sank his consciousness into the Psionic Source in his chest.
Since the trial of Mad Dog, his psionic reserve had grown significantly, bolstered further by the experience contributed by the four ninjas tonight.
Although the psionic energy provided by four outer-ring ninjas paled in comparison to Mad Dog alone, every bit counted; many small streams made a river.
His current psionic reserve was at least more than double what it had been during his last summoning of the Battle Sisters.
“Enough.”
Gritting his teeth, he mobilized all the psionic power in his body, turning it on like a wide-open faucet where all the water rushed in a single direction.
It wasn’t the gentle guidance of the previous two times, but a violent, reckless surge.
The Psionic Source swelled wildly in his chest like a balloon inflated to its breaking point, threatening to burst at any second.
A pale golden light seeped from his body, illuminating the entire warehouse and dimming even the fluorescent light tubes overhead by comparison.
He didn’t stop.
The psionic energy kept pouring in.
He could feel his body reaching its absolute physical limit—veins burning, nerves screaming, every inch of muscle trembling.
Yet the resonance from the Psionic Source grew stronger and clearer.
And then, he saw it.
Deep within his consciousness, dense figures began to emerge.
At the very front was the Astra Militarum.
A massive formation.
Grey-blue greatcoats, steel helmets, lasguns, and weathered faces bearing the characteristic cold determination of Cadians.
Ross did a rough count—at least fifty people.
Behind the Astra Militarum were the Battle Sisters.
Over a dozen female warriors clad in black power armor, the Imperial Aquila on their chests gleaming silver in his mental space.
The leader stood half a head taller than Cecilia, her short, silver-white hair standing up stiff like steel needles.
Then he saw people he had never seen before.
Seven or eight figures in white uniforms stood at the very back of the formation.
Not dressed for combat.
Their uniforms were clean and neat, free of wear or tear, the white fabric emitting a soft glow in his mental space.
Their faces lacked the hardened, weathered look typical of the Warhammer world, possessing instead an intellectual, refined air.
Some wore glasses, some held datapads, and others carried portable scanning devices slung over their shoulders.
Could they be scientists?
Ross’s heart gave a fierce thud.
What did he lack most right now?
Combat power?
Yes, but that was only an immediate need.
In the long run, what he lacked was technology.
The kind of technology that could elevate his faction from a street gang to a galactic empire.
He knew better than anyone how terrifying the technology tree of Stellaris was.
Focused Arc Emitters, Dragonscale Armor, Dark Matter Thrusters, Megastructures, Dyson Spheres, Matter Decompressors.
These things couldn’t be unlocked just by killing people.
He needed scientists.
Real scientists who could conduct research, climb tech trees, and turn those high-tech wonders from the Stellaris universe into reality one by one.
And now, those very people stood in the depths of his consciousness.
Ross took a deep breath to steady his mind and focused his attention on the white-uniformed figures.
He began counting them in his mind.
Seven.
Three in white robes looked like theoretical physicists.
Two in dark blue overalls looked more like engineers.
And two wore light grey uniforms.
Seven scientists.
Plus the fifty Astra Militarum veterans and over a dozen Battle Sisters up front.
The total number of summons in this wave was around seventy-some people.
Ross felt his psionic reserves depleting at a visible rate.
Yet he did not stop.
He knew that if he loosened his grip for even a second, the summoning would be interrupted.
Those figures would be shrouded in mist again, and summoning them next time would require even more psionic power.
“No way…”
Gritting his teeth, he squeezed out the very last drop of psionic energy.
“Not one left behind.
All of you, come out!”
His body swayed, his knees buckled, and he dropped onto one knee.
One hand braced against the concrete floor while the other clutched his chest as he panted heavily.
He kept his head down, gasping for air for a long while before slowly raising his head.
The warehouse was no longer empty.
Over seventy people stood before him, tightly packing the entire space.
Grey-blue greatcoats, black power armor, white uniforms—the three colors intertwined under the pale white lights, filling the once-cavernous warehouse to capacity.
The front row of Astra Militarum veterans stood in crisp formation—fifty men in total.
The faces beneath their steel helmets differed, but their eyes shared the same cold, steadfast glare.
Behind them stood the Battle Sisters.
Sixteen of them, clad entirely in ebony power armor, the Imperial Aquila glinting silver in the light.
The leader with the short, silver-white hair stood out front, her gaze sweeping across the warehouse from left to right.
At the very back were the seven uniformed scientists.
Standing along the rear wall, some smoothed out collars creased by the teleportation, others looked down to check if their equipment was damaged, and a few conversed in hushed tones.
A middle-aged man with dark brown hair stood in front of them, pushing his glasses up his nose.
His gaze passed over the Astra Militarum and Battle Sisters to land on Ross, who was kneeling on one knee.
His expression was calm, filled with the peculiar curiosity toward the unknown unique to scholars.
Ross pressed against his knees and slowly stood up.
Though his legs were still weak, his spine was straight as a ramrod.
Fifty Astra Militarum, sixteen Battle Sisters, seven Stellaris scientists.
Including his original force, he now commanded nearly a hundred people.
Ross leaned against the warehouse wall, a slow grin spreading across his face as he laughed like a child who had just opened a mystery box.
“Damn…”
His voice was raspy, laden with obvious fatigue, but his smile could not be suppressed.
“This time, I’m definitely turning all of Hell’s Kitchen upside down.”