Seraphs of the Emperor’s Judgment

Chapter 93: Rozim Pulimki

He, Rozim Pulimki, was once again absent without leave.

However, his memory wasn't very good; he simply felt he probably hadn't misremembered his own name.

This Master of the Refectory of the Starfire assumed a rather inelegant posture, casting off the responsibility of serving the Astartes Chapter—a duty as heavy as an Emperor-class Titan—from his shoulders, breaking out of the cage constructed from ten thousand years of cliches.

Even though in an hour's time, he would have to return to the somewhat oppressive upper deck and plaster a mask of hypocritical seriousness onto his face before the Astartes.

Right now, this burly man, towering near two meters tall, was giving his all to scale a damned metal wall near the passage connecting the upper deck to the lower deck.

His previous leap allowed him to grab the top of the wall with both hands. With his left foot planted on a bucket quietly "borrowed" from the boiler room to serve as a stepping stool, his right foot frantically scraped against the smooth wall, trying to find a crucial foothold.

And the only reason he was putting in all this effort was to take advantage of the perfect opportunity to sneak out for some fun, given that the kitchen didn't require much tending and there weren't many tasks during Warp transit.

But thinking about it carefully, it was the exact same action.

The first half sounded righteously majestic, while the latter half appeared wretched and unseemly. This was simply the extent of Rozim's abilities.

As a former Astartes Aspirant, his status aboard the Starfire was not considered low, it's just that his duties didn't sound particularly glorious.Perhaps at the mention of the Astartes, people immediately visualized a terrifyingly stern poker face.

But over all these years, Rozim remained firmly convinced that moving one's lips was always better than moving the trigger.

This was perhaps one of the reasons why he ultimately did not become an Astartes.

For instance, regarding the stepping bucket beneath his foot: when he wrote the word "borrow," his conscience would absolutely never permit him to omit the quotation marks.

He genuinely had borrowed it from the boilerman.

Of course, the reasons he gave were somewhat vague. After all, his memory had never been good.

With the aid of a superhumanly strong physique, a distinct sliding sound was heard. Rozim was very glad that his right leg, twitching to the point of near exhaustion, had finally found purchase on the wall. Carrying his somewhat drained body, he tumbled down onto the floor within the wall.

The sound was a bit loud, but he wasn't worried about gazes shooting toward him from the sentry posts.

He had already inspected the sentry posts' line of sight and knew this was a safe blind spot.

Afterward, he raised his wrist and glanced at it.

Not a second more, not a second less; the watch indicated he still had exactly 56 minutes of standard Terran time to squander.

Thus, he hurriedly squeezed into a small cargo elevator and hit the descend button. Accompanied by a slight sense of weightlessness, he remained in the elevator for a full ten minutes.

When the elevator doors opened, he immediately ducked into the shadows, advancing along a small maintenance corridor until he reached that familiar old place.

In the distance within his line of sight, a neon sign emitting a faint red glow instantly invigorated his spirits.

The show was about to begin.

The time was now standard Terran time: 3:30 in the afternoon.

Nobody was ever at the bar at this time. According to the pervasive saying among the taskmasters, scum who didn't work hard and simply muddled through life could not be called human, for they weren't worthy of receiving the Emperor's salvation.

Thus, the only people in this hidden little tin shack right now should be a few gang members, prostitutes trying to make a pass at him, and a handful of slackers slouched over the bar, sighing with bloodshot eyes.

A long time ago, as the son of a Feral World chieftain, Rozim had fervently yearned to become an Astartes, a warrior of the heavens. He hoped to mold himself into a courageous and mighty Son of God.

But he got one thing wrong.

Becoming a warrior of the heavens wouldn't bring him much material enjoyment, and even spiritual fulfillment was exceedingly rare. Furthermore, he couldn't truly discard his human desires.

Perhaps it was because of this that he failed, yet managed to survive the agony.

Rozim had felt depressed about this more than once, but he quickly realized he simply wasn't cut out for the material.

He could only change his mindset, making himself more vulgar and uninteresting. Only then could he embrace a life filled with earthly smoke and fire, eating his fill all day, making merry while he could, and living a life of hedonistic abandon.

Well then, so he planned to make himself forget about all that first.

Because while he was quietly reminiscing, he realized that a prostitute was already swaying before his eyes, attempting to hook him into a deal.

"Do you want me~"

The voice was suggestive enough, and the person had enough kick to her, but Rozim knew clearly that merchandise actively pulling people in at the doorway was generally a bit unclean.

Of course, if anyone in the know were to find out about this, they would undoubtedly be extremely confused: how could such blasphemous existence and filthy transactions occur aboard a glorious Astartes warship?

If Rozim heard them, he would definitely burst into boisterous laughter.

Strictly speaking, only the upper and middle decks of this warship fell under the aura of the Astartes. The lower deck was a place the Angels would practically never set foot in over their entire lives.

Down here, the lives of mortals were everything.

Their joy, their pain, their sorrow, their lust...

Absolutely none of this could be experienced on the upper decks several kilometers above. Up there, it was like a massive cathedral, everything enveloped in an aura of solemnity.

Of course, this wasn't to say Rozim hated the upper decks. He loved cleanliness, after all, and struggling to survive every day wasn't what he wanted either.

But that didn't stop him from occasionally seeking out some fun to numb his brain, which was frequently tormented by his past failure.

"No, thank you."

After he spoke coldly, the prostitute walked away resentfully, muttering "dog" under her breath.

Rozim largely felt pleased. Having to constantly chatter intermittently with servants who either bullshitted to get by or kept a straight face all day, he actually wished one of them would dare to flip him the bird and hurl some profanities at him.

Before entering, he looked up at the sign of this secret bar.

This bar was named "Flint," ostensibly because the owner had an explosive temper. This was also the reason Rozim chose to drink here.

Because the owner was one of the few who knew he came from the upper decks, yet wouldn't view him any differently.

As for the others—like that bitch just now, for example—if she knew she was disrespecting a high-ranking Chapter servant from the upper decks, Rozim figured that simply patting her shoulder would be enough to keep her excited for a week.

"What do you want?"

His footsteps gave Rozim's position away. He vaguely saw the bartender-cum-owner standing with his back to the bar, slowly wiping down a liquor bottle on the cabinet, occasionally holding it up against the red fluorescent light to see how much was left inside.

Clatter.

Rozim grabbed a drunk who was sprawled out on the bar, sleeping like a corpse, tossed him onto the floor, and unceremoniously claimed his bar stool.

"Medium glass, full, rum."

"Wait a moment."

While the owner put down the beer bottle he was wiping and searched through the cabinet for rum, Rozim glanced at his watch.

42 minutes left. It was still early.

He then shifted his gaze to those gang members. They seemed to have gotten into a dispute over something. If Rozim had to guess, it was definitely an uneven division of spoils.

He genuinely hoped they would start a fight. Then he could conveniently knock them out one by one. In that case, perhaps he wouldn't have to pay for his drink later.

The order on the lower decks was basically non-existent. The Astartes wouldn't cast a single glance down here, and the Chapter's Mortal Auxiliaries disdained the place as well. Aside from the tech-guards managing various compartments, the primary maintainers of order here were the gangs.

In a sense, the lower decks of a massive warship like the Starfire were practically a miniature Hive City.

Thus, local gangs, a defining characteristic of a Hive City, were naturally not lacking.

"Your drink, Mr. Chef."

Soon, the glass was slapped onto the bar top smack, right before Rozim's eyes.

He picked up the glass and took a silent sip.

"Hmm..."

The taste wasn't quite right, but it had a kick, making his throat feel like it was burning. It was likely home-brewed.

Rozim knew how to brew liquor as well, but doing so on the upper decks was simply too dangerous. The dense network of sensors up there would easily expose his plans.

Once a Chapter servant was discovered to be involved with alcohol or drugs, they had best prepare to face the Chapter Chaplain.

Mortal Chaplains were terrifying enough, let alone a black-armored Astartes Chaplain.

Rozim had no desire to be nailed to an Aquila rack so securely that he couldn't even be pried off.

(End of Chapter)