Alex naturally understood the Imperial regime's prevailing logic: keep its subjects forever busy, forever tired, and forever without excess energy to think, question, or resist.
After all, a body crushed by heavy labor naturally lacks the strength to listen to the whispers of Chaos or participate in heretical conspiracies.
This method is simple and crude, yet extremely effective, and the Imperium has operated this way for ten thousand years.
But he could never bring himself to accept such blatant exploitation.
The art of governance shouldn't just be about treating the populace as fuel, squeezing every drop of their blood and sweat.
There are many ways to make them not oppose him: give them hope, let them have expectations; give them dignity, let them identify with order; and even give them moderate entertainment, so they have something to lean on in their leisure time, rather than falling into the temptations of Chaos.
The incitement of cultists often takes advantage of vulnerability—when people are desperate, numb, and without comfort, the whispers of Chaos become particularly alluring.
But if their lives are not entirely bleak, if they can enjoy moments of peace after their labor, and even have something to rely on beyond faith, then the temptations of the Ruinous Powers may not easily succeed.
Exploiting the populace is the laziest and cruelest form of governance. What Alex wanted was a world that could both maintain stable rule and allow its subjects to live somewhat like humans.
In fact, in the corrupt and dark 41st Millennium, there truly existed such a relatively "humane" enclave within the Imperial territory.
Although the people there still had to toil for more than ten hours a day in roaring factories, they could at least enjoy regular nutritional paste rations, relatively safe living quarters, and a brief weekly rest period.
Compared to the endless exploitation on most Imperial Worlds, life here could almost be called a miracle of civilization.
This star system, known as the Five Hundred Worlds of Ultramar, was once the ideal realm personally forged by the Primarch Roboute Guilliman.
Even today, ten thousand years after Guilliman's slumber, the disintegration of the Five Hundred Worlds system, and the corruption of the bureaucracy, this star system, protected by the Ultramarines, still maintains an incredibly high standard of living.
It should be known that the Ultramarines currently control only a dozen core worlds, yet they must sustain the largest Space Marine Chapter in the entire galaxy.
Under these extremely difficult circumstances, the living standards of Ultramar's citizens still far exceed Imperial standards—they not only receive basic medical care, but their children even have the opportunity to receive basic education, which is simply unheard of on other Imperial Worlds.
Ultimately, it all boils down to one thing: the Ultramarines treat the Imperial citizens under their rule as human beings.
This seemingly simple statement, in the dark 41st Millennium, has already become a nearly lost "art of governance."
While the vast majority of Imperial Worlds regard their populace as expendable fuel, the Ultramarines of Ultramar stubbornly adhere to this bottom line—their subjects, at the very least, still possess the basic dignity of being human.
Alex did not want to drive the populace like livestock, like those cruel Planetary Governors.
But the Blood Oath Society's rebellion was a wake-up call; if even the Ecclesiarchy could breed traitors, then what could truly protect the populace from the corruption of Chaos?
Those Governors chose to suppress the thoughts of the populace with endless labor and fear; from a certain perspective, this was indeed the simplest and most brutal "epidemic prevention measure."
A soul exploited to the point of losing its ability to think is indeed very difficult to be tempted by the whispers of Chaos.
But Alex could never accept this approach that completely obliterates human nature.
He had no better solution, so he stubbornly chose the more difficult path: to grant the populace basic human rights, so that even amidst their strenuous labor, they could at least retain a shred of dignity as human beings.
In this dark age, choosing to treat the populace as human beings is itself a kind of almost naive idealism.
But Alex would rather bear the risks brought by this naivety than become another tyrant who crushes human nature in the gears of the machine.
As for how to resist the erosion of Chaos—he chose to hand this problem over to the Ecclesiarchy.
This decision seemed simple, but it contained a deep understanding of Imperial history.
The rise of the Ecclesiarchy in M35 was by no means accidental, but a necessary choice made by the Imperial ruling class after bitter lessons.
In that era of spiritual vacuum, countless worlds fell prey to the whispers of Chaos precisely because they lacked unified ideological guidance.
As an ancient Imperial scholar once said: "If the field of thought is not filled with wheat, it will surely grow weeds."
In fairness, the Ecclesiarchy's achievements in this regard are indeed commendable.
For five millennia, it was those red-robed priests who, day after day, preached the Emperor's holy word in every Hive City, filling the spiritual void of the populace with unified doctrine.
Imagine, without the Ecclesiarchy as a spiritual pillar, with the ever-increasing activity of the Four Gods of Chaos in the Warp, the Imperium would probably have been torn apart by various heresies long ago.
Those worlds corrupted by Chaos often saw their belief systems collapse first.
Of course, the Blood Oath Society's rebellion did expose certain shortcomings of the Ecclesiarchy's system—excessive dogmatism, chaotic interpretations of doctrine, and the overly extreme beliefs of certain splinter sects.
But the flaws do not obscure the virtues; with proper oversight, the Ecclesiarchy remains the most effective firewall against Chaos.
After all, a soul devoutly faithful to the Emperor can resist the erosion of the Warp far better than any physical defense.
When Alex conveyed this idea to the local Bishop, a glimmer of relief flashed in the old man's eyes.
"Governor, you have made a wise choice," he said, stroking the Ecclesiarchy's holy symbol on his chest. "Faith is like sunlight; it needs to shine evenly on every corner."
Soon, large numbers of itinerant priests, dressed in simple robes, were dispatched to every district of Rostov II.
They preached doctrine during factory breaks, distributed holy texts in the slums, and even discussed the true meaning of faith with workers in taverns.
These priests tirelessly emphasized a core concept: only the true faith of the Ecclesiarchy is the path to salvation; any other form of worship is a heretical doctrine leading to destruction.
This gentle yet firm infiltration of faith penetrated deeper into people's hearts than high-pressure rule.
Alex noticed that as the priests' activities deepened, the mysterious small gatherings in the neighborhoods gradually disappeared, and the workers' leisure conversations shifted from various conspiracy theories to enthusiastic discussions about doctrine.
Perhaps, this is the most effective way to combat Chaos—not by suppressing thought with fear, but by filling people's hearts with a stronger faith.
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