The fog hung heavy over the canned food factories like a shroud that had not been lifted since the last time anyone cooked in Carnaria. The air was thick with a stench that intensified with every step: rancid salt, dried meat, dead spices—a smell that spoke of centuries of manipulation and silence. Pablo stepped off the train onto a platform barely holding its own weight. Behind him, the wagon's gears creaked with one last sigh before falling silent forever.
Carnaria had once been the heart of Norgalia's food supply. From here went boxes of packaged bread, cans of everlasting root soup, synthetic meat cultivated in underground chambers, and high-calorie sweets. During the harshest winters, when the entire country shivered from cold and hunger, Carnaria kept running, injecting life into the cities through its industrial veins.
Now, there was nothing left but empty corridors, rusted conveyor belts, collapsed silos, and dust-covered ceilings. But there was something else—a silence that weighed on the senses and chilled the blood. Pablo felt it as soon as he stepped into Processing Center S-14, the largest of the twelve that formed the state's food belt.
To his horror, some refrigerated chambers were still active. Their energy cores remained on, something that didn't match the reports he had received. With trembling hands, he opened the first door… and what he saw froze him in place. Human bodies, preserved like industrial meat, numbered on the forehead, all marked with a black X. Some had half-open eyes, frozen in a silent scream; others seemed to grin grotesquely in their final rest.
—No… this can't be happening —Pablo whispered, stepping back.
"They were workers, volunteers… or at least that's what they wanted us to believe," a voice emerged from the shadows.
Pablo turned and saw Reinna Loks, former supervisor of Carnaria. Her face was pale, sunken eyes telling the story of someone who had spent too long alone, guarding unspeakable secrets.
—We lived inside the production chambers —Reinna said, her voice trembling—. When the Pillars gave the order, they locked us in our own work areas. We weren't cooks… we were cattle.
—What… what are you saying? —Pablo stammered, unable to look away from the corpses.
—Synthetic food ran out during the first years of the Republic —she continued—. The Pillars authorized a replacement. They called it "Factor P"… processed human protein.
The silence of Carnaria was not abandonment; it was guilt.
—For years, they fed the country with us —Reinna added, handing him an old, worn chip, battered by time and manipulation—. See for yourself.
Pablo connected the chip to a portable projector. The images hit him like a hammer to the chest. Crushed, labeled bodies, sent to production lines; documents stamped by Marcus and Azrael; emergency orders justifying "extreme supply measures."
—This is state-sanctioned cannibalism! —he roared, striking a table with such force that it toppled and dust and grease scattered across the floor.
—They lied to all of us —Reinna continued—. Even those of us distributing the food. Some knew, others only suspected… but no one had the power to speak. Those who did… ended up on the conveyor.
Pablo stepped aside, vomiting in a corner, not from weakness but from contained fury. This was the darkest truth of the entire system, a secret so deep it seemed impossible to believe. No one had spoken of it. No memorials, no names, just silence and packaged food.
—How many…? —he finally asked, his voice breaking from rage.
—No one knows —Reinna replied—. Perhaps hundreds of thousands… perhaps millions. For eighty-three years.
Pablo clenched his fists, knuckles white. The scale of the atrocity was overwhelming. Every number, every X, was a life stolen, shredded, transformed into food for others. His mind spun between anger and despair.
—This… this ends now —he finally said—. We will purify Carnaria, from its foundations to its soul.
He ordered all conveyor belts destroyed, active refrigerators burned, and any record not strictly necessary for judgment and historical memory sealed. But reconstruction would not be merely architectural: it would be moral. Every hallway, every chamber, had to remind people of the tragedy so that no one would ever forget.
Reinna and a small group of survivors began establishing a new production line. No synthetic food. Nothing hidden. Only clean ingredients, meat from certified sources, bread baked in open ovens, soups with transparently cultivated vegetables. Every day, as they lit the ovens and boilers, they remembered the souls who had been sacrificed.
—Every piece of bread, every soup we make —Reinna told the young helpers— carries the memory of someone. We are not only feeding bodies but souls that never had a voice.
—What if someone else survived down there? —asked a young apprentice, tears in his eyes—. How could we forgive what we could not save?
—It's not about forgiveness —Pablo replied—. It's about remembering, about making life worth more than fear.
While they worked, they discovered an underground room no one had known, accidentally activated by a worker moving a vidrium panel. Inside, a distorted digital voice echoed through the walls:
—Operation Sustenance: temporary suspension due to presence of real blood. Deferred activation until 2096. Priority: Pillar Azrael.
Pablo froze. Azrael… had he been behind all this? Planning for Carnaria to remain a hidden monster under the guise of food?
The chip shut off, leaving a silence heavier than any smell of death. Pablo walked slowly through the corridors, watching survivors cry, scream, and vomit as they removed bodies from the chambers. Each removed body was a story of horror and survival. Some cried with years of suppressed fury, others with disgust so deep it seemed to purge their souls.
—We can't forget —Reinna said to Pablo as they placed a body on the cleaning table—. If we forget this, we are doomed to repeat it.
—Never again —Pablo repeated, voice firm even as his jaw trembled—. This nation will never again feed itself with death. I swear it for every body frozen here, for every life taken unjustly.
For weeks, they worked without rest. Every production chamber was inspected, cleaned, and rebuilt. Every hallway received new installations for transparency and supervision. Every surviving worker shared their memories, and Pablo listened closely, taking note of each name, each story, each horror.
—I didn't want to —sobbed an old cook—. Every time I saw the meat… I knew they were people, but I couldn't stop it. We were trained to obey, to ignore the pain.
—Now we can work for something real —said Ylda, a former union leader, placing her hand on Pablo's shoulder—. No fear, no lies, just food and life.
Pablo walked among the lit ovens, watching the smoke rise, mingling with the fog of Carnaria. For the first time in decades, he felt the place breathe, not as a monster, but as a heart that could beat again.
Before leaving, he approached a glass chamber still marked with labels and stains. He touched the cold surface, closing his eyes.
—This will not be forgotten —he whispered—. Not a single name, not a single life.
With a solemn face and a heavy heart, Pablo left Carnaria, while the north wind carried away the stench of salt and death, reminding him that justice and redemption were lifelong tasks.
—Never again —he murmured—. Never again.
And with that, the train carried him toward the next state, leaving behind the cold kitchens, but not the memories bleeding from its walls.