Chapter 115: The Cathedral of Spirits
The massive iron doors of the distillery groaned open, kicking up a cloud of ancient dust that made Kian cough violently.
He stepped inside, his tactical light sweeping the interior. In the Underhive, a brewery was a collection of plastic tubs and rusted pipes. Here, in the Mid-Hive, it was an industrial temple.
Reno led Kian toward the center of the kill-floor, stopping beside a gargantuan cylindrical vat. He rapped his knuckles against the side, the metal letting out a deep, resonant ring.
"Look at this, Voss. Food-grade stainless plasteel. 30mm thick. Capable of aging five hundred liters per cycle. This is built to last ten thousand years. I personally commissioned Enginseer Anthony to oversee the forging. Look here—the seal of the Adeptus Mechanicus."
He wiped away a layer of grime, revealing the embossed skull-and-cog icon of the Machine God.
Kian's eye twitched. Reno had supervised the construction of this place? If it had gone bankrupt, it certainly wasn't because of the equipment quality. It was likely a "clerical error" in the Spire's high-stakes politics.
Kian performed a rapid survey. There were ten of these massive vats, meaning a single production cycle could yield five thousand liters. The floor plan was cavernous, with enough empty space to triple the capacity if Kian could secure the resources. There were pressurized boilers, filtration matrices, and heavy-duty distillation towers—everything a Warlord of the Taps could dream of.
Kian noticed a specific area in the corner: a wide, shallow basin lined with polished blue tiles.
"What's the purpose of the pool?" Kian asked.
Reno offered a decadent, Spire-born grin. "Ah, that? That is the Vintner's Basin. For the 'Traditional' method."
He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "If you can recruit a few beautiful, high-born maidens—or even just clean-looking novices from the Cathedral—to gently crush the grapes with their bare feet, the resulting vintage will sell in the Spire for prices that defy logic."
Kian let out a sharp bark of laughter. "Throne's blood, Reno. You really expect me to believe a Spire-Lord can taste the difference between a high-pressure hydraulic press and a girl's foot? If I jump in there and stomp around myself, they'll never know the difference!"
Reno laughed, shaking his head. "Of course they can't taste it. But it's not about the flavor, Voss. It's about the Brand Narrative.
"The high nobility of this world have eaten every delicacy in the sub-sector. They are bored beyond mortal comprehension. They pay for the 'added value.' If you market a bottle as 'Grapes Harvested by Sanctified Virgins' and provide the pict-scroll recordings of the process..."
He clapped Kian's shoulder. "A thousand-scrip bottle becomes a ten-thousand-scrip relic instantly."
Kian let out a low hiss. "Is that true?"
"Absolutely," Reno nodded. "The Spire-Lords love that kind of decadent nonsense. Cakes baked by a maiden's body heat, amasec fermented in the intestinal tracts of rare xenos... the more bizarre and exclusive, the higher the price."
"Enough," Kian held up a hand. "I get it. The Spire is a freak-show. Let's look at the storage."
They moved into the cellar—a massive, climate-controlled vault. It was filled with rows of heavy timber racks and thousands of empty barrels.
Reno patted a barrel made of dark, aromatic wood. "Two thousand Birch-Heart Casks. If you age your spirits in these, the liquid takes on a smoky, high-Gothic aroma. It's the favorite scent of the Arbitrators and the Clergy.
"And remember, Voss: The Spire loves the Vintage. You need to start thinking in years, not cycles."
"I'm a new operation," Kian countered. "How do I get 'old' booze?"
Reno, who clearly viewed brewing as a sacred art, began to explain the "Voss Strategy."
"Look, you have space for two thousand barrels. Let's say in Month One, you produce two thousand casks. You sell eighty percent of them to the PDF to keep your credits flowing. But you must keep twenty percent hidden here in the dark.
"You do this every month. In a year's time, those first four hundred barrels aren't just moonshine anymore. They are 'One-Year Voss Select.' The price doubles.
"If you can hold it for two years, the price quadruples. Five years? Ten? If you can produce a hundred-year-old vintage, you could trade a single bottle for a luxury estate in the Upper Spire."
Reno sighed, a look of industrial longing on his face. "Brewing is the art of extracting wealth from the flow of time itself. The longer you wait, the more the universe pays you.
"But you must maintain the brand. Don't sell out your reserves too early, or your 'Voss' label will just be another cheap brand for the dregs. Sell 80% to eat, keep 20% to rule."
Kian listened intently, nodding. Reno was giving him more than a factory; he was giving him a financial roadmap for the next century.
However, as Kian looked at the vast, silent warehouse, a dark thought crossed his mind.
Investing in a hundred-year plan? In this universe?
This was the 41st Millennium. Between the Green Skins, the Warp-storms, and the shadow of the Tyranid Hive-fleets, most planets didn't survive a decade, let alone a century. Was it wise to play the "Long Game" in a galaxy where the only constant was Total War?
Kian gripped the hilt of his Relic Blade, his eyes narrowing as he looked toward the ceiling. The Spire was up there, but the stars were further—and they were full of things that didn't care about the vintage of his wine.
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