Chapter 118: The Sanctified Stomp
The process of making wine was fundamentally simple: crush the grapes, initiate fermentation, press and filter the mash, age it in timber casks, and then bottle the final spirit.
In Kian's grand strategy, wine was the high-tier asset. It was intended for the Spire Lords—the high nobility who viewed amasec as a commoner's fuel. To capture that market, the vintage required a minimum of three months of aging to develop a "Lineage."
Currently, the grape supply from the surface was still fluctuating. Kian hired ten temporary workers—families of the PDF veterans—paying them 100 scrips each for a day's labor.
The distillery's equipment was top-tier Mechanicus-certified hardware, mostly automated. Three and a half tons of grapes were processed in less than half a cycle, the sweet purple juice funneled into the stainless plasteel vats for the first stage of fermentation.
With the first batch bubbling away, Kian spent his downtime reflecting on Reno's advice: Added Value.
The Spire market was a goldmine, but it was a crowded one. Every merchant in the Hive was trying to sell "Premium Spirits" to the nobility. To stand out, Kian needed a "Gimmick." A "Grimdark Unique Selling Point."
Kian lay on his cot in the distillery's upper tier, staring at a bottle of high-end wine he'd bought for "market research." The brand was called "The Crimson Baroness."
The label depicted an elegant woman in a flowing silk dress, her bare feet deep in a tub of grapes. The story circulated in the Spire was that the Baroness—a widow who had inherited her late husband's title—personally stomped every grape used in the production of her vintage.
The Spire Lords, a group whose hormones were as overactive as their bank accounts, were obsessed with the brand. The "Baroness's Touch" made the wine a bestseller.
But Kian saw the logic-holes in the marketing.
First: The "Crimson Baroness" was a single woman. Unless she spent twenty-four hours a day stomping like a frantic servitor, there was no way she was producing ten thousand units a month. The nobles weren't stupid; they suspected it was actually a group of unwashed laborers doing the work behind the scenes.
Second: The Baroness was nearly fifty standard years old. Though the labels still used her twenty-year-old "debutante" image, gossip in the Spire moved fast. Everyone knew the "Lady" was becoming an "Old Matron." Stomping grapes with aged, calloused feet didn't carry the same erotic or artisanal appeal.
Kian smirked. He could fix those "bugs." He could optimize the "Crushing Meta."
He needed a group of people who were perpetually young, disciplined, and—most importantly—carried the weight of a higher power.
The Cathedral Novices.
The logic was flawless.
First: He had a direct link. Little Joel's sister, Theresa, was already inside the Cathedral.
Second: The workforce was self-replenishing. Every year, new girls were inducted into the novices' wing. He would never run out of "Pristine Labor."
Third: The Sanctity Factor.
Marketed correctly, this wasn't just wine. This was "Voss Sanctified Vintage: The Maiden's Press."
It wasn't pressed by some slum-girl or a factory grunt. It was pressed by the pure, unblemished feet of the Master of Mankind's own daughters. One sip of this wine, flavored by the fragrant sweat of a Novice of the Creed, and you weren't just getting drunk—you were practically performing a religious ritual. It was a "Holy Buff" for your amasec.
Kian laughed like a madman, his voice echoing through the distillery. "Throne... I'm a marketing genius!"
He was too excited to sleep. He donned his gear, locked the distillery bulkheads, and hopped into his Survey Crawler. He was heading back to the Cathedral.
[THE CATHEDRAL OF THE BLESSED MARTYR]
Kian parked the crawler, locked the ignition, and strode into the grand nave.
He followed the standard "Quest Protocol": pay the donation, find the bribeable monk, and hand over the "Tithe."
"Wait here, Seeker," the monk whispered, pocketing the scrips. "Do not wander the halls."
As the monk vanished through the side-door, Kian leaned against a cold stone pillar, watching the thousands of kneeling pilgrims. They were howling their litanies, a wall of fanatical sound.
Kian figured he should play the part. He pounded his chest, cleared his throat, and bellowed a "Hymn" of his own, based on an old Terran pop-song, localized for the 41st Millennium:
"Great Terra! Is my motherland!" Kian roared.
"The Battle-Cry roars with a light that cannot fade!"
"Iron and fire carve the history of the brave!"
"Humanity shall endure while the stars turn to ash!"
"The Emperor's Light shines on the Himalayan peaks!"
"The Church of the Throne is etched into my heart!"
"Honor and Faith shall never be forgotten!"
"Holy Terra... is my Motherland!!"
Kian was about to start the second verse when the side-door groaned open.
The monk emerged, but his expression was no longer dismissive or bored. It was a mask of profound, terrified confusion. Behind him walked Theresa.
Kian went to wave, but stopped. The "Skin" had changed.
Theresa was no longer wearing the tattered, grey-and-white rags of a bottom-tier novice. She was dressed in high-thread-count silk robes of pure white, trimmed with shimmering golden thread and miniature Imperial Aquilas. She looked less like a church-servant and more like a princess of the Spire.
Behind her stepped another figure: the Canon-Preceptor, the high-ranking ruler of the district's Ecclesiarchy.
The Canon looked at Kian with a soft, unnerving smile.
"This man," the Canon whispered, his voice smooth as aged amasec. "Is he the kinsman of the Sainted Theresa?"
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