Chapter 121: The Squelch of Sanctity
"Rest easy, Lord Canon," Kian Voss promised, his tone ringing with the false sincerity of a career mercenary. "I'll return to the front tomorrow and begin a deep-sector audit of this 'rot.' If Nurgle is trying to plant a garden in our backyard, I'll bring the promethium."
Kian made the vow knowing that even without a quest, a Chaos infestation was bad for business.
Warp-corruption started small: a few farmers hearing whispers in the wind, a cluster of strange pox-marks on a laborer's skin, or a sudden spike in the "Insanity" stats in the Enforcer's ledgers. But if left unchecked, it ended with planetary-scale sacrifices and Great Unclean Ones dancing in the streets. To protect his stills, Kian was willing to become an Inquisitorial bloodhound.
"A brave soldier of the Throne," the Canon whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I am proud to have you as a patron of this house. Please, take this. It shall shield your spirit from the whispers."
The priest reached into his robes and produced a long strip of high-grade parchment. It was inscribed with holy litanies in micro-script and capped with a heavy seal of red wax bearing the imprint of a human skull.
[Item Acquired: Sanctified Purity Seal]
Utility: When affixed to armor, provides a +15% resistance to Warp-instability and Psionic attacks.
Special Effect: The parchment will char or ignite when entering a zone of high Corruption, serving as a tactical early-warning system.
Kian tucked the seal into his tactical rig. "My thanks, Lord Canon. I'll be on my way."
The Canon's face broke into a gentle, knowing smile. He looked at Theresa, who was still standing awkwardly in her shimmering gold-trimmed robes.
"Master Voss, today is a Day of Reflection for our novices. You intended to take Sister Theresa to see her kin, did you not? Perhaps it is time she saw her 'new' home?"
Kian stood up and beckoned the girl. "Right. Come on, kid. Let's get you to the enclave so you can see the path I've cleared for your parents."
They stepped out of the Cathedral and onto the grand plaza. Under the blinding artificial sunlight of the Mid-Hive, Theresa's new robes glittered like a solar flare.
"Uncle Kian... where are we going?"
Kian reached his Survey Crawler and flicked the master-switch. The Machine Spirit purred to life. He tossed the keys in the air and caught them, looking at her. "I've established a regional distribution hub. You've got a dedicated hab-cell waiting for you there. If the Cathedral ever gets too loud, you can hide in my shadow."
Theresa hesitated, her voice small. "And my mother? My father?"
Kian patted the passenger seat. "Buckle up. I'm moving them up from the Sump in a few cycles to manage the floor for me. You'll see them soon enough."
As they roared through the Mid-Hive transit lanes, Kian glanced at the girl. "Theresa... tell me the truth. Do you feel... 'special'? Can you feel the 'Gift' the Canon keeps talking about?"
Theresa looked at her hands. "No... I just feel tired. And a little bit hungry."
Kian went silent. He debated telling her the truth—that she had simply eaten a "system-item" that cleaned her soul—but he decided against it. In the 41st Millennium, information was a weapon. If she knew the secret of the "Holy Pancakes," she might accidentally leak it during a psychic interrogation. Better to let her believe in her own "Saintly Aura."
"Maybe you don't feel it yet," Kian said, his voice taking on a heavy "Imperial Mentor" tone—the kind of cynical wisdom one only gains after a thousand death-screens. "But listen to me, kid. Now that you're in the Church's inner circle, you need to be careful. The Ecclesiarchy isn't a choir; it's a nest of vipers."
Theresa blinked her large, innocent eyes. "Why, Uncle?"
"Because 'Truth' is a monopoly," Kian explained as he navigated a sharp turn. "The different factions in the Cathedral will fight over the right to interpret the Emperor's will. They'll use you as a pawn. They'll watch your every move, looking for a slip-up to brand you a heretic.
"If someone offers a debate? Don't flip through the scriptures. Just make sure they don't have a platform to speak from. If someone challenges you to a duel of faith? Don't pick the sharpest sword; just have them executed before they reach the arena. True wisdom isn't winning the fight, Theresa—it's making sure the fight never happens in the first place."
Theresa listened with wide-eyed intensity. This was "Spire-logic" at its most brutal.
They reached the brewery. Kian cycled the heavy blast doors, revealing the steaming vats and the rhythmic whir of the machinery. Theresa let out a gasp of wonder.
"Is this yours, Uncle? It's... so big!"
"It's an empire in the making," Kian said proudly.
He led her to the Vintner's Basin—the shallow pool lined with blue tiles. He had already dumped ten crates of Parson's first grape harvest into the basin.
Kian pulled out a high-resolution pict-recorder he'd "borrowed" from a Mid-Hive packaging plant. A predatory, merchant-style grin spread across his face.
"Now, Sister Theresa... your 'Uncle' has a small favor to ask. You won't say no to the man who saved your brother, will you? Hehehehe!"
Theresa shivered, her cheeks turning a bright shade of pink. "What... what do you need me to do?"
"First," Kian commanded, "Take off those boots."
"My footwear? But why?"
Kian nodded frantically. "Yes! Quickly! Off with the leather!"
"I... if it's for you, Uncle... I will do it."
Theresa knelt and unlaced her boots, revealing her pristine white wool stockings.
Kian immediately began snapping pict-captures. The recorder clicked rhythmically, taking twenty-four frames per second. Perfect. The lighting is just grim enough.
"Now," Kian said, pointing to the basin. "Get in. Harvest the fruit."
"Step on... the grapes? But isn't that a waste of food?"
"This isn't waste, kid. This is Value-Add Strategy. Just do it."
"I... I should probably take off my habit first. I don't want to stain it..."
Theresa was wearing her new black-and-gold vesper-robes.
"NO!" Kian barked. "Leave the uniform on! The contrast is the whole point!"
Theresa, face burning with embarrassment, obeyed. She lifted the hem of her long skirt and stepped into the pool of purple fruit.
SQUISH-SQUELCH.
A dozen grapes burst beneath her weight. Her white stockings were instantly stained a deep, royal purple.
"Move! Work the pile!" Kian shouted, hovering over the basin with the recorder. "Dance! Stomp them all! Faster! Like you're crushing the enemies of the Throne!"
"Eeeek!"
Theresa began to stomp frantically, her hands clutching her skirts, her expression a mix of confusion and shy desperation.
Gurch-squish-gurch!
The grapes exploded under the girl's feet, releasing the "First Press" juice that splattered against her white silk hem. With her flushed face, the shimmering gold of her robes, and the raw, biological squalor of the work, the scene was a masterpiece of Spire-baiting decadence.
Kian snapped the final captures, his eyes gleaming with the fire of a man who had just struck oil.
If this 'Holy-Vested Vintage' doesn't sell out in the Spire, Kian thought, I'm retiring from the market entirely!
☆☆☆
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