Chapter 126: The Gilded Path and the Burned Grave
Kian Voss slowly opened his eyes. Above him was the familiar, dim silhouette of a reinforced plasteel ceiling and the sickly emerald glow of standby lamps.
His mind felt like it had been scraped with a rusted file. The battle with the Pox-horde of Equine Reach had left a lingering psychic stain on his consciousness. Even after the System's respawn cycle, the "Grandfather's" laughter seemed to echo in the quiet corners of his brain.
He sat up with a groan, reached for a bottle of Sanctified Spirits, and took a long, burning swallow.
[STATUS: EMPEROR'S BENEDICTION ACTIVE]
The warmth of the holy liquid flushed the lethargy from his bones. The mental fog lifted. He felt clean again. He wolfed down a few tins of Grox-meat, donned a fresh set of grey fatigues, and stepped out of his Sanctum.
He needed to check the after-action report of the Reach, but first, he had a "Regiment" to audit.
In the brewery courtyard, Kian found Little Joel checking a manifest.
"Joel. How's the recruitment drive? Are they starting to look like soldiers yet?"
Joel snapped a salute, though he looked a bit weary. "Master Voss. Honestly? I'm a grunt by training. Managing two hundred men is... a statistical headache. They're rough, sir."
Kian smirked. "In the Guard, there are no 'rough' men, only 'unmotivated' ones. If any of them give you trouble, send for the Kais brothers. They'll help you 'calibrate' their attitudes."
Joel confirmed he was heading back to the Chemical Factory (the former Fertilizer Syndicate). Kian followed him, wanting to see the "Voss Guard" in action.
The factory's main plaza, located a safe distance from the toxic reactors, had been converted into a training yard. Two hundred youths—all between twenty and twenty-five—were gathered there. They sat in the dirt, sharing stories and cleaning their rifles. When Joel stepped onto the platform, they scrambled to attention, forming two hundred-man blocks with surprising speed.
Kian stepped forward, letting his 17-Strength frame and matte-black Carapace armor cast a long shadow.
"Memorize this face," Kian's voice boomed through his rebreather. "I'm the man who provides your meat, your water, and your ammo. In exchange, you give me your triggers.
"But I'm not just hiring mercenaries. I'm building a future. I've given Joel ten 'Golden Tickets.' Those of you who excel in training—those who prove they have the steel for the Voss Syndicate—will have their families transferred from the vats to the brewery. No rot. No fumes. Just clean air and light work."
A visible tremor of excitement ran through the ranks. In the Underhive, moving your family out of a chemical plant was a dream more valuable than gold.
"And for the best among you?" Kian leaned in, his eyes gleaming behind his visor. "I have one more prize. A single Mid-Hive Legacy Re-entry. One of you will regain your citizenship. You'll get an apartment in the light and a legal job. Prove to me you're worth the Emperor's gaze, and I'll buy you the stars."
The morale of the unit didn't just rise; it hit the ceiling. They weren't just recruits anymore; they were aspirants.
Kian gestured for Joel to begin the drill. Stand to attention. March. Discipline. The low-cost, high-impact training that turned laborers into cogs of the Imperial Machine. Kian watched for a few minutes, then grew bored. He turned to leave, but Albus, the lead overseer, came running from the vats.
"Lord Voss! Stop! The collectors are here. Baron Klyne's house-guards. Do you wish to meet them?"
Kian's eyebrows shot up. "The Spire has come to collect? Perfect. Let's see what my tax-dollars are buying."
At the factory's northern bulkhead, a convoy of twelve heavy military trucks sat idling. A middle-aged man in an impeccably tailored silk tunic—clearly a High-House Steward—stepped out of the lead vehicle. He held a digital slate and a golden stylus.
He looked at Kian with a look of bored, aristocratic disdain. "By the order of Baron Klyne, I am here to collect this month's industrial tithe. Where is Iron-Eye? I have papers for his thumb-print."
"Iron-Eye is dead," Kian said, stepping forward. "I liquidated his contract. I am the new Master of the Vats."
The Steward didn't even blink. To the Spire, one Underhive boss was the same as the next. "Irrelevant. The Baron's contract with the facility transitions to the victor. You know your duties, Scav-rat. Load the product, sign the ledger, and continue to serve the Baron with gratitude."
Kian signaled Albus, and the laborers began loading the cases: ten tons of Munitorum Plastique and five tons of Plastocrete powder, all in lead-shielded containers.
Kian took the slate and signed his name with a flourish. "Lord Steward, the transition was... sudden. I haven't had a chance to review the 'Loyalty Bonus' structure. Any advice?"
Kian wanted to see if this man could be bribed. Usually, he'd offer a Lho-stick or a bottle. But this man smelled of Spire-perfume; he didn't need "peasant gold."
The Steward gave Kian a look of pure contempt. "You need to know nothing but production. Maintain the quota. If you are still providing stable results in three months, perhaps the Baron will grant you a 'shadow-audience' in the Spire. Until then, stay in your hole."
Touchy, Kian thought.
Once the convoy roared away, Kian looked at the heavy briefcase the Steward had left on the floor—the "subsidy." He snapped the latches. It was packed with stacks of high-value Agri-Scrips.
[Audit: 800,000 Scrips.]
Albus stared at the money, his jaw hanging open. "Lord... that's... that's more than Iron-Eye earned in a year! He used to hide it all for himself!"
Kian tossed the briefcase to Albus. "Take it. Use it for the facility.
Tier 1: Maintenance and expansion.
Tier 2: Worker rations.
Tier 3: Soldier's pay—double the laborers' wage.
Make me a spreadsheet. If the numbers don't add up when I return, I'll use my boot to kiss your backside."
Kian left the stunned Albus behind and prepped for the surface. He needed to verify the "Cure" of Equine Reach.
He returned to the surface, reached the rebel lines, and took a mount from Parson. He rode to the 30km perimeter of the Reach, left the horse, and crossed the line on foot.
Equine Reach was no longer a village. It was a tomb of grey ash.
Kian's fire had done its work. The timber houses were blackened husks. The Flesh-Altar in the square was a puddle of charred carbon. No movement. No giggling. The silence was absolute.
But Kian wasn't a fool. Nurgle's rot was biological and metaphysical. He didn't know if a single spore remained in the air, waiting for a host to carry it back to the Hive.
He didn't plan on being that host. He walked into the center of the ruins, pulled a Remote Detonator from his vest, and lit it. He put the hissing charge in his mouth like a cigar and took one last look at the grey sky.
Better to respawn clean than return a monster, Kian thought.
[EXTRACTION: 7 HOURS LATER]
Kian Voss stood up in his Sanctum, dressed in a fresh suit. He grabbed his Survey Crawler and ascended to the Mid-Hive. It was 02:00 "Terran Standard"—the Hive's artificial night cycle.
The streets were empty. Curfew was in effect. An Enforcer patrol stopped him near a mag-rail station, but Kian flashed his PDF Corporal ID and slipped them a pack of Lho-sticks.
"On military business for Major Rudolphson," Kian grunted.
The Enforcers checked his DNA, found the PDF registry, and waved him through. This was why he'd bought the rank—it was a literal "Get Out of Jail Free" card.
He reached the Cathedral of the Blessed Martyr and pounded on the side-door. After several minutes, a sleepy, angry-looking Cenobite opened the hatch.
"Who dares—" the monk began to snarl.
"Shut it!" Kian barked, his voice echoing in the stone hallway. "If you're too slow to open the door again, I'll break your legs and report you for sloth. Now, wake the Canon-Preceptor. A warrior of the Throne has returned from the North with a report of the Shadow."
The monk's anger evaporated into a cold, shivering fear. He locked the door and ran into the darkness of the Cathedral to find his master.
Kian leaned against the stone wall, the scent of incense and old blood filling his lungs.
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