Chapter 195: You're Not Actually Trying to Marry Me, Are You~?
Kian pushed the door open and walked straight up to the third floor.
Lady Nightingale heard him coming, and lifted her hands from the keys.
The moment they were face to face, she spoke first.
"I watched you burn down my Grand Theatrum."
Kian blinked. Then his instincts fired.
"I did no such thing. Don't make accusations without evidence. I will have you cited for defamation."
Lady Nightingale raised one hand. A projector on the wall lit up and began playing recorded pict-footage — Kian, clearly visible, operating a flamer unit and reducing the Grand Theatrum to ash, then methodically loading the underground armoury's lasrifles into a bag.
Every frame, incontestable.
Kian's eyelid developed a pronounced twitch.
Lady Nightingale said, in the measured tone of someone about to present a very large number: "The Grand Theatrum represented a cumulative investment of fifteen billion Agri-Scrips. That sum—"
"Alright, alright, enough of that, we're friends here—"
Kian didn't let her finish. He stepped forward and clapped a hand on her shoulder.
"Nightingale. Think about what we've been through together. The battlefields. The impossible odds. Look into my eyes right now — do you see anything but pure, unspoiled sincerity? Can you really put a price tag on that?"
He deployed the pure, unspoiled sincerity expression in full.
Lady Nightingale's mouth twitched.
"…Fine. So. Why are you here? To reminisce about our battlefield camaraderie?"
"Ah — no, actually. I came to discuss a business arrangement."
Lady Nightingale stared at him.
"Didn't you just say that talking about money damages friendships?"
Kian produced a bottle of wine from his pack and held it out.
"Between close friends, honest accounting is the foundation of a lasting relationship.
Look — the wine I mentioned to you before. It's ready. Three months of conditioning. Should be marketable to the Spire now, yes?"
Lady Nightingale took the bottle and made a neutral sound.
"So that's what this is about. You can't find a way into the upper market."
Kian nodded.
"I'm a Baron now, technically, but I have no history behind the title and no connections in noble circles. I don't even know who to approach about selling wine up here."
Lady Nightingale turned the bottle over in her hands, examining it.
"Mm. The bottle itself is decent quality. That's probably a two-Scrip bottle with a cork stopper."
She ran her fingers over the label — specifically, over the printed illustration of Sister Teresa, skirts raised, treading grapes, white stockings enthusiastically stained.
"The label design is… distinctive. Are you certain you want to build your marketing around a Sister of the Ministorum stomping grapes? There's a non-trivial chance the Ecclesiarchy burns you alive."
Kian patted his chest.
"Not a concern. The Confessor and I have been through hell together side by side. He'll cover me."
Lady Nightingale recalled the intelligence reports — Kian and the senior Priest cutting through the Mercator Aqua facility, destroying the Rogue Psyker together — and decided it was probably plausible.
She picked up a bottle-opener, uncorked it, poured a measure into a glass.
Before she drank, a thought occurred to her.
"This wasn't actually trodden by the girl on the label, was it?"
Kian shook his head.
"Absolutely not. Look at how much wine is here — one small girl couldn't stomp this quantity if she worked every waking hour. It's a marketing concept. Pure branding."
Lady Nightingale accepted this, raised the glass, and drank.
She worked it around her palate thoughtfully.
"The wine itself is mediocre. The conditioning time is too short. Sweetness is adequate, the acidic astringency is strong, the grape aroma is pronounced. I'd give it five out of ten."
Kian felt a flicker of disappointment. Only five.
"However—"
His eyes came back to life. There was a however.
Lady Nightingale took a few more sips and continued:
"The first mouthful has a genuinely extraordinary quality. A flavour I can't quite describe. Something that doesn't belong to the wine itself.
But after the first mouthful it's gone. Subsequent sips are ordinary. This is essentially a one-sip wine."
Of course the first sip is extraordinary. The first sip clears your Chaos taint — there's a soul-level effect attached to it. After that it's just wine. You need a day or two for the taint to accumulate again before the effect returns.
Kian explained it in terms he could actually say out loud:
"That's the concept — a first-sip wine. The opening mouthful delivers the full experience. After that, your palate is saturated and the effect diminishes. You need to wait until the following day for the residual taste to clear before the impact returns."
Lady Nightingale swirled the glass, thinking back to that first sip.
She decided the business had legs.
"Here's what I suggest — let me come and see your operation. After that we talk next steps."
Kian had no objections. He brought Lady Nightingale down through the Hive to the Mid-Hive distillery.
She looked at the wine stacked in cardboard wholesale cartons and shook her head slowly.
"This won't work. The packaging is far too plain — it reads as cheap product. No noble will drink something presented like this. It's not presentable. They'd be mocked for serving it."
Kian asked with genuine humility:
"My lady — your recommendation?"
"Individual packaging. Birchwood cases, one per bottle. The case needs your product information, your house mark, and a first-sip designation label.
Speaking of which — are you genuinely certain that trading on Ecclesiarchy imagery won't result in your incineration?"
Kian confirmed he was reasonably fireproof on that front.
"Then go further. Have Holy Scripture prayers engraved directly on the birchwood casing. Source parchment and sealing wax. Press it into a Purity Seal design and affix it to each case."
Kian applauded, and meant it.
"Nightingale, you are a genuinely extraordinary commercial mind."
He got to the part he actually cared about most:
"So — how much can we realistically charge per bottle?"
Lady Nightingale considered for a moment and named a figure that briefly stopped Kian's cognitive functions.
"Open at one hundred thousand. See how it moves. Adjust upward from there."
"One hundred— ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND?!"
Lady Nightingale gave him the expression of someone explaining basic arithmetic to a farmhand.
"Noble society runs on one thing: conspicuous comparison. I'm aware this wine costs you less than fifty Agri-Scrips to produce — you could sell it at a hundred and still profit handsomely.
But price it at a hundred, and you will never move a single bottle for the rest of your life. No noble will touch something that cheap. It marks you as low-tier. It's social poison."
Kian turned the arithmetic over in his head. His brain performed the multiplication and immediately began experiencing symptoms.
He had fourteen hundred bottles. Hold four hundred back for extended conditioning. Sell the remaining thousand.
That was one hundred million Agri-Scrips.
He recalled, dimly, something the steward had mentioned about his tax exemption ceiling. One hundred million a month, beyond which the surplus was tithed.
I'm about to become a taxpayer.
Lady Nightingale's next words confirmed it.
"Let's do this simply — sell me this batch at one hundred thousand per bottle. I'll take the lot, move it through Spire channels, and transfer your payment shortly. What do you say?"
Kian stood there, his entire body vibrating very slightly.
"You— you— you…"
He pointed at her.
"You're not actually trying to marry me, are you~?"
[End of Chapter 195]
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