Cogboy stood in the heavily fortified staging area right behind the execution platform, looking down at the absolute, suffocating sea of humanity.
The cigarette clamped between his fingertips had already burned down to the filter.
Paul's voice drifted from behind. "Which number is that?"
The low hum of power armor servos sounded exceptionally clear within the confined space.
Without turning around, Cogboy stubbed the cigarette butt into a portable ashtray. "The seventh."
Tax Bro walked over with a grin, tossing a thick arm around Cogboy's shoulders. "I recall you haven't augmented your lungs yet. Smoking that much—watch out for complications. Is that red heart of yours about to leap right out of your throat?"
Cogboy finally turned around ignoring tax bro, his voice slightly dry. "Over eight hundred thousand people are watching live. Back in reality, holding a ten-thousand-person concert requires half a year of rehearsals. Now we're live-streaming the trial of over two hundred people and announcing a new policy... And they aren't just an audience. This is the future of ninety-eight million people. A single word from us could decide whether they spend the next few decades struggling in a cesspool or catching a glimmer of light."
Blood Angels' Second Emperor put down the speech script in his hand. He walked over to Cogboy, patting the chief technical officer's mechanical arm. "Do you still remember the Seventh Workshop? When we first arrived, we didn't even have a decent weapon. Aru's lackeys killed two of us, and we didn't even dare to make a move."
"I remember," Cogboy nodded.
"Back then we only had five thousand people, facing an entire planet's system of oppression." Blood Angels' Second Emperor looked through the glass at the hive residents in tattered overalls out on the plaza. "Now we have gene-seed, power armor, the Primarch's authorization, and..." He turned his head to look at Paul. "We have conviction."
Paul stood in the deep shadows. Stepping forward, the Dawn insignia on his dark gray power armor gleamed with a faint crimson light under the backstage illumination. He remained silent, but within his dark gold eyes, something began to spin.
The patterns of the five traits—Hope, Compassion, Resolve, Pioneering, and Wisdom—swirled deep within his pupils, intertwining and restructuring before finally condensing into the phantom image of a five-pointed star. The phantom slowly drifted out of his eyes, floating in mid-air, each point radiating light of a different texture: pale gold, bright green, deep crimson, azure blue, and silvery white.
"Take it," Paul said softly.
The five-pointed star transformed into a streak of flowing light, sinking into Cogboy's chest. A gentle, warm current spread throughout his entire body along his blood circulation.
Cogboy's mechanical prosthetic eye interface flashed with lines of game system data:
[High-dimensional psychic imprint connection detected... Synchronizing... Synchronization complete]
[Trait Granted: Trait Resonance]
[Duration: Estimated 2 hours]
[Effects: Linguistic Charisma +300%, Logical Clarity +200%, Emotional Transmission Efficiency +500%, Authority Amplification +400%]
"This is..." Cogboy was stunned.
"One of the privileges of a Chosen One." Paul smiled, a transcendent tranquility in his expression. "I can temporarily lend traits to a designated person. However, there is a time limit."
He walked up to Cogboy, his three-meter-tall frame requiring him to tilt his head slightly to look the technical chief in the eyes. "The path of our Crimson Dawn is magnificent. Go. Let this hive city hear the speech of their new Dawn Governor."
–
Standard Terra Time, 8:00 AM.
Eight hundred thousand pairs of eyes stared at the judgment platform in the central plaza. Numerous screens across the hive city displayed the exact same broadcast. Factories on various levels of the hive ground to a temporary halt, and the mining elevators stopped running.
Cogboy walked up to the judgment platform. He had changed out of his dark gray formal suit, donning a custom-made ceremonial uniform with a deep crimson base. Perfectly embroidered in gold thread over his left breast was the insignia of the Crimson Dawn: a sun rising from a gear and stalks of wheat.
This design was the work of Schrödinger Bro. He said the gear represented industry and labor, the wheat symbolized agriculture and survival, and the sun signified hope and the future.
The symbolism was incredibly straightforward, but in a universe where hope was constantly twisted and abused by Chaos cults, straightforwardness actually brought about more trust.
Cogboy stepped up to the podium in the center of the judgment platform. He slowly scanned the entire area. With the trait's empowerment, the expressions of everyone within the wave of noise generated by eight hundred thousand people were vividly displayed on his visual interface. On their faces were anxiety, skepticism, numbness, scattered curiosity, and a massive amount of mockery over what kind of fucking formalism was being played out this time...
Then, Cogboy spoke. His voice boomed through the loudspeaker arrays scattered across the plaza, calm yet carrying an unyielding resolve. "Citizens of the Imperium. Citizens of Aurelian IV. Good morning."
An opening statement simplified to the absolute limit. There was no tedious nonsense, no endless praise for the Emperor and the Primarch, because he knew all too well that the oppressed hive citizens had long grown sick of those high-sounding words.
"I am Cage Lawrence, the new governor of Kent Hive, appointed by the Imperial Departmento Munitorum and recognized by the Iron Hands Legion." He paused, letting the information sink into the crowd. "Gathering everyone here today is not for a celebration, not for conscription, and not to collect new taxes. Today, we are here to do only one thing."
Cogboy raised his right hand.
"Judgment. Judgment for those hive magistrates who forgot their original purpose. Judgment for those parasites who betrayed the trust of the Imperium's citizens. The magistrates of our Imperium were meant to be guardians, protectors of the people's rights in their sector, the mortal extensions of the Emperor's will. But some, the moment they pinned on the magistrate's badge, forgot all of this. They moved into upper hive palaces, drank fine wines shipped from agri-worlds, dined on delicacies ordinary people wouldn't even smell in a lifetime, and draped themselves in silk that could feed a whole hab-block for a year. They started to think they were something special."
Cogboy tilted his head slightly.
"But I want to ask: what makes them so special? Is it embezzling disaster relief funds, leaving tens of thousands of children to starve to death during a cholera epidemic? Is that what makes them special? Is it smuggling munitions to underhive gangs, forcing the Enforcers and criminals to slaughter each other with the exact same batch of weapons? Is it putting a price tag on school admissions, trapping the children of the poor in an eternal abyss of illiteracy?"
Three consecutive questions. No roaring, no furious rebukes—just a calm recitation. Yet it was exactly this calmness that made every charge feel all the more chillingly real. The whispering from the crowd below gradually died away.
"These maggots have failed the Imperial citizens who fed them, and they have failed the Emperor who granted them their authority."
Cogboy's mechanical prosthetic eye swept toward the flanks of the judgment platform. There, over two hundred prisoners wearing black hoods were being escorted up, heavily guarded by a squad personally led by Tax Bro.
"For such people, Imperial Law has clear stipulations.
Lex Administratum Terran, Chapter Seven, Article Four: Any official who embezzles an amount exceeding one hundred thousand Imperial Coins, resulting in civilian deaths, may be sentenced to capital punishment.
Provisional Regulations for Frontier World Governance During the Great Crusade, Article Nine: Collusion with criminal syndicates to endanger public security is punishable by death. The Imperial Truth Code of Conduct..."
He recited seven decrees. Every single one was completely accurate; every single one directly corresponded to the crimes of those standing on the platform. This wasn't some impromptu performance. It was the result of Schrödinger Bro and fifty players from Crimson Spirit pulling an all-nighter, extracting, compiling, and cross-referencing information from the Imperium's ocean of legal documents. What they wanted was a trial utterly unimpeachable on a legal level. Even if the laws themselves stemmed from a rotting system.
"So today, we stand here to execute the will of the Imperium."
Cogboy's voice finally swelled with a hint of emotion, carrying a deep, profound sorrow.
"Not for revenge, and not to establish dominance. It is to serve as a warning. A warning to all who hold power now, and to all who might gain power in the future. Remember the fate of these exploiters. Remember: the authority of the Imperium stems from the support of the citizens across its countless worlds, and it requires the constant protection of those citizens' rights. Anyone who betrays this principle..."
He took a deep breath. Under the empowerment of the traits, his voice rang like a massive bell, echoing into every corner of the plaza.
"Will be executed without mercy! Purge all parasites of the Imperium!!"
The instant his words fell, the first genuine wave of uproar erupted from the crowd. The eyes of many changed—from numb mockery to sheer shock. From weary apathy to a scrutinizing gaze that realized this time, things really seemed different.
Trait Resonance was doing its work. But more importantly, every single word Cogboy spoke pierced right into the deepest scars of this hive city. Those children who starved to death, those workers who were sold off like cattle, those youths who could never afford an education... Everyone knew someone like that. Or they were those people themselves.
"Wait!!"
A sharp voice exploded from the southeast corner of the plaza. The crowd was split apart as a group of a hundred people forcefully pushed their way to the front. They wore luxurious silk robes in the signature purple and gold colors of the Hysman Merchant Guild. Intricate family crests—a star encircled by a gear—were embroidered on their cuffs and collars.
Leading them was a tall, thin man around sixty years old. He had a hooked nose, thin lips, and eyes filled with the arrogance cultivated from a long life in high positions. He leaned heavily on a sapphire-inlaid scepter, the head carved into the shape of an Aquila. It was a common ornament for Imperial nobility, but the Aquila's eyes had been replaced with the diamond-shaped coat of arms of the Hysman family.
It was a blatant transgression. But clearly, they were used to it.
"Governor Cage!"
The tall, thin man stopped ten meters away from the judgment platform, slamming his scepter heavily into the ground. "I am Archimedes Hysman, Vice President of the Aurelian IV Hysman Merchant Guild. Representing the Guild Headquarters, Hysman Hive, and Aru City, I am raising a formal objection to the proceedings of this trial!"
Cogboy's mechanical prosthetic eye instantly retrieved the newcomer's data. Archimedes Hysman, Adela's cousin, and the fifth-ranking authority figure within the guild. He was in charge of mining and 'special human resource trading'—which, simply put, meant human trafficking. A piece of trash with no less blood on his hands than Adela.
"According to the Planetary Privilege Act and the Commercial Guilds Autonomy Charter," Archimedes's voice boomed, deliberately making sure the entire plaza heard him, "the right to judge members of the Hysman family, regardless of whether they hold public office, belongs to the family's Internal Arbitration Tribunal and the Planetary Governors' Joint Council! You, a governor born from wasteland refugees, have no right to publicly judge Adela Hysman or any members of his family!"
He paused, a cold sneer curling the corners of his mouth.
"Furthermore, you have absolutely no right to use execution by artillery—a capital punishment reserved for heretics and traitors! I demand that you halt this trial immediately, hand over all Hysman family members to the guild's custody, and await the Joint Investigation Team dispatched by the Adeptus Arbites of the City of the Holy Anthem and the Sector Governor's Office."
Cogboy ignored his spiel, because he spotted a familiar ID among the hundred-person entourage behind Archimedes.
That ID belonged to a completely bald guy in purple robes, standing toward the left in the front section of the group.
[Crimson Deep Sea]
At this moment, Deep Sea slightly raised his right hand, making a gesture against the side of his leg. Three fingers curled, while his index finger tapped his thigh twice. This was a prearranged secret signal within the Crimson Dawn. It meant:
The enemy is bluffing. They have no actual backup. Proceed with extreme prejudice.
Cogboy's heart settled.
But before he could even open his mouth, another voice echoed from the other side of the plaza. The voice wasn't loud, yet it was deafening to many:
"Are you done talking? If you're done, you can piss off."
Karon Santos walked out from the crowd.