In the city-state's council hall, Peter sat on the Consul's marble throne. His weight alone was enough to collapse the seat, which had a "long and storied history" of 200 years. Anthony and Marco stood guard on his left and right, while the other brothers stood watch outside the hall.
The chamber was now packed to the brim, filled with the constant sound of whispers. Nearly a thousand of the city-state's noble elite and their families were gathered here. In truth, the hall was never meant to hold so many people, but Skaman had not dared to misinterpret the angel's words: "Gather all the nobles and their heirs."
Skaman noticed that some families had even brought their second sons and members of their branch families. Skaman himself had not dared to deviate in the slightest from the angel's command, even bringing the young women of his family. He now sat in his own seat, nervously watching the Consul below, who was about to interact with the angel.
Peter, seated upon the wreckage of the throne, likewise stared at the Consul before him. The man was dressed in a traditional white linen chiton, a noble purple cloak draped over his shoulders, and leather sandals on his feet. He looked unremarkable. The mortal's hair was graying and he was no longer young, but his musculature suggested he had not yet given up physical training.
Facing the angel, he bowed low as a sign of respect.
"Angel of the God-Emperor, you who have returned from the stars, have you come to deliver the Emperor's decree?"
"Hmph!" Anthony, at Peter's side, snorted in displeasure. A mortal facing the Lord of the Forged Steel should do more than simply bow. In his eyes, kneeling on one knee was the minimum sign of respect.
Peter raised a hand, signaling for Anthony to pay it no mind.
"We are not the Emperor's angels, nor are we here to deliver any decree. I have come to rule you. From now on, you will obey my commands."
"Rule!" Hearing this word, the veteran Consul felt a flicker of unease in his heart. He decided to probe further.
"Do you mean to say... you will become the Consul?"
Peter shook his head.
"I have no interest in being a Consul. You may keep that title. In terms you can understand, all of you will become my slaves and obey my orders."
The Consul swallowed. The feeling of dread he'd been holding back finally crashed over him. The angels had descended only to seize his power. It was utterly absurd. Still, he maintained his composure as best he could, his hand discreetly touching an object beneath his cloak. It was a divine artifact left by his ancestors, which he had brought with him before leaving home, just in case. He nervously assessed the risk. If he could resolve this incident of the angels' arrival in front of countless nobles, his family would secure the Consul's seat for years to come.
"Then may I ask what you require of us, my lord?" the Consul asked, speaking empty pleasantries while his mind raced, trying to recall how many angels he had seen and making silent calculations. He subtly raised his eyes, observing the thickness of the angels' armor and the position of their heads.
In an instant, with a speed that defied his age, the Consul drew the artifact from under his cloak and pulled the trigger. The angel's head dodged the first shot. He then raised his arm, blocking the second shot with his vambrace. When the third shot hit the angel's chest, it left only a small black mark. The angel was already on his feet, standing directly in front of the Consul.
Hearing the gunshot, the warriors outside burst through the doors, pointing their bolters at everyone present.
"Holy shit. What a badass."
Philon had also entered the hall and couldn't help but marvel at the sight of the mortal holding a laspistol pointed at his boss.
The Consul was completely stunned by this turn of events. This artifact had helped his family complete countless assassinations, and he had personally tested it on slaves wearing iron armor. One only needed to heat the black blocks in a fire and insert them into the artifact to unleash a red beam of death. They once had more of the black blocks, but they degraded with use, and now only four remained.
In his experience, no armor, no matter how thick, could resist this deadly light. He had planned to use two or three shots to eliminate one angel. He had three more blocks on his person, a surplus for the task, especially since the three angels before him weren't even wearing helmets. But reality had surpassed the Consul's imagination. The angel had not only dodged the death ray but was now standing before him, moving so fast the Consul hadn't even had time to react.
"A warrior."
Peter looked at the Consul and spoke the single word of praise out of respect, casually sheathing his combat knife. The Consul seemed to register what happened, reaching a hand to his neck. Bright red arterial blood sprayed from his carotid artery, and in the next moment, his vision tumbled as his head fell from his shoulders.
"Aah!" Several women fainted at the sight. One of them was Skaman's own niece, who had been standing beside him. He now deeply regretted bringing the women.
Peter paid it no mind. He looked out at all the assembled nobles and said in the local dialect:
"We are now taking over this world. Who agrees? Who objects?"
Silence. A long silence. No one dared to answer. They didn't even dare to look up at the angel.
"Very good. Then let us proceed to the next step. Those who can speak High Gothic, stand on the left. Those who cannot, stand on the right."
The crowd immediately scrambled to obey. They had seen the Consul's fate and had no desire to be next. After about five minutes, the crowd had separated into two groups. There were five or six hundred people on the left, and over three hundred on the right. Skaman and his brother had just laid his niece down and were now looking at each other, trying to make sense of the situation. Everyone was at a loss, uncertain of what their fate would be.
"This will be the last time I speak to you in the local language."
After saying this, Peter disengaged the mag-locks on his thigh and raised his bolter. The sound of bang-bang-bang erupted as all the warriors opened fire in unison. A dozen bolters roared throughout the hall, instantly turning the three hundred people on the right into corpses.
Peter switched back to High Gothic and answered coldly:
"I don't have time for them to learn. Congratulations. You are now the nobility of this world."
Most of the people present were just covering their ears. They had never anticipated such a sound, feeling as if someone were stirring a needle inside their ears. But among this crowd, one person, a young woman, stood out like a crane among chickens. She stood perfectly still, staring intently at Peter.
The young woman also wore a white chiton. She had golden hair and emerald-green eyes. Her hair was tied into a bun with a ribbon, decorated with peridots and pearls. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, as if... as if in anger. Her eyes were fixed on Peter, never wavering. She just stared at the iron angel, silent.
"What are you looking at?" Peter had actually noticed the girl looking at him earlier, but at the time, others were also occasionally glancing his way, so he hadn't thought anything of it.
But upon hearing Peter's question, the young woman's body trembled. She realized that death was approaching her.
...
"What are you looking at?" Peter's voice now held a trace of anger.
The young woman's father, Skaman, hurried to explain.
"Lord Steel Angel, this is my daughter, Sappho. She... she is deaf." He was terrified that if he were a moment too late, the angel would devour his daughter's brain just as he had his steward's.
"Deaf?" Peter understood. The girl was scared to death, but she didn't dare look away.
Peter strode up the steps, closing in on the young woman. Each step shattered the marble floor tiles, which were the culmination of countless artisans' efforts. The others hastily retreated, leaving only Skaman standing steadfastly by his daughter's side.
Peter came to stand before the girl, gently taking her chin in his fingers and turning her head slightly to the left to observe her outer ear, which looked no different from anyone else's.
"You're lip-reading."
The girl had to tilt her head up to look at him, but her eyes remained fixed on the angel's lips. A pungent odor entered her nostrils. She didn't know it was the smell of cordite from the bolter's discharge; she only felt a burning sensation in her nose and eyes. She endured the discomfort and nodded slightly. The man's fingers felt like a lion's fangs at her throat; the slightest pressure could snuff out her life.
"I recall saying that those who do not speak High Gothic were to stand on the right," Peter said, slowly increasing the pressure of his grip, preparing to crush the life out of this woman who had deceived him.
Feeling the pressure on her jaw increase, the girl trembled and opened her mouth, replying in High Gothic with a strange accent.
"I can, my lord."
Hearing her reply, Peter stopped and released her.
"Interesting. A deaf girl who can not only read and write High Gothic, but even lip-read it. You should know this is not the language of your daily use."
The girl said, trembling, "My mother taught me that familiarity with High Gothic is an essential quality for the city-state's elite."
Her slender fingers touched her chin, feeling as though her bones would have been crushed a moment later.
Peter let out a derisive chuckle and glanced at the pile of dismembered corpses on the right.
"They didn't seem to think so."
His gaze returned to the girl.
"Sappho, I will cure your hearing. You will become my chronicler, and you will address me as the Lord of the Forged Steel. Your father will be the Governor of this planet. Now, inform your father to assemble all citizen-soldiers."
Even though her father was less than a meter away, Peter looked directly into her eyes as he gave the order. In the future, she would grow accustomed to this form of communication.
And so, a towering steel angel and a small young woman stared at each other, a pair of genetically modified brown eyes meeting a pair of pure-gene human green eyes. Finally, Sappho registered the command and gave a slight nod.
The moment he received her answer, the steel angel turned and walked towards the main gate. The other angels followed, their iron boots shattering the marble floor with dull thuds.
"Little Olive, are you alright?" Skaman stepped forward, concerned for his daughter.
But Sappho did not respond to her father. She just stared at the angel's retreating back. The crowds parted before him like water around a steadfast rock in a river.
At the main temple of Nopea, the usually bustling sanctuary was empty. No worshipper dared to disturb the noble angels who had come to pray. Marble columns supported the building's dome, while marble and mosaic tiles adorned the floor. It was a cathedral of the Emperor, or in local terms, a temple. Though its grounds were not vast, it looked quite ancient. The interior was well-maintained, with thriving gardens and constantly flowing fountains, all signs of the priests' diligent care.
At the entrance to the temple, the white-haired and balding Head Priest, Eustace, led a dozen apprentice priests and temple maidens to await the arrival of the steel angels. When he saw that the angels had truly arrived, he hastily led his retinue to their knees.
"The humble and pious servant of the God-Emperor, Eustace, respectfully welcomes the Steel Angels back to the earth from the stars, to guide and protect us."
But Peter simply pointed a finger at the Head Priest.
"You. Come inside with us."
Naturally, the Head Priest did not dare defy the angel's will. He quickly rose and entered the temple with them. As they passed the line of temple maidens, the sight of Anthony's face, half-melted by a meltagun, startled one of the maidens so badly that she dropped the ceremonial ceramic jar she was holding.
The group walked into the temple.
Despite it being daytime and the dome providing ample light, the chandeliers hanging in the corridors were still lit. These pointless lamps burned, letting off a faint blue smoke. Peter took a deep breath. He could smell the olive oil burning in them, mixed with some kind of spice.
"This temple was built under the guidance of the Emperor's servants. Its history is nearly as old as the city-state itself. Under the Emperor's protection, our city has flourished for generations."
Finally, after beginning his familiar introductions and sermons, the Head Priest regained his composure.
"The Emperor said, 'There are no gods.' And His angels will bring retribution to the defiant, and His servants will bring reward to the obedient. He will unite all of humanity under one rule. And His sons..."
The three Astartes ignored the priest's preaching, instead looking at the statues of the Emperor and the Iron Warriors within the temple. Murals on the walls depicted the angels' arrival and the story of the Emperor's servants staying behind to lead the people in building their home.
Anthony looked around and asked, "Captain, are we going to destroy this temple?"
Hearing this, a knot of fear tightened in the Head Priest's gut, as if his manhood had been seized in a vice. He paused his speech.
Peter admired the artworks unhurriedly.
"No need. Maintain the status quo."
Captain Vornaby spoke up, explaining, "Brother Anthony, there is a reason the Lord does this. The hearts of mortals are like a void, and faith is the material that fills it. In fact, even on the ship, we have never explicitly forbidden the worship of the False Emperor. If you're willing to look, you can always find a shrine to the False Emperor on the lower decks. Worshipping the False Emperor is better than worshipping Chaos."
It was a consensus among all the brothers that the Forged Steel Brotherhood did not worship the four Chaos Gods. What Vornaby didn't understand, however, was that Lord Peter didn't even permit his mortal subjects to worship the Ruinous Powers. He had personally witnessed Peter slaughter an entire family on the lower decks who had fallen to the worship of Slaanesh, hanging their bodies in the corridor afterwards as a warning. Peter seemed to harbor an unusual hatred for the worship of Chaos, to the point that he chose to tolerate the cult of the False Emperor.
In Vornaby's view, it was right for the brothers to remain uncorrupted by Chaos, but it didn't really matter what mortals—who were just consumables—believed. Sometimes, a proper faith in Chaos among the mortals could even be beneficial to the warband, such as having Khornate berserkers in battle.
Peter continued to walk and observe the art. Suddenly, he stopped before a statue of an Iron Warrior.
"Who is this?"
Peter's sixth sense told him this was it.
"That is Crassus, one of the Steel Angels. He, along with the great archangel who led him, tore open the sky and descended from the stars to bring us the faith of the God-Emperor."
The Head Priest answered swiftly, afraid the angel might go back on his earlier decision.
Hearing that name, even Anthony grew serious, silently staring at the painted marble statue of the Iron Warrior. Peter reached out, intending to touch the sculpture, but he pulled his hand back just before making contact, as if afraid of damaging it. Anthony stared at the statue with profound meaning, saying nothing.
Vornaby felt excluded. Looking at Peter and Anthony, these two veterans, he suddenly realized they were old soldiers of the Legion who had lived through the Battle of Terra. It was highly likely they knew this Legionary named Crassus.
This ordinary Legionary from the time of the Great Crusade.
...
On the lower decks of the Blackiron, three crewmen pushed a filthy food cart through a perpetually foul-smelling corridor, dumping buckets of protein blocks directly into the feeding chutes of each section. They didn't enjoy this job either. The food was supposed to be transported through pipes, but the system had broken down last month. The damage control department said they would repair it as soon as possible, but the crewmen held little hope. They had said the same thing four years ago when the drainage system in sector B2-68 failed, and it still wasn't fixed. This probably would never be fixed either, and this temporary job would become a permanent one.
Four naval armsmen in flak armor, armed with combat shotguns, stood guard at the front and rear of the detail, puffing on "Hack 50s" laced with nicotine flavor and mild narcotics. The armsman at the front noticed his Hack 50 had burned down to the nub. He was about to reach into his pocket for another, but considering his meager cigarette ration, he decided to endure it.
In sector C3-57, the local boss, "Big Scar," heard the slapping sound of food hitting the trough. He went to look. "Damn it, protein blocks again."
Sachs, a fellow gang member standing nearby, grew even more worried at the sight. About a year ago, the food for these lower-deck slaves had mostly been a nutritious gruel of questionable ingredients, and they occasionally even got corpse-starch. Then, it had changed to protein blocks, and only protein blocks.
Others might not understand, but Sachs, a former mortal auxiliary, knew what this meant. Protein blocks were more precious than corpse-starch. Corpse-starch was mostly a byproduct of promethium production, while the former required grinding up fish, grox, or even fat, oversized insects. Therefore, when the higher-ups could no longer provide corpse-starch and switched to protein blocks, there could only be one reason...
Actually, what frightened Sachs more than the food was the work, or rather, the lack of it. Sachs wasn't dissatisfied with his job; the problem was he didn't have one. Compared to "Big Scar," who was originally just hive scum, Sachs had a much clearer understanding of their perilous situation.
He had once chatted with an old sailor in a bar while on a naval transport and learned some things about voidships. The hierarchy on a starship could be broadly divided into three levels: the upper, middle, and lower decks.
First, the upper decks. This was where the most esteemed individuals on the ship resided. They might be Astartes, the captain, the first mate, the master of the augurs, an Astropath, a Navigator, and so on. These people all had one thing in common: their work was important and irreplaceable. They were crucial to the ship's operation. As such, their treatment was the best: clean quarters, delicious food, personal servants, private baths, and even kitchens.
The middle decks were the domain of the crew and the armsmen. The crew, organized in family clans, were responsible for maintaining the ship's functions. The armsmen maintained order and repelled boarders with their weapons. Whether it was maintaining the ship's water purification systems or hauling macro-cannon shells, they were an indispensable part of the starship. Among them, the families who maintained the engines were the most respected. These people were at least allocated dormitories, sufficient food, and rations of cigarettes and alcohol, and even the right to procreate.
That's right, unauthorized procreation was illegal on a starship. It not only added another mouth to feed but also prevented the mother from performing her duties effectively during pregnancy. But the old sailor had said that this rule really only applied to the people on the middle decks; the upper and lower decks didn't much care for it.
The lower decks. For most of the people here, their work was not urgent, not important, and required no special skills. Some didn't even have the right to work at all. When a boarding action occurred, no matter how many people died here, it wouldn't attract the attention of the upper echelons. After all, the population here was easily replenished. It was like a small hive city, everything in disarray. Those with jobs could at least expect the armsmen to maintain some semblance of order. For those without jobs, "the Emperor protects!" What the starship provided them was entirely at the mercy of the lords on the upper decks. They were given just enough to survive, and how they did so was their own business.
At the time, Sachs had boasted to the old sailor, "Then I'll just aim for the top part of the starship when I'm fighting." This had only earned him the old sailor's merciless laughter. It turned out that the "upper, middle, and lower" decks on a starship were not physical concepts. The upper decks could very well be located below the lower decks; it was more a reference to the status of the inhabitants.
In general, the upper decks were often located in the most central and heavily fortified areas of the starship to protect the important crew members and cargo. The lower decks were usually arranged on the outer or less defended parts of the ship. They were often the first to be hit, and it didn't matter if some of the inhabitants and cargo were lost.
Of course, there was another group of beings that existed outside these three tiers: the servitors. They were not even recognized as human and were therefore exempt from the class system.
It was all quite easy to understand, really. The more important and irreplaceable your job was, the better your treatment. In other words, those without jobs were a liability to the ship, a burden that only consumed without producing. And such a burden could be discarded at any time.
"Sigh..."
Sachs couldn't help but sigh. Maybe next month, he would be one of the protein blocks tumbling out of the feeding chute into someone else's trough. Sachs looked at "Big Scar," surprised that he seemed quite content with his life. In his own words, he had just been a small-time gangster before, but now he was in charge of a hundred people.
If Sachs had a gun right now, he would press it to "Big Scar's" forehead and scream, "Of course you're in charge of a hundred people, you son of a bitch, but we don't even have the right to leave this damn compartment because we don't have any fucking jobs!" But he didn't have a gun, and he didn't dare fight "Big Scar." The hive scum's brain might be full of shit, but he was undeniably skilled in close-quarters combat.
Suddenly, the green indicator light at the entrance lit up. With the grinding noise of machinery, the door opened.
The bright light from the corridor flooded in, and the hundred or so people inside instinctively raised their hands to shield their eyes. The room was so dark that they couldn't adjust to the sudden glare. A hundred men and women in ragged clothes huddled in the corners of the compartment, while a few of the more powerfully built men occupied most of the space.
Two armed armsmen stood at the entrance. One of them was holding a dataslate, seemingly searching for something.
"Is Sachs still around? Captain Sachs?"
Seeing no response, the armsman looked at his companion.
"Eaten?"
"Looks like it."
"Next one, then."
The armsman was calling his name! Seeing this sudden change, Sachs didn't know whether to answer or not. Maybe it was better to just stay silent. But just as the armsman was about to close the door, he decided to take a chance.
"Me, me, me, I'm Sachs."
Captain Sachs hurried to the door and said, "I am Sachs."
Seeing that someone had finally responded, the armsman who had spoken first put away his dataslate and took out a pair of mag-cuffs, snapping them directly onto Sachs's wrists.
The moment the cuffs were on, Sachs regretted it.
"Brothers, if I said I'm not Sachs, would you believe me?"
A rifle butt slammed squarely into Sachs's face.
"You're asking for a beating, you little shit."