Chapter 187: The Gilded Title
The Purgation of the Spire was complete. The smoke from the chemical furnaces had finally cleared, leaving behind a skyline that looked deceptively peaceful.
Kian Voss, along with his twenty men, Reno, and the Canon-Preceptor, were escorted through the pristine, marble-lined halls of the Spire Cathedral.
The main nave was a dizzying display of Imperial opulence. The central wall was dominated by a mosaic of the Emperor and his nine Primarchs, their faces rendered in gemstones and gold leaf. Every other available surface was covered in the portraits of Living Saints, their eyes following Kian with an unsettling, divine judgment.
Kian and his "Underhive-Rat" squad were ushered into the center of the nave.
This wasn't a private ceremony. It was a political event. General Zeppelin stood near the altar, looking every bit the warlord of the skies. The Governor's Steward hovered in the shadows, his expression a carefully rehearsed blank slate. Noble families—the "Old Blood" of the Spire—stood in the gallery, whispering behind feathered fans.
They weren't here for Kian's sake. They were here because the Spire was effectively an empty real-estate market. With 100 million dead, the "order of succession" for assets, hab-units, and industrial charters had to be rewritten. Kian's investiture was just the "appetizer" before the real business of carving up the corpse of the Spire began.
The ceremony proceeded in three distinct phases: Ecclesiastic, Military, and Governmental.
First, the Church. The Planetary Bishop ascended the high altar, his voice amplified by a holy-vox array. He spent ten agonizing minutes reciting the litanies of Kian's "purgation."
"In the name of the Master of Mankind, we grant the warrior Kian Voss the title of 'Holy Purgator' and the instrument of his office!"
Two Acolytes stepped forward, carrying a bundle wrapped in heavy, blessed silk. They presented a long, cross-hilted blade. Kian unwrapped it. It was a Power Sword.
He clicked the stud on the hilt. VROOOOM. A vibrant, azure field of disruptive energy enveloped the blade. It was a weapon of pure physics, designed to vibrate at a molecular frequency that could shear through plasteel armor as if it were parchment.
Kian felt the weight of the sword in his hand—it was balanced perfectly, a high-tier relic that would make his "audit" of the chemical gangs much simpler. He gave a nod to the Canon-Preceptor, who watched from the gallery with a satisfied, knowing look. The weapon was a gift from the Bishop's private cache.
"By the Emperor's Will," the Bishop continued, "I grant you the title of 'Pious Crusader.'"
The Bishop produced a small, intricate seal—a specialized tattoo-rig. It wasn't for ink; it injected a permanent, non-metabolic pigment beneath the dermis. The design was a stylized skull crossed with a sword, the mark of a sanctioned warrior of the Faith.
"I prefer my skin as is," Kian said, trying to lean away.
"The mark is non-negotiable," the Bishop smiled, his eyes cold. "It is the symbol of your station."
Kian gritted his teeth and leaned his neck forward. The rig buzzed, and within seconds, the black mark of the Crusader was branded behind his left ear. It was permanent, and it would serve as an Imperial passport in every church across the galaxy.
Next was the Military Tithe. General Zeppelin stepped forward, his medals rattling.
"In the name of the Munitorum, Corporal Kian Voss is hereby awarded the Silver Laurel of Terra and promoted to the rank of Lieutenant."
Kian felt the weight of the silver pips on his collar. Lieutenant. He was officially on par with Rudolphson now.
Finally, the Governor's Steward stepped up, his expression strained. He handed Kian a heavy, wax-sealed parchment.
"His Excellency, the Planetary Governor, grants you the Barony of the Northern Conduit."
The crowd in the gallery gasped. A Barony? A title of real power?
The scroll detailed the spoils:
The Spire-Estate: A private manor overlooking the lower sectors.
The Guard-Charter: The right to maintain a private militia of two hundred armed men.
The Tax-Exempt Status: Exemption on all brewery-related production.
The Noble's Privilege: The right to attend Spire Council meetings, wear the Signet of the Peerage, and—most importantly—the right to cast a vote in the Governor's inner circle.
Kian looked at the paper, then at the Steward. He had come to the Spire to scavenge a few Lasguns, and he was walking out as a Baron.
He tucked the Baronial seal into his bag, bowed to the Bishop, and stepped down from the altar. As he did, he caught the eye of the Steward.
"You look like you're in pain, friend," Kian whispered. "Is the thought of a 'Sump-Rat' having a vote in your Council bothering you?"
The Steward's face twitched. "The Governor has his reasons, Baron. We simply follow the ledger."
Kian let out a sharp, cynical laugh.
The game is rigged, the deck is marked, and the house always wins, he thought. But if you're the one holding the cards, who cares about the rules?
"Well then," Kian said, tapping his new Sergeant-pips. "Since I have a seat at the table, I expect to be served the best wine the Spire has to offer."
☆☆☆
-> 20 Advanced chapters Now Available on Patreon!!
-> https://www.pat-reon.co-m/c/Inkshaper
(Just remove the hyphen (-) to access patreon normally)
If you like this novel please consider leaving a review that's help the story a lot Thank you