At the same time, inside the Ecclesiarchy Cathedral of the Brevis Hive.
In the Bishop's private study, Bishop Goodwin reclined in a wide armchair. He wore loose, informal vestments, devoid of his heavy miter or sacred staff, maintaining a languid posture. In his hand, he cradled a clay pot filled with his private reserve of fruit wine—low in alcohol but rich in aroma.
He took a blissful sip and squinted, his face radiating contentment. This was the most comfortable period he had experienced in his three hundred years of tenure. A man named Kyrie Von Raynor had arrived—a God-Chosen personally certified by the Emperor, possessed of peerless martial prowess, who slaughtered Greenskins like chickens. In a short time, he had stabilized the situation in the Hive. Goodwin had even begun to contemplate his retirement.
As he was indulging in these pleasant thoughts, the wooden door to the study was violently pushed open. Goodwin looked up to see Raynor walking in with an expression so grim it looked as if he were attending a funeral; the atmospheric pressure around him was terrifyingly low.
Goodwin was instantly amused and couldn't help but tease, "Oh? Who provoked our great hero? Come, come, sit down and have a drink."
Raynor ignored the banter and walked straight to the desk without slowing down, getting right to the point: "Lord Goodwin, I have urgent matters to discuss!"
He looked up at Goodwin. In the next second, Raynor froze.
Goodwin's eyes were blue. They were not the signature pure white "Holy Pupils" of an Ecclesiarchy Bishop!
The bolt pistol at Raynor's waist was drawn in a flash, its pitch-black muzzle pointing directly at Goodwin's forehead. Killing intent surged in his purple eyes. "Heretic! Where have you taken Lord Goodwin?!"
The air froze instantly. Goodwin was stunned for half a second before he realized what was happening and burst into laughter. He laughed so hard he nearly dropped his wine pot.
"Hahaha! Don't be so excited, little Kyrie! Calm down!" He hurriedly set the pot aside and rubbed his eyelids gently. When he looked up again, the blue eyes were gone, replaced by the familiar pure white Holy Pupils.
"That just now was what my eyes actually look like," Goodwin pointed at his pupils, still unable to stop laughing. "The white ones are just contact lenses I wear to intimidate those nobles. If I don't use some gimmicks, how am I supposed to suppress those lawless bastards?"
Raynor: "..."
Seeing that Raynor still looked skeptical, Goodwin activated his "Eye of Purity." The familiar, uncomfortable sensation of being stripped bare washed over Raynor. He sheathed his bolt pistol and took a deep breath, his voice tinged with helplessness. "Lord Goodwin, you..."
"Oh, you'll get used to it," Goodwin waved his hand and took another sip from the pot. "Tell me, what is it that could make our God of War this angry?"
Raynor composed himself and laid out his plan: "I want to launch a 'Purification Crusade' against the Greenskins of Dolido in the name of the Ecclesiarchy. When that time comes, all participating nobles will be required to make 'voluntary contributions'—money, grain, supplies, manpower. The more, the better."
Goodwin understood halfway through the explanation. He smiled, his expression carrying a hint of schadenfreude. "Alright, I'll help you with this. After all, if we don't scrape the money from those parasites, it'll just be squandered by them. Better to use it to purify heretics for the Emperor."
A glint of shrewd, calculated cunning flashed in his eyes as he lowered his voice to remind Raynor: "However, let me warn you—scrape all you want, but don't scrape too hard. Even a cornered dog will jump a wall. If you push them to a dead end, it might breed disaster."
Raynor nodded. "I know my limits."
"Good." Goodwin raised his wine pot toward Raynor, his pure white pupils shining with the light of faith. "Then in the name of the Emperor, let us launch a Purification Crusade!!!"
Raynor looked at him, his voice firm: "For the Emperor!"
The next morning, as the first rays of dawn touched the Upper Hive, the entire noble circle was sent into a massive upheaval. Every noble of standing, without exception, received two invitation letters.
One came from the Governor's Mansion. A gold-embossed envelope bearing the bronze crest of the Governor's Scepter, its wax seal solemn and cold, representing the highest secular power in Brevis.
The other came from the Ecclesiarchy Cathedral. A plain white envelope bearing the golden seal of the Emperor's Icon, soaked in holy oil and fragrant with incense, representing the highest divine authority beneath the Emperor.
The two invitations were made of different materials and bore different seals, yet their content was nearly identical: You are cordially invited to the Banquet Hall of the Governor's Mansion to discuss the grand plan for the 'Purification Crusade,' to fight together for the Emperor and purify the Greenskin heretics.
The only difference was the scheduled time. Raynor had divided the nobles into several batches, inviting and interviewing them in groups. Even a fool could see that this wasn't an invitation; it was a summons. It was an ultimatum issued jointly by secular and divine authority.
Panic spread like a plague through every noble estate in the Upper Hive. No one wanted to attend. The scene from the Council Hall the previous day had already reached every corner of the Upper Hive—the Loren patriarch's breakdown, Karadogon's indifference, and Raynor pouring out his wine and walking out. It haunted every noble like a nightmare. They all knew that attending meant they would have to obediently hand over their family fortunes.
As a result, some began to seek any possible way to escape.
The Loren estate was in a state of chaos. The patriarch had not slept all night, his eyes bloodshot. The fawning and testing from the Council Hall were gone, replaced only by terror. "Quick! Prepare the car!" he roared at his servants. "I'm leaving the Upper Hive to lie low in the Under-Hive!"
The servants dared not delay and immediately prepared the transport. However, that morning, the head servant came running back, scrambling and pale-faced. "Master! We can't! The Upper Hive entrances have been locked down! The Governor's Mansion has ordered all transports to cease departures for security audits. No one is allowed to leave!"
The Loren patriarch felt his vision go dark and nearly collapsed. Running away was not an option.
Others thought of faking an illness. A minor noble lay in bed, wrapped in thick quilts, pretending to have a persistent high fever. He sent a servant to fetch a physician, hoping to use this to decline the invitation. But just as the servant reached the door, he saw two Battle Sisters in black power armor standing silently outside.
They wore kind smiles, their voices gentle yet filled with an undeniable power: "Is the Lord unwell? Perfect. The Cathedral has the best physicians. We shall escort you there for treatment."
The bolt pistols at the Battle Sisters' waists were polished to a mirror shine, glinting coldly. The noble's face turned deathly pale, as if he had truly fallen gravely ill.
Still others tried to hide in the estates of other nobles, hoping to find safety in numbers. But as soon as they stepped out of their own gates, they saw the streets of the Upper Hive flooded with patrols wearing Governor's Mansion uniforms. They were clad in bright armor, holding shock mauls, inspecting every pedestrian and every vehicle.
Overnight, the entire Upper Hive had been transformed into a massive, airtight cage.
What drove the nobles to even deeper despair was that the first batch of invited guests was being "escorted" to the door by Ecclesiarchy priests. The priests wore pristine holy robes and held the Emperor's Scriptures, their faces adorned with gentle, merciful smiles. Their tone was kind: "My Lord, the Governor and the Bishop are waiting. Come with me, and do not fail the Emperor's will."
To the nobles, that smile was more terrifying than a summons from the Grim Reaper. No one dared to refuse their invitation.