A few days later, the day of Valen’s banquet arrived.
Huron, accompanied by Corian and his First Company Terminators, rode in a Rhino armored personnel carrier toward the Watt family estate located in the Spire.
Along the way, Corian was uncharacteristically quiet.
He wore a brand-new suit of Cataphractii Terminator armor, sitting upright in his seat with both hands gripping the hilt of his power sword.
The only sound inside the vehicle was the faint hum of the Terminator’s servo-motors.
“Chapter Master,” Corian suddenly spoke.
“I don’t like this banquet.”
Huron leaned back in his seat, resting with his eyes closed.
“I don’t like it either.”
Corian blinked.
“Then why are we attending?”
“Because I don’t want to start the killing immediately.
I hope these people can be sensible.”
This had always been his thought process: to execute without teaching is tyranny; to demand success without warning is cruelty.
Just as he had pre-announced the new Lex and had the registrars offer warnings first, he wanted to give these nobles a chance.
What if they actually turned out to be sensible?
After all, Warhammer wasn’t entirely devoid of those legendary, dutiful nobles of fantasy.
Corian remained silent for a while.
“Understood.
I will remain vigilant.”
The Rhino passed through the Upper Hive checkpoints and slowly entered the Spire.
The air here was completely different from the Lower Hive.
There was no acrid industrial exhaust or the stench of rot, only the scent of synthetic flowers and light incense.
On both sides of the wide streets, noble servants dressed in opulent finery bowed low, their eyes filled with awe and curiosity.
They rarely had the chance to see the legendary Angels of the Emperor so up close.
The Watt family estate was situated at the highest point of the Spire—a gargantuan structure blending Gothic spires with Baroque complexity.
The outer walls were inlaid with gold leaf and stained glass, shimmering brilliantly under the hive’s lights.
The main gates were thrown open, and Valen Watt stood there personally to receive them.
He wore a suit of brilliant gold, his chest covered in sashes and medals, looking every bit like a nouveau riche socialite.
However, the perfectly measured humble smile on his face indicated that this was indeed the mainstream fashion of the Imperium of Man.
“Lord Chapter Master.” He bowed deeply.
“Thank you for coming.”
Huron stepped out of the Rhino, followed closely by Corian and four veteran Terminators.
The rest of the First Company remained in the Rhino on standby.
“Governor Valen.” Huron gave him a playful look.
“I heard you invited me here to discuss how to handle those unrestful nobles?”
“Indeed.” Valen’s expression became solemn.
“They do not understand the greatness of the God-Emperor, nor do they know the power of His Angels.
They are still attempting to put up a futile resistance.”
If Huron hadn’t seen the reports, he would have thought the man was a devout follower of the Ecclesiarchy based on his expression and words alone.
As he spoke, Valen led Huron into the banquet hall.
The hall was located on the top floor of the estate.
The massive vaulted ceiling was covered in murals depicting the Emperor’s ascension, and the walls were lined with portraits of generations of the Watt family patriarchs.
The long dining table was covered in snow-white cloth, set with silver utensils and crystal goblets.
Once they were seated, Valen signaled the servants to begin serving the courses.
He then began to drone on incessantly about how obedient he was, how much effort he had put into stalling the other nobles, and other such nonsense.
Huron let his mind wander, letting Valen’s words go in one ear and out the other.
It wasn’t until the servants brought out the dishes that Huron felt a spark of interest.
Livestock such as pigs, cattle, sheep, and chickens—descended from Terran stock and raised in sealed, pure natural ecosystems—combined with precious spices grown in similar environments, made Huron’s mouth water.
As a typical Astartes Chapter, the only merit the Astral Claws had regarding food was “solid ingredients.” Flavor and texture were never part of the equation.
Even the alien fruits he had sneaked in his lounge earlier were just gifts Odinsen had accepted while dealing with the nobles.
Now, while these dishes inherited the British-style “virtue” of ruining perfectly good ingredients, they were at least natural foods covered in spices.
To Huron, who usually had to gnaw on “bricks,” this was a gourmet feast.
He abandoned all noble etiquette.
The moment the dishes were served, he began to eat.
Pepper, chili, salt, star anise, sour, sweet, bitter…
a massive array of flavors were mixed together.
An ordinary person would likely have been nauseated by the intensity, but for Huron, it was just right.
His post-human organs allowed him to distinguish every single flavor, experiencing each one without interference from the others.
He could even mentally rearrange the flavors into different combinations, which only made him eat faster.
Seeing this, Valen’s eye twitched slightly.
He took it as a show of dominance from Huron, but he maintained his smile.
“I wonder what the Chapter Master thinks of my proposal?”
Huron stabbed a piece of steak and shoved it into his mouth, speaking muffledly, “Fine.
Once we’ve cleared out those nobles, we go seventy-thirty.
The wealth and luxury goods go to you; the factories and machinery belong to me.”
Valen finally breathed a sigh of relief.
Never mind thirty percent—even if there were none, the market share left behind by those bastards would be enough to make the Watt family fabulously wealthy.
It seemed the Astral Claws had long been dissatisfied with the nobility.
It was a good thing he had jumped ship early; otherwise, he would have been the one whose family was mysteriously wiped out in the dark.
At the thought of the terrified expressions his old rivals would have, Valen felt a sense of profound satisfaction.
Those idiots were either trying to retaliate against the Astral Claws because their interests were damaged, or they thought they were indispensable to the Chapter because of their commercial agreements and tried to maintain the status quo.
They were all morons.
Taking advantage of the excellent atmosphere, Valen signaled the servants to bring out the gift he had prepared to further deepen his relationship with Huron.
He smiled at Huron.
“I heard that the local Ecclesiarchy on Badab actually had a conflict with you, my lord.
Truly foolish.
They have no idea what an Angel of the God-Emperor truly represents.”
Huron looked up, actually pausing his knife and fork.
“Oh?
Are you planning to turn against the Ecclesiarchy?”
“No, no, no.” Valen quickly denied it.
“I simply look down on those local bumpkins on Badab.
A bunch of failures who think they’re the High Ecclesiarchy of Terra.
They’re seeking their own deaths.”
Right then, several maids carrying a massive, covered platter slowly walked in.
The platter was adorned with depictions of the God-Emperor painted by masters; it was a work of art in itself.
Huron suddenly froze.
His extraordinary olfactory senses, courtesy of his post-human biology, picked up a scent.
The smell of roasted human.
Valen stood up and personally lifted the cover, revealing the contents within.
It was a Sister of Battle, dressed in the vestments of the Ecclesiarchy.