A few days later, the day of Valen’s banquet arrived.
Huron, along with Corian and his company of Terminators, rode in a Rhino armoured carrier towards the Watt family’s noble manse at the top of the spire.
Throughout the journey, Corian was unusually quiet.
He wore a brand-new Indomitus Terminator suit, sat upright in his seat, his hands gripping the hilt of his power sword tightly.
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, closing his eyes to rest.
“I don’t like it either.”
Corian paused.
“Then why are you going?”
“Because I don’t want to start killing outright.
I hope these people will realize the situation.”
This had always been his belief: to punish without teaching is cruelty.
Just as he had announced the new code in advance and had the registrars give them a heads-up, he also wanted to give these nobles a chance.
What if these people suddenly became pragmatic?
Right?
The Imperium isn’t without idealistically loyal nobles.
Corian was silent for a moment.
“Understood.
I’ll remain vigilant.”
The Rhino passed through the Upper Hive checkpoint and slowly entered the spire area.
The air here was completely different from that of the Lower Hive; there were no pungent industrial fumes or rotting stench, only the scent of artificially synthesized flowers and faint incense.
On both sides of the wide streets, noble servants in magnificent attire bowed their heads, their eyes filled with awe and curiosity.
They rarely saw the legendary Angels of the Emperor so close.
The Watt family mansion, perched atop the highest point of the spire, was a colossal structure blending Gothic spires with intricate Baroque decorations.
Its exterior walls were inlaid with gold leaf and stained glass, shimmering brilliantly under the lights of the Hive City.
The mansion gates were open, and Valen Watt himself stood at the entrance to greet them.
He was dressed in a gleaming gold robe, his chest adorned with sashes and medals, resembling a nouveau riche.
But the perfectly measured, respectful smile on his face revealed that this was the mainstream attire of the Imperium.
“Chapter Master,” he bowed, “thank you for coming.”
Huron stepped out of the Rhino, followed by Corian and four veteran Terminators, while the rest of the company remained inside, awaiting orders.
“Former Governor Valen,” he glanced at Valen with a hint of amusement, “I heard you invited me here to discuss how to deal with those restless nobles?”
“Indeed,” Valen replied solemnly.
“They don’t understand the greatness of the Emperor, nor the power of the Angels, and are still trying to put up a stubborn resistance.”
If he hadn’t read the relevant materials, Huron would have thought he was a Priest of the Ecclesiarchy just by his expression and words.
Valen led Huron into the banquet hall as he spoke.
The banquet hall was located on the top floor of the mansion.
The massive vaulted ceiling was covered with murals depicting the Emperor’s ascension, and the walls were adorned with portraits of successive Watt family patriarchs.
Long dining tables were covered with snow-white tablecloths, set with silver cutlery and crystal glasses.
After everyone was seated, Valen gestured to the servants to begin serving the dishes.
He then launched into a long, rambling monologue to Huron about how honest he was, how much effort he’d put into holding off the other nobles — all this empty talk.
Huron, however, was lost in thought, his mind wandering, letting Valen’s words go in one ear and out the other.
It wasn’t until the servants brought the food that Huron became interested.
The animals — pigs, cattle, sheep, and chickens — raised in a pristine, secluded natural ecosystem, originating from Terra, combined with precious spices grown in the same environment, made Huron’s mouth water.
As a typical Astartes Chapter, the only redeeming quality of their food was its “high-quality ingredients”; taste and texture were secondary considerations.
Even the xenos fruit he’d sneaked a bite of in the lounge earlier was a gift Odinson had received while dealing with the nobles.
While these dishes inherited the “advantage” of Imperial high cuisine’s haphazard use of spices, they were at least natural foods sprinkled with spices, making them a delicacy for Huron, who could only afford to eat corpse-starch.
He disregarded aristocratic etiquette and began eating as soon as the dishes were served.
Pepper, chili, salt, star anise, sour, sweet, bitter…
a whole host of flavours mixed together.
An ordinary person would probably be nauseated by the smell, but for Huron, it was just right.
His superhuman physiology allowed him to distinguish each flavour precisely, savouring it without being distracted by others, and even arranging different flavours in combinations.
This naturally accelerated his eating pace.
Valen’s eyes twitched slightly, taking this as Huron’s way of putting him in a difficult position, but he still managed a forced smile: “What does the Chapter Master think of my proposal?”
Huron shoved a piece of steak into his mouth, mumbling, “Sure, after we’ve dealt with those nobles, we’ll split it 70/30.
The valuables and luxury goods are yours, the factories and machinery are mine.”
Valen breathed a sigh of relief.
Even without 30%, the share vacated after those bastards died would be enough to make the Watt family rich.
It seemed the Astral Claws had long been dissatisfied with the nobles.
Luckily, he jumped ship quickly; otherwise, he would have been the one unwittingly wiped out.
The thought of the terrified expressions on his old rivals’ faces filled Valen with satisfaction.
Those idiots were either seeking revenge against the Astral Claws Chapter because of their own losses, or they felt indispensable to the Chapter because of numerous business agreements they had signed with them, and were trying to maintain the status quo.
They were all incredibly stupid.
Taking advantage of the pleasant atmosphere, Valen signaled his servants to bring out the gifts he had prepared earlier, hoping to strengthen his relationship with Huron.
He smiled at Huron and said, “I heard that the Badab Ecclesiarchy actually clashed with Your Excellency in the Lower Hive.
Utterly foolish!
They have no idea what the Emperor’s Angels are.”
Huron was somewhat surprised, even stopping his knife and fork.
“What, you want to move against the Ecclesiarchy?”
“No, no, no,” Valen quickly denied.
“I just look down on those bumpkins from Badab.
A bunch of useless trash, acting like they’re the Ecclesiarchy of Terra.
They’re utterly courting death.”
Just then, several maids slowly approached, carrying a huge, covered platter.
The platter’s cover was painted with images of the Emperor by a master artist; it was practically a work of art.
Huron suddenly froze.
His superhuman sense of smell allowed him to detect a scent.
The smell of roasted human flesh.
Valen stood up and personally lifted the lid, revealing its contents.
A Sister of the Ecclesiarchy, dressed in the robes of the Adepta Sororitas.