The anti-aircraft missiles launched with roars that shook the upper hive.
They rose from hidden positions atop the majestic buildings, streaking into the sky on pillars of white smoke. Each missile was easily three meters long, packed with enough explosive payload to vaporize a tank. Targeting systems locked onto the gold-painted hovercraft with electronic certainty, tracking solutions calculated and recalculated a thousand times per second.
The trails they drew were clearly visible against the blue sky.
White contrails carved through the air in elegant arcs, constantly adjusting as targeting computers updated their predictions. The missiles tracked the floating car with its shiny golden shell, hungry for contact, programmed for destruction.
The hovercraft controlled by David suddenly changed direction in mid-air.
One moment it was climbing steadily, ascending toward the upper hive's landing platforms. The next, it banked hard left with acceleration that would have liquefied an unaugmented pilot. The anti-gravity engines screamed as they redirected thrust vectors, fighting momentum and inertia with exotic physics.
David flew with a kind of skill that ordinary mortals simply couldn't perform.
His processing speed was measured in microseconds. He saw the missile trajectories before they fully formed, read the attack patterns in the way the weapons moved, calculated optimal evasion vectors while simultaneously piloting and monitoring a dozen other systems. The hovercraft dodged with flexibility that seemed impossible for something its size, rolling and weaving through three-dimensional space like a combat aircraft instead of a luxury transport.
Inside the suspended speed car, the effects were immediate and violent.
Nolan, wearing his Six-Armed Iron Cavalry Terminator, kept his expression calm.
The Uru-gold skeleton of his armor absorbed the G-forces, hydraulic dampeners and internal gyroscopes keeping his body stable even as the vehicle pitched and yawed around him. His enhanced Primarch physiology barely registered the acceleration. He could have been sitting still for all the strain showed on his bronze-skinned face.
But veteran Hassan and psyker Lucy were a different story.
Their faces changed rapidly, cycling through increasingly pale shades of green and gray. Hassan's jaw clenched so hard his teeth ground together, fighting the nausea rising in his throat. Lucy's single visible eye had gone wide and glassy, her breathing shallow and rapid. Both looked like they would faint completely in the next second.
Even so, the two people did not make any noise.
No screams. No complaints. They bit back the bile rising in their throats and tried not to cause any trouble to Nolan and the others. Soldiers, even expendable convicts, knew when to suffer in silence.
BOOM BOOM BOOM.
The anti-aircraft missiles continued to turn, tracking the hovercraft's evasive maneuvers.
Their guidance systems struggled to keep up with David's inhuman piloting. Course corrections became increasingly extreme, thrusters firing in bursts, the missiles' trajectories growing more and more erratic as they pushed past their design specifications.
Then physics caught up with them.
Two missiles, both pursuing the same target from different angles, both overcorrecting simultaneously, intersected at the same point in space. They collided with each other before their proximity fuses could activate, meeting in a catastrophic mutual impact.
The explosion was brilliant.
A expanding fireball of orange and red, shockwaves rippling outward in perfect spheres. Shrapnel sprayed in all directions, glowing fragments of missile casing tumbling through the air. The blast lit up the sky like a miniature sun, briefly washing out all other colors.
Three more missiles flew into the debris cloud and detonated sympathetically.
The explosions cascaded, each one triggering the next, until the entire salvo had been consumed in a chain reaction of fire and fury that painted the upper hive in hellish light.
David took advantage of the moment.
More ground defense turrets were rotating, bringing their firing angles to bear on the hovercraft's new position. Targeting lasers painted the golden hull with crimson points of light. Heavy bolters tracked its movement, barrels spinning up to firing speed.
The ancient Man of Iron didn't give them the chance.
He drove the hovercraft into a steep dive, dropping altitude so fast that momentum briefly overcame the anti-gravity field. The vehicle swooped down between the buildings on the ground, using the architecture as cover, weaving through gaps between soaring spires and flying buttresses.
The maneuver avoided the incoming anti-aircraft fire.
Las-bolts screamed past overhead, missing by meters as the hovercraft ducked below their trajectory. Heavy bolter rounds chewed through empty air where the vehicle had been a heartbeat before. The defensive positions lost their firing solutions as their target vanished into the urban terrain.
In an instant, the floating speed car dove to its limit.
The golden shell flashed constantly with reflected sunlight, a strobe effect created by passing between shadow and light at high speed. The vehicle's nose pointed almost straight down, acceleration adding to the dive's velocity, the ground rushing up to meet them with terrifying speed.
David showed no hesitation.
He picked a building, assessed its structure in milliseconds, calculated impact points and structural weaknesses, and aimed the hovercraft directly at it. The target was luxurious and magnificent in its exterior design, all white stone and golden decorative elements, clearly important to someone powerful.
Perfect.
The hovercraft rushed into it like a meteor strike.
Glass exploded outward in glittering cascades.
Doors and windows shattered simultaneously, thousands of fragments of colorful stained glass falling apart in slow-motion beauty. Each piece caught the light differently, creating a rainbow spray of debris. The crash was accompanied by enormous sound, breaking glass mixing with tearing metal and splintering wood frames.
The hovercraft showed no signs of slowing down.
It punched through the building's outer wall and immediately began rubbing against the smooth floor inside. The golden hull shrieked as it made contact with polished marble, friction heating the metal to glowing temperatures. Sparks sprayed in continuous streams as the vehicle launched a rampage into the wide space inside the building.
The interior was revealed in flashes as the hovercraft tumbled.
High vaulted ceilings supported by gothic columns. Rows of wooden pews arranged in precise lines. Devotional banners hanging from the walls, each bearing the golden Aquila. Incense burners swinging from chains, trailing smoke. And at the far end, a massive statue of the Emperor rising ten meters tall, arms outstretched in benediction.
A church.
They'd crashed into a church during some kind of prayer activity.
The nobles of the hive city were everywhere.
All dressed in luxurious clothes, each outfit worth more than the average worker would earn in years. Fine silks and imported fabrics. Jewelry that glittered with precious stones. Makeup applied with expert precision. Every person perfectly groomed, perfectly presented, displaying wealth and status through their very appearance.
Now they ran toward nearby areas in panic, trying to hide.
Screams filled the air, high-pitched and terrified. Bodies pushed against bodies as everyone tried to flee simultaneously. The organized prayer gathering devolved into chaos as self-preservation overrode social decorum. The crush was dangerous, people stumbling, falling, scrambling over each other in their haste.
But their panic made way for the hovering speed car.
The vehicle slid across the marble floor in a decelerating skid, momentum bleeding off through friction and air resistance. It carved a path through the church's interior, scattering pews like kindling, crushing devotional candles beneath its hull.
Soon after, the golden shell covered with miserable scratches slowly stopped.
The hovercraft came to rest directly in front of the ten-meter-tall Emperor statue, its nose pointing at the divine figure like an accusation. The anti-gravity engines whined down from emergency power to idle, heat radiating from overloaded components.
The vehicle's final position also caused an immediate casualty.
An elderly cardinal who'd been preaching in front of a podium nearby collapsed to the ground with a panicked expression. His legs simply gave out, age and terror combining to rob him of the strength to stand. He fell backwards onto his robes, limbs sprawling, breath coming in gasping wheezes.
Even the white hat that marked his rank tumbled from his head.
It rolled across the marble floor and came to rest meters away. The cardinal didn't even try to retrieve it, too shocked to care about the symbol of his office lying in the dust.
Metal twisted with sounds like tortured animals.
One side door of the suspended flying car tore free from its hinges with tremendous force. David had applied precise leverage from inside, calculated exactly where the structural weaknesses lay after impact damage, and simply ripped the door off rather than waste time with the normal opening mechanism.
The door flew outward toward the surrounding ground.
It tumbled end over end, a rectangular slab of metal and broken glass, before slamming to the marble floor with a deafening crash. The impact sent cracks spiderwebbing across the polished stone, chips of rock scattering in all directions.
The sound immediately caused a wave of low exclamations from the surrounding nobles.
Gasps and muttered prayers. Someone calling for the arbites. Others invoking the Emperor's protection. The noise built and built, hundreds of voices creating a susurrus of shock and awe.
The next second, Nolan emerged.
He wore his green Six-Armed Iron Cavalry Terminator, three meters of ceramite steel and Uru-gold alloy that barely fit through the hovercraft's enlarged doorway. He held the twisted door frame in one massive hand and used it for leverage, pulling his tall figure slowly out from inside the cramped vehicle.
His appearance completely triggered heated discussion among the hive nobles.
"Ah, it's an Emperor's Angel!"
"Shh... look at the painting on the armor, it might be a heretic!"
"Where is the judge? Where is the judge? Come and save him!"
"Strange Astartes! Do you know your guilt? You dare to disturb the Emperor's..."
"Uh... what is that?!"
The voices overlapped, creating a cacophony of conflicting reactions. Awe mixed with suspicion. Faith competed with fear. Some saw salvation. Others saw threat. The nobles couldn't agree on what they were witnessing, only that it was unprecedented.
Nolan, wearing his metal helmet, did not pay attention to the noisy comments.
He suddenly turned the sight of his eyepiece, focusing on something that made his enhanced senses scream warnings. The Emperor statue in front of him was rising with slight psychic energy fluctuations!
Barely perceptible. Subtle enough that unaugmented humans would never notice. But to someone carrying the Emperor's blood in his veins, someone with Primarch genetics attuned to the Warp, it was unmistakable.
The statue was... active.
The next second, Nolan stepped forward onto the smooth floor with his magnetic boots.
Golden psychic energy erupted around him.
It happened without warning, without any conscious invocation on Nolan's part. The energy simply manifested, flowing from the statue, from the accumulated faith of billions focused through this sacred space, drawn to the Primarch genetics in Nolan's biology like iron to a magnet.
His whole person was completely enveloped by the radiance.
It poured over his armor in waves of golden light, so bright it hurt to look at directly. The glow outlined every plate, every servo joint, every weapon mounted on his massive frame. He stood like a beacon, a pillar of divine fire made manifest in the physical world.
A pair of golden psychic wings formed.
They spread from Nolan's back, vast and ethereal, each feather crafted from pure Warp energy stabilized by the Emperor's will. The wings stretched three meters to each side, tips nearly touching the walls of the church. They moved slightly, rustling with sounds like distant thunder, casting shadows that seemed to shift independent of any light source.
And above the Six-Armed Iron Cavalry Terminator, an illusive laurel crown appeared.
It hovered there, rotating slowly, woven from golden light that pulsed with each heartbeat. The crown of victory. The mark of a champion. A symbol recognizable to anyone raised in Imperial culture as the blessing of the God-Emperor Himself.
Faced with such an amazing special scene, the nobles erupted.
"Ah! The Emperor appears!"
"Your Majesty the God Emperor! Please save us!"
"Why an Astartes? And not me?"
"The noble angel has arrived! What a glorious thing this is for the Adoma homeworld..."
Their voices rose in pitch and volume, feeding off each other's excitement. Some fell to their knees in prayer. Others wept openly. A few looked on with expressions of jealous rage, furious that divine favor had been granted to someone else.
However, Nolan's attention was elsewhere.
He lowered his hand subconsciously, fingers wrapping around the Heart of the Furnace at his waist. The plasma revolver settled into his palm with comfortable weight. Just in case. Just in preparation.
Because the hive nobles were staring at him with wildly different expressions.
Some showed genuine awe, faces shining with religious fervor. Others wore indifferent masks, carefully neutral despite the miracle occurring before them. And a few... a few had gloomy expressions, eyes calculating, already thinking about how this development would affect their political positions.
Combat groups began entering the church.
Planetary Guard forces came through passages from all directions, their boots ringing on marble in organized cadence. They wore standard Astra Militarum pattern gear, carapace armor and las-rifles, moving in disciplined formations.
With them came Crusaders.
The militant arm of the Ecclesiarchy, warrior-monks armed with storm shields and power swords. They wore robes over their armor, each bearing the Aquila and various saints' symbols. Their weapons hummed with active power fields, blades wreathed in disruption energy.
"Everyone! In the name of the Inquisition Mobian Star District Judge, I order you to exit the church immediately!"
A tall old woman with gray hair squeezed out of the crowd.
She moved with authority, her presence parting the nobles like water around a ship's prow. Her age showed in the lines on her face and the silver of her hair, but her posture was ramrod straight, her movements sharp and decisive.
She stepped forward and waved an old-skinned palm without hesitation.
The gesture was imperious, commanding, backed by decades of absolute power. She drove the hive nobles with their different expressions toward the exits, her will alone enough to overcome their desire to witness what came next.
The nobles began filing out, casting glances back over their shoulders.
Then the female judge turned around.
Her expression was indifferent, cold, the face of someone who'd seen too much to be impressed by miracles. She stared at Nolan, who stood motionless beneath his crown of golden light, and shouted with voice that echoed off the vaulted ceiling:
"Strange Astartes! Are you loyal? Why are you here!"
The questions were delivered in a cold tone, sharp as knife blades.
They gradually echoed inside the empty church as the last nobles fled through the doors, bouncing off stone and metal, seeming to multiply in the vast space.
Groups of Planetary Guard troops quickly came to stand behind the Inquisitor.
They formed ranks with practiced efficiency, creating firing lines, establishing fields of fire. Then, without hesitation, they raised their laser firearms in Nolan's direction. Hundreds of weapons tracking a single target, power packs charged, fingers resting on triggers.
The threat was clear and immediate.
However, what happened next surprised even Nolan.
The Crusaders armed with storm shields and power swords moved.
They quickly passed through the temporary front line formed by the defense forces, their robes swishing with the speed of their movement. They stepped forward silently, boots clicking on marble, moving with military precision.
Then they immediately turned around.
The Crusaders positioned themselves in front of Nolan, forming a protective barrier between the Astartes and the Planetary Defense Forces. They raised the power weapons in their palms, active blades pointing toward the soldiers who were supposedly on the same side.
Storm shields locked together, creating an overlapping wall.
The message was unmistakable: to reach the Emperor's Angel, you'll have to go through us first.
At the same time, a fanatical shout from behind Nolan echoed throughout the entire church.
"Bold! How dare you show disrespect to the Emperor's Angels! Inquisitor Grendel! Do you want to become a heretic who betrays the God-Emperor!"
The voice was high-pitched with religious fervor, cracking on the higher notes. It came from the elderly cardinal who'd collapsed when the hovercraft crashed. Somehow he'd recovered, found his feet, reclaimed his authority.
"Are you still loyal to the God-Emperor? Or do you just want to merge with our state religion!"
The accusation hung in the air like a gauntlet thrown down.
Nolan turned his eyepiece slightly, looking back over his shoulder.
Sure enough, the cardinal who'd been so frightened that he'd collapsed on the ground seemed to have completely recovered. He'd retrieved his white high hat and now wore it with pride. His expression was fervent, eyes shining with zealot's fire.
He waved the hat in his hand with theatrical gestures.
Then asked loudly in the direction of the female judge, his voice dripping with righteous condemnation, showing no mercy whatsoever.
The smell of gunpowder between the two sides was getting stronger.
Crusaders facing Planetary Guard. The Ecclesiarchy confronting the Inquisition. Ancient institutional rivalries bubbling to the surface, ready to explode into violence at the slightest provocation.
Nolan, standing in the center of it all, made a decision.
He suddenly let go of the ceramite palm that was holding the Heart of the Furnace. Instead of reaching for a weapon, he reached for his helmet seals. Mag-locks disengaged with soft clicks. Pressure equalized with a hiss of escaping air.
Then he took off his metal helmet.
The gesture was slow, deliberate, theatrical in its way. Nolan lifted the Terminator helmet free and revealed his face to everyone present.
A familiar bald head with bronze luster.
The skin tone was distinctive, marking him as connected to Vulkan's gene-line. His features were strong, cleanly defined, bearing the subtle perfection that came with Primarch genetics. His eyes were dark and intense, scanning the assembled forces with calculating assessment.
Nolan squinted slightly, his gaze moving across everyone present one by one.
The Inquisitor with her uncertain expression. The cardinal whose zealotry warred with confusion. The Crusaders standing protective guard. The Planetary Guard soldiers who didn't know whether to fire or flee.
When he spoke, his voice was low but carried clearly through the silent church.
"I am a Brother Astartes from the Salamanders Chapter. You can call me Omegon!"
The name fell like a stone into still water, sending ripples of reaction through the crowd.
"In the name of the Emperor, we are here to quell this rebellion!"
His voice rose slightly, taking on the tone of absolute authority.
"Now, can any of you tell me..." He paused, letting the question build. "Since you have enough manpower to fight with both sides, why don't you suppress the rebellion in the hive city?"
The question was simple. Direct. Devastating in its implications.
You have forces. You have weapons. You have the strength to stage internal power struggles while rebels control entire sections of your hive. So why aren't you using those resources to actually solve the problem?
Faced with Nolan's slow question, silence fell.
Whether it was the female inquisitor with her indifferent expression or the cardinal with his wild eyes, both seemed to have fallen into an extremely strange state of paralysis. Neither wanted to answer. Neither could answer without revealing something damning.
At the same time, David appeared.
The ancient Man of Iron had emerged from the hovercraft while everyone's attention was focused on Nolan. He wore his Blood Angels power armor, the red ceramite unmarked by their violent entry. He moved quietly, almost silently despite his bulk, to stand beside Nolan.
Then he raised the regiment flag.
The three-meter standard unfurled with dramatic timing, the Salamanders' black dragon head and golden Aquila displayed for all to see. The banner caught what light penetrated the church's windows, colors seeming to glow from within.
However, at that moment, a different sound cut through the tension.
Violent vomiting erupted from inside the hovercraft.
Veteran Hassan and psyker Lucy had finally succumbed to the motion sickness that had been building throughout their insane flight. The sounds were wet and miserable, stomach contents ejecting with force, bodies rebelling against the abuse they'd suffered.
The noise unexpectedly broke the tense atmosphere.
It was so mundane, so human, so completely at odds with the confrontation between Imperial powers that it subconsciously attracted everyone's attention. Heads turned. Eyes shifted from weapons and warriors to the damaged hovercraft where two ordinary humans were suffering the consequences of extraordinary events.
In the end, this very possible conflict completely disappeared.
The Planetary Guard lowered their weapons fractionally. The Crusaders relaxed their defensive posture by degrees. Inquisitor and cardinal exchanged glances that promised this wasn't over, but acknowledged that now wasn't the time.
The crisis passed like storm clouds moving on to other skies.
About an hour later, the situation had transformed completely.
Nolan sat at the back of a luxurious dining table, wearing his Six-Armed Iron Cavalry Terminator.
His expression was very playful, eyes tracking movement, posture deceptively relaxed. He looked like someone enjoying hospitality, but the tension in his shoulders told a different story.
Right in front of him, the table was covered.
A large number of delicacies that the commoners of the hive city would rarely see in their lifetimes almost buried the entire exquisite surface. Roasted meats that still steamed, juices running clear. Fresh fruits imported from agri-worlds, each piece perfect and unblemished. Pastries decorated with sugar work so intricate it qualified as art. Wine in crystal decanters, each vintage worth more than a worker's yearly wage.
The display was obscene in its excess.
David sat near the dining table in his power armor.
However, he was unmoved by the delicious food in front of him. The ancient Man of Iron had no need for sustenance, no biological drives to satisfy. He only occasionally turned his metal helmet, scanning the people passing by through his eyepiece repeatedly, cataloging threats, assessing loyalties, processing tactical data.
At this moment, state missionaries entered the hall.
They were led by several senior pastors and deacons, all wearing elaborate robes that marked their ranks within the Ecclesiarchy. Their expressions were fanatical, eyes shining with religious fervor that bordered on madness.
They entered the interior of this brightly lit hall one by one, moving in organized procession.
Then they knelt.
The missionaries continued to kneel down and praise Nolan extremely devoutly, their voices raised in prayer and adoration. They looked forward to Nolan's response with desperate intensity, seeking acknowledgment from the Angel who bore the Emperor's blessing.
The cardinal stood alone next to Nolan.
He'd changed into a gold-rimmed white robe, the fabric crisp and new, marking his authority within the state religion. His earlier panic had been replaced by smooth composure, the face of a political operator back in familiar territory.
He waved the scepter in his palm with a smile.
The gesture was practiced, theatrical, designed to project confidence and control. He kept gesturing to the missionaries who'd finished kneeling, urging them to leave as quickly as possible, clearing the space for whatever came next.
"Bishop Caliph, let them stop kneeling for the time being and get out first!"
Nolan spoke suddenly, his voice cutting through the prayers and devotions.
He was repeatedly playing with a gold wine glass in his ceramic palm, turning it over and over, the precious metal catching the light. His attention seemed focused on the vessel, but his words carried absolute command.
The smiling Bishop Caliph was slightly startled.
His smooth expression flickered, surprise breaking through for just a moment. Then he immediately made the smile disappear from his face, replacing it with solemn gravitas.
With serious expression, he waved the scepter again.
His gestures became more emphatic, more urgent. The missionaries took the hint and began filing out of the bright hall, their prayers trailing off into silence.
The bishop waited until everyone had completely left this place.
Only when the last missionary disappeared through the doors did he allow the smile to return to his face. He lowered his back slightly, adopting a posture of deference, and spoke respectfully into Nolan's ear.
"Honorable Lord Angel, are you not satisfied with the meal in front of you? The preparation time was a bit rushed..."
His tone was oily, solicitous, the voice of someone accustomed to managing powerful people's expectations.
Nolan's response was cutting.
"Tsk tsk, Bishop Caliph, I don't really mind if you treat me as an object of false pretense."
He set down the wine glass with deliberate care, the metal ringing softly against the table.
"After all, I do need a suitable identity to mobilize manpower to suppress the rebellion..."
A pause, letting that acknowledgment settle.
"But if you think I haven't noticed the little intentions of the two of you fighting for power, then you are looking down on us Astartes!"
The sneer on Nolan's lips was visible even without seeing his full face. He slightly turned his bald head with bronze luster, fixing the bishop with a stare that made the man's confident facade crack.
Sweat began forming on the Caliph Bishop's forehead.
Small beads appearing at his temples, gathering and running down in thin rivulets. His hands tightened on his scepter, knuckles going white with pressure.
Nolan asked in a low voice, each word precise:
"How many troops can you mobilize currently?"
The bishop licked his lips subconsciously.
A nervous gesture, buying time to calculate his response. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with one hand, the motion betraying his discomfort.
"Honorable Lord Angel, the local holy army of the state religion can mobilize about 500 people." He spoke quickly, words tumbling out. "Plus some fanatical believers who are willing to devote themselves to the Emperor, I can recruit for you a suppression force team of about 1,500 people."
Nolan shook his head slightly.
Not enough. Nowhere near enough. The gesture conveyed disappointment without words.
He blinked his eyes, thought for a moment, then asked another question.
"So, how many people are there in the Sixth Mobian Regiment that started this hive rebellion?"
The Caliph seemed to hesitate.
His mouth opened and closed several times before words emerged. This was dangerous information, revealing the scale of the problem, admitting just how badly the situation had deteriorated.
"As far as I know, including some wounded soldiers, there are about 5,000 people." He paused, then added the truly damning detail. "If they take the opportunity to unite the gangs in the hive, the specific number of people cannot be counted at all."
Five thousand trained soldiers. Plus an unknown number of gang reinforcements. Against fifteen hundred religious zealots, most of whom probably had minimal combat training.
The math was brutal and obvious.
Nolan's voice rose slightly, carrying an edge of disbelief.
"So, you just let this rebellion continue to spread? Until you can't even protect the most important Leman Russ production line? How dare you?"
The accusation hung in the air like an executioner's blade.
"Honorable Lord Angel! There is nothing I can do!"
The Caliph's composure finally broke completely. His voice rose in pitch, defensive and desperate, the careful politician giving way to genuine fear and frustration.
"Our planetary governor experienced the first moments of the rebellion..." He swallowed hard. "After the assassination, he fell into a coma. Whether he can survive is still a question. This is not a parish world. Although the nobles in the hive are willing to come to participate in the prayer announcement, the influence of the state religion here is actually very limited!"
The words came faster now, explanations and excuses tumbling over each other.
"In addition, the old woman from the Tribunal has forcibly seized the command of the Planetary Defense Force in the name of the Inquisitor. She always uses the censorship power of the Tribunal to suppress others, those commanders who want to unite with our state religion to suppress the rebellion." His voice cracked with frustration. "There is no other way!"
The complaint seemed genuine, perhaps from the bottom of his heart.
Nolan, who'd been squinting throughout the explanation, suddenly raised a heavy brow.
His expression shifted, something dangerous entering his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was calm, which somehow made it more threatening.
"Oh? Does this happen again?"
A pause, letting the bishop sweat a bit more.
"Let's go and inform the female judge that I want to meet her in person. Of course, if she doesn't dare to come, then it's not impossible for me to come and find her."
The threat was politely phrased but absolutely clear.
"Ah? Dear Lord Angel, you... okay, I'll go right away!"
The Caliph Bishop was slightly startled, his eyes going wide.
The cold sweat on his forehead seemed to increase, glands working overtime, beads merging into streams. His earlier confidence had evaporated completely, replaced by naked fear.
However, when he saw Nolan's ice-like eyes staring straight at him, judgment and threat written in that gaze, the bishop made his decision.
He quickly turned his body and began to trot toward the outside of the brightly lit hall.
His robes flapped with the speed of his departure, dignity abandoned in favor of getting away from those terrible eyes. He disappeared through the doors without looking back, practically fleeing.
Nolan waited until the bishop's back completely disappeared from his field of vision.
Only then did he relax slightly, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. The golden psychic energy that had been subtly flickering around him throughout the conversation faded to nothing.
The mechanical voice from David slowly reached Nolan's ears.
"My lord, I personally believe that the cardinal who expressed his kindness to us was not entirely telling the truth."
The Man of Iron's assessment was delivered with characteristic precision, data supporting conclusions that seemed obvious in hindsight.
Nolan's response was immediate and knowing.
"David, I know. I even suspect that the real culprit behind the assassination of the Planet Governor at the beginning of the rebellion was either him or the female inquisitor, not any rebels."
He let that accusation sit for a moment, the weight of it settling.
"However, these have nothing to do with us for the time being. As long as they are willing to provide manpower and equipment to suppress the rebellion, I can pretend that I know nothing about it. But if they are ignorant of current affairs, don't blame me for being ruthless and cruel!"
His voice hardened, taking on the edge of absolute certainty.
"When the time comes, I would rather let the rebels wreak havoc in the hive and let one of the empire's Leman Russ production lines be completely scrapped, or completely clean up this bunch of corpse-ridden imperial parasites!"
At that moment, the cold-faced Nolan demonstrated his feelings.
He slowly kneaded the golden wine glass in his palm, ceramite fingers applying steady pressure. The precious metal deformed, creaking in protest, folding in on itself as physics surrendered to enhanced strength.
The wine glass became a ball of metal waste.
Compressed and crushed, all its elegant form destroyed, reduced to a crumpled lump of gold that bore no resemblance to its original shape.
Nolan threw the scrap metal onto the exquisite dining table.
It landed with an extremely crisp metal collision sound, bouncing once before settling. The noise echoed through the hall, sharp and final, a punctuation mark on his declaration.
The message was clear: cooperate or be discarded like trash.