One month after joining the Vanguard, Sett stood behind the Forbidden Wall, watching a figure standing atop a Coldfront tank in the distance. Artillery roared, Orks charged, and thick smoke blotted out the sky. Yet that figure remained standing at the very front, cloak dancing in the gale, boltgun firing incessantly.
That was the first time he had seen Raynor with his own eyes. No longer a portrait or a rumor, but a living, breathing man. It was the man who had given him food; the man who had given him a way to live.
Sett gripped his lasgun tightly, understanding for the first time the true meaning of "Loyalty."
After the Battle of the Forbidden Wall, Sett was promoted to Captain due to his bravery in combat. His unit became the hardest-hitting company in the Fifth Legion, always at the tip of the spear during every charge. He couldn't quite explain why he fought so hard. Perhaps it was to repay those fifty kilograms of rations, or perhaps to ensure his mother and siblings could keep eating. Or maybe, he just wanted the man standing on the tank to spare him a single glance.
The night before the suppression of the West District riot, Sett sat in the barracks and pulled a card from beneath his pillow. It wasn't the recruit card for advance rations he had started with, but a "Merit Ration Card" issued just yesterday.
One ton of premium canned starch.
This was enough for his family of four to eat for at least two and a half years! The cans even contained blocks of synthetic protein. He flipped the card over, looking at the small print on the back:
Governor's Commendation: Vanguard Fifth Legion, 71st Company, Captain Sett.
He thought of his mother's face, his siblings' laughter, and the man on the tank. He tucked the card back under his pillow and lay on the hard cot, staring at the ceiling.
Tomorrow, they were going to strike the nobles. Those nobles who lived in magnificent manors, eating real snow-beef and drinking wine shipped from agricultural worlds every day. What right did they have to resist? The Governor had given them a way out, given them a chance—what gave them the right?
Sett clenched his fists and closed his eyes.
The next morning, the entire Fifth Legion mobilized. Three million soldiers surrounded the Upper Hive's West District from three directions. Armored vehicles roared through the streets, heavy artillery was positioned in the distance, and Valkyrie transports soared overhead, dropping waves of soldiers.
The nobles of the West District had likely never seen such a spectacle in their lives. Standing behind makeshift fortifications, their faces turned ashen as they watched the soldiers swarming in from all sides.
"He... he actually dares to move against us?!" "We are also subjects of the Imperium! By what right?!" "Where are the Arbites? Where is the Inquisition?!"
No one answered, but nearby, Solene couldn't help but let out a small laugh. These private soldiers, who had never seen a real battlefield, faced an almost total collapse. They even began to wonder if they were still fighting humans—the Vanguard fought them with such terrifying intensity, as if they didn't value their own lives at all.
Sett charged at the very front. His company was responsible for clearing a main street. Both sides of the street were lined with noble manors, their gates crowded with private soldiers—men in beautiful uniforms with high-end weapons, but eyes filled only with terror.
"Those who surrender shall be spared!" Sett roared. "Those who resist..."
He didn't finish, because he didn't need to. The private soldiers had already dropped their weapons and knelt with their hands over their heads. Sett didn't spare them a glance, charging straight for the largest manor at the end of the street.
The gates were locked tight. He raised his boot and kicked them open. Behind the doors was a luxurious hall with marble floors and portraits of past patriarchs lining the walls. In the center sat a man in a silk robe, holding a cup of steaming tea.
When the man saw Sett burst in, his first reaction wasn't to run, but to freeze. Likely, he had never seen such a sight: a mud-caked, fierce-eyed soldier carrying an electric baton, charging into his living room like a wild beast.
Sett didn't give him time to recover.
The first strike swept across the man's legs. With a scream, the noble collapsed. The teacup shattered, splashing tea everywhere. The second strike hit his mouth. The scream turned into a gurgle as teeth and blood sprayed out. The third strike smashed into his head. The man's eyes rolled back, his body twitched, and he completely lost the ability to resist.
This was a baton technique Sett had refined: first strike the legs to prevent escape, second strike the mouth to prevent pleading, third strike the head to prevent resistance.
Then, Sett began the real "output." The electric baton fell like a violent storm. He lost track of how many times he struck; he only knew that every blow was delivered with his full strength. Every strike was for the starving people of the Lower Hive, and to vent frustration on behalf of the Governor.
Only when the noble lay on the ground like a pile of mangled meat, with only a faint twitch remaining, did Sett stop, gasping for air. He looked down at the blood-muffled face and suddenly remembered something. Orders from above were to take them alive.
He scratched his head. "He's... probably still alive, right?"
Afterward, the soldiers of the Fifth Legion held a "debriefing" in the barracks.
"How many times did you hit yours?" "Didn't count. Anyway, I hit him so hard his own mother wouldn't recognize him." "Mine went down after only five strikes. He fainted. Really couldn't take a hit." "Next time we need to practice our swing speed. Seven strikes per second is still too slow; we need to hit ten per second." "Right, right, I was thinking the same thing. When venting for the Governor, how can we be soft-hearted?"
Sett sat in the corner, listening to his comrades brag, a slight curve appearing at the corner of his mouth. But thinking of the ration card under his pillow, he couldn't help but sigh.
"True. My swing still isn't fast enough."
The suppression of the West District riot went smoothly. Most of the 1.43 million private soldiers surrendered on the spot; the few who resisted were killed. The nobles who led the trouble were dragged out, given a serving of "electric baton stir-fry" on the streets, and then tossed into prison.
Raynor stood by the window of the Governor's Mansion, looking toward the West District. The smoke had cleared, and the streets were quiet once more. But his brow remained furrowed. Carter stood behind him, holding a newly delivered battle report.
"Governor, the Fifth Legion has secured the entire West District. Prisoners are being interrogated in batches, and assets are being inventoried."
Raynor nodded without speaking. Carter waited a moment before asking tentatively, "What... are you worried about?"
Raynor turned to face him. "Carter, have you noticed something?"
"Please, go on." "The Saint Gallus family," Raynor spoke slowly. "They've been too quiet lately."
Carter thought for a moment and nodded. The Saint Gallus family was the true uncrowned king of Brevis. High King Caladogong controlled the planet's strongest military force. They held final veto power in the Upper Hive Council and a status that could decide the fate of the Noble Council with a single vote.
How could such a family have zero reaction after Raynor had liquidated over a hundred nobles and suppressed a riot in the West District? Even the monthly Upper Hive Council meeting—hosted by House Saint Gallus without fail—hadn't been held this past month.
Carter frowned. "Are you saying..."
Raynor shook his head. "Something is very wrong." He walked to the wall, looking at the holographic map of Brevis. His gaze fell upon the Saint Gallus Fortress at the very core of the Upper Hive. Recently, that fortress had been as silent as a lonely island.
Raynor remembered something—one of the secrets he had seen inside that small black box back on the Hymn of Offering.
The STC of Brevis.