West Ice Vault Hotel.
The vast grand hall was in turmoil, a hundred strands of noise weaving together.
The high nobles of the Imperium were giddy to be alive, chattering about the Webway.
Yet every so often a memory of those terrifying punishments surged up; bodies shivered by reflex.
All of them awaited His Majesty the Savior, hoping that august presence would draw a final line under the brutal purge—
—and then apportion the spoils of the Webway.
After the Savior's "high-intensity physical education," the great nobles had shed their old hauteur—and their greed.
What His Majesty said would be what was. So long as they got even a sliver of profit, they would be satisfied.
Even happy.
As His Majesty put it: this was "expectation management."
All at once the sacred, lilting Sanctus of the Savior rose, and white-winged, artificial cherubs wheeled beneath the coffered dome.
Silence fell in an instant. No one dared make another sound.
The high nobles sat bolt upright, afraid that the least sign of irreverence would be recorded and judged disloyal.
If they could help it, they would never again set foot in that "luxury suite" to taste exquisite torment.
"That was the most horrifying experience in the galaxy…
No matter what happens, we must never oppose His Majesty the Savior—not even in the face of annihilation.
He is ten thousand times more terrible than the daemons of Chaos!"
So one high noble—who had endured the punishments, yet also earned the Savior's Honor Badge for great service to the Imperium—told his bloodline heirs years later.
Even the memory made him tremble.
An indelible nightmare.
Many in this hotel had suffered long hours of penalty. Every piece of flesh torn, peeled, pulverized; their minds ground beneath unbearable pressure.
The inquisitors* tortured each subject to the brink of death, then mended them swiftly, and began anew.
Again and again.
The Urth Inquisition had run experiments: the highest grade of punishment could break even Slaanesh cultists.
Let alone these nobles.
It was a living hell.
They were truly, deeply afraid.
"Is the New Sun of the Imperium—His Majesty the Savior—about to arrive?!"
Drew drew a deep breath. His heart tightened.
Like the others, he fixed his eyes on the giant doors carved with angelic reliefs at the end of the hall, hardly daring to breathe.
Boom—rumb—le…
The colossal leaves began to move. Two towering Praetorian Terminators pushed the doors wide.
Natural light spilled in, making their armor blaze—two pale-gold lances thrown across the hall.
Then came the honor guard and the fully armed Imperial Angel Guard.
At last Drew saw the tall figure in dark-golden, sumptuous robes—sheer presence made flesh.
He knew. That was the Sun of the Imperium.
Any who beheld that figure would, by reflex, think the same thought.
Drew and the nobles rose as one, eyes following the figure; applause started here and there like sparks among dry reeds.
They had studied the Savior's court etiquette. They knew His Majesty liked to hear applause at assemblies.
Tens of thousands of palms became thunder.
"The vibe is pretty good…"
Eden* kept his stately bearing and entered the hall at an unhurried pace, following the gilt-filigreed runner toward the dais.
He could see the smiles—some strained, some genuine.
Tears streaked many faces.
Whatever else, the West Ice Vault staff had done superb work.
They had "tuned" these proud, avaricious nobles until each stood meek and tidy.
Clapclapclapclap—!
In moments the hall was a storm of applause—fervent, rolling.
The atmosphere was perfectly stoked.
Caught up in the harmony, Eden lifted a hand to those whom he had judged loyal, and waved.
The cheers swelled hotter.
Then—an abrupt change.
"Your Majesty the Savior!"
A portly lord suddenly bellowed, his voice so jarringly loud that all eyes snapped to him.
Wiping tears and clapping until his palms reddened, he cried, "Our House Tartaros will never forget your grace, Your Majesty! You are forever the Sun in our hearts!"
Still lost in post-punishment PTSD, the man poured out his devotion.
All at once, weeping, he threw up both hands, almost leaping where he stood in his zeal:
"Long live His Majesty the Savior!!!"
His outburst snagged the rhythm of the applause; the hall rang with his hoarse, echoing cry.
"Hss— This guy might be a little too into it, huh?"
Eden blinked at the portly lord, shocked.
He had a powerful sense of déjà vu, as if the next moment a loyal little ditty would pipe up—something like "I came from Dandong~."
Not only the Savior—other nobles were stunned, then quickly grasped the spirit of the scene.
After a heartbeat's hush, a greater roar erupted: "Long live!!! Long live!!! Long live!!!"
True believers or bandwagon riders, they all thrust up their hands with heat.
In their most devout tones they hailed the Sun of the Imperium.
The atmosphere soared still higher.
Carried by the tide, many nobles raised their hands and pressed closer toward the Savior—whole-hearted, whole-body devotion.
Click—
The Thunder Guard snapped up their arms to interpose, watchful to a fault.
"No need."
Eeden* stayed their hands with a gesture.
Smiling, he stepped forward and shook hands with the nobles in greeting—which only drove them wilder.
Ladies and young misses pressed in, thronging the Sun of the Imperium, circling in adoration.
Some were so overcome they nearly fainted.
More tears fell; the hall's fervor swelled to its peak.
"Very loyal indeed…"
Eden couldn't help grinning.
Even he was moved. It was… touching—how beloved his Savior's mantle was among Imperial subjects!
No one could keep a straight face in that air.
In a sea of bodies he climbed the steps and mounted the long-prepared dais.
He gazed down upon the crowd; the high nobles fell still, awaiting his word.
"Subjects of the Imperium, I feel your loyalty."
His voice rolled across the hall; once again the nobles lifted their hands and cheered anew.
Eden watched the fever grow and nodded, pleased.
Of course he knew most of it was a performance—born of fear, not faith.
It is very hard to drive the nobles and the elites into true, burning belief.
Unless you do as the Loyal Scions Academy in the Savior's Domain—start from childhood, train them up step by step into high office.
Then you get loyalty that holds.
But that wasn't the point today. Today he wanted posture. Submission.
Real loyalty could be cultivated later.
For example, the Imperium would soon institute a new policy: noble houses and power blocs must send their heirs to the Loyal Scions Academy for proper Savior-orthodoxy.
That, and only that, would bind the strength of the realm into one organization and better match the Imperium's future needs.
At the same time, governors would be posted to sectors and worlds—but not permanently. Appointments would rotate on a century cycle.
A true rotation system.
Eden spoke the requisite scene-setting remarks, then laid out the Imperium's present straits and his development plan.
He asked for vigorous support—starting with a very large tax to fund construction.
A percentile crit.
The rate would flex by region and house scale.
It would hurt any family—badly.
Ordinarily such a harsh levy would spark a storm of opposition.
But when the Savior finished, the nobles—swept along by loyalty's fever—cheered their assent.
Even those who chafed were drowned in the surge and forced to roar along.
Who would dare strike a discordant note now? Do you have a death wish?!
Next came the matter of the Webway routes.
All eyes widened, fixed on the dais, waiting for the Savior's disposition.
"The Webway routes are the linchpin of Imperial prosperity.
More than that, they are the infrastructure of inter-regional trade; we must pour our full strength into their development."
Eden's gaze swept the hall; his tone tightened. "The Webway belongs to all Imperial citizens. No single person or power may seize it.
Any subject of the Imperium may use the Webway routes—so long as they submit to oversight and maintain shipboard safety.
Every port will open to Imperial travelers and merchantmen.
The Imperium will assist each region in building ports and linking them to the Webway, so as to let every region enjoy the routes' convenience…"
The nobles listened intently; their faces flushed brighter; their cheers rose, more sincerely loyal with each pledge.
It was a lavish offer: nobles could use the Webway and receive infrastructure support.
Of course, all passing merchantmen would pay the appropriate duties to fund Webway operations and construction.
But after such intense expectation management, taxes barely made a ripple. Many felt it only right.
His Majesty wasn't going to exterminate their whole clans—and he was granting them Webway access. A bit of tax? So what?
Pure profit.
Beyond the Webway, the Savior touched on commercial policy.
The Imperium would gather economic data from all regions—industry, manufactured goods, cash crops, specialties.
Then it would drive high-quality development and remake the commercial order.
In short: aid underdeveloped regions with capital and technology while curbing monopolies.
Let Imperial commerce grow orderly and in harmony.
Moreover, the Imperium would protect all galactic lanes and Webway routes to ensure the safety of traders and convoys.
"If these policies take root, the Imperium will change utterly…"
Drew and the other nobles shifted, faces complicated.
They saw that the Savior was not a greedy tyrant, but a reformer—truly bent on lifting the Imperium into prosperity.
Not like the "strongmen" they had known.
These measures would force the center to subsidize the periphery and bankroll vast public works.
A staggering burden.
For millennia no true power in the Imperium had dared try it—dared make such promises.
But the Savior did.
Eeden* never hesitated.
It was not for the nobles—it was for Imperial citizens in every region, that they might be lifted from their misery.
"This is my duty—as Savior, and as Emperor of the Imperium."
Eden murmured.
And this was only the beginning.
When commerce bloomed, he would launch a realm-wide poverty-alleviation campaign, stripping out regional inequities and improving life on world after world.
Make the Imperium truly wealthy and strong—fit to resist its foes.
If the realm were as rich as the Five Hundred Worlds of Ultramar, it wouldn't be forever on fire.
In any case, the Imperium could not go on like this—poor.
Afterward he briefed the nobles on several Dawn City ventures—department-store tenancies, industrial-park land use, warehousing, housing—and invited interested parties to contact the Ministry of Commerce.
When all was said, he left the grand hall. The officials would handle the particulars and execution.
The Savior's task was to appear, explain, and drive the stake.
"His Majesty just… left?"
Drew and the others stared at the Savior's receding back, dazed.
They had thought he would seize the chance to swallow their rights, lands, and treasure whole.
But he hadn't. Even the punishments had been limited to executing those who violated the law and levying fines.
In truth, that was heavy enough.
Only when set beside Grand Inquisitor Deville—root and branch torn out, bones ground to ash—did it look merciful.
The nobles could not help feeling relieved—grateful, even.
"Hss—"
Eden reclined in his dark-gold hover limousine and let a cat-eared maid ply her special massage.
He exhaled long.
Demi-human hands had real power; muscles and tendons let go at last.
Truth be told, he had never planned to loot the nobles' fortunes in that hall. Kill some, bleed them badly with fines—that was enough.
If you hollowed those houses out, the Emperor would be plundering the realm's wealth with his own hands.
It would only drain the Imperium's vigor.
Those nobles were like large, regional conglomerates, woven through the lives of Imperial citizens.
Flatten them in one blow and you would crash the economy—and the peace.
Of course, he would not let them have it easy—would not let them monopolize their regions. He had already raised another power to match them.
Let competition bite.
That new bloc included the merchant fleets and guilds rising in the Savior's Domain, as well as smaller nobles from reclaimed regions.
Compared to the old houses, these new forces were far more loyal to the Savior.
He would back them, hard—set them against the entrenched powers.
Balance achieved.
"This is power and politics…"
Eden slipped an arm around the cat-girl's shoulders and toyed with her neat little ears.
He was tired.
In affairs of power, right and wrong rarely ran clear. You took the best path you could under a web of checks and counterweights.
And sometimes you chose the hard thing.
"Ah… once Bayev wraps up on Holy Terra, my side will ease up."
The workload had crept up on him of late.
No wonder he felt wrung out.
It stung more after seeing how easy Guilliman and the Khan had it—carefree, picking through their wargear—
—plotting how to prank the Lion when he woke.
The think-tank curators said the Lion's awakening drew near—any day now.
Place unknown.
The Dark Angels kept too many secrets—so many that even they did not know which vault hid the Lion's body.
A secret is a secret.
"Word is that once the Lion wakes he'll have the power for mass transit—like a human-shaped Webway node.
Forget it. We'll test it when he's up…"
Eden pulled his thoughts in and sighed.
Thank the Throne for Bayev—the man had grown into "Big Malcador." Without him, Eden would be buried alive under the paperwork.
The ministries had been streamlined, yes—but before this they hardly did anything.
Now, with policies and projects firing up across the realm, the work had multiplied by the hundreds and thousands. Intimidating.
Once Bayev finished the ministry reform and shifted the core bureaus to Dawn City, Eden could go back to being a hands-off emperor.
The new Regent's core principle for reform was simple: divide powers; spell out responsibilities.
Then strengthen mutual oversight and cooperation.
No more of the old way—every ministry a petty kingdom with vast, unbound authority, able to act alone and field its own troops.
That was not a government; that was a scattering of little realms.
So the first step was stripping every ministry's armed wings and placing them under the Department of War.
Overmighty offices were bridled.
The Inquisition, for one.
After reform the Inquisition would still possess investigative and arrest powers—but could not pass sentences alone. All judgments would be handed to the Ministry of Justice for review.
Each would check the other—together they would check the rest.
These were preliminary shifts; they would iterate on results to make the machine run smoothly in cooperation.
However you cut it, it was leagues better than the Imperium's rotten old mess.
Before long,
the dark-gold limousine picked up speed toward another titanic structure.
Eden still had one very important thing to do.
(End of Chapter)
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