The nobles soon learned of Raynor's stance.
The Governor's camp had no intention of hiding it. There was no softening, no compromise—only further escalation. The day after the joint letter was sent, the next list of families to be liquidated was published. On it were the names of dozens of families who had "banded together for warmth."
Panic spread like wildfire.
"Where is the High King? High King, say something!" "Where is Lord Callum? Didn't he say he would support us?" "What about the Ecclesiarchy? Arch-Cardinal Goodwin, why is your response only a 'verbal condemnation'?!"
No one answered.
Caladogong remained out of sight. Callum's "support" remained purely verbal, providing every kind of help except actual assistance. Arch-Cardinal Goodwin did speak, but his message contained only one sentence: "The will of the God-Chosen is the will of the Emperor. As subjects of the Imperium, it is your duty to obey."
Obey my foot!
In their desperation, the most radical nobles began to take dangerous risks.
The West District of the Upper Hive—the very place where the first batch of nobles Raynor plundered resided—was once a prosperous noble neighborhood. Now, it was thick with a tense atmosphere. Private soldiers were everywhere on the streets, clutching weapons with wary expressions. Key intersections were blocked with sandbags and iron fences, fortified with heavy bolters.
"We must denounce the Governor's atrocities!" a noble shouted to a gathered crowd from a makeshift platform. "He wants to seize our homes, kill our kin, and steal our wealth! If this continues, there will be no place for us in Brevis!"
"YEAH!!!" an angry roar of agreement erupted from below.
"We have already appealed to the Imperium! I believe the Inquisition will arrive soon! The Adeptus Arbites will intervene as well! If we hold out for just a few days, justice will prevail!"
The words sounded grand, but he knew in his heart that the Warp storms currently raging outside meant no message could get out. Yet, with no other choice, he could only brace himself and deliver his speech at the intersection.
When the first wave of elite PDF appeared at the border of the West District, the atmosphere curdled. Leading them was a colonel under Carter, a man in his forties with an air of righteousness. Standing atop a Chimera armored transport, he looked at the shivering private soldiers at the barricade and raised a loud-hailer.
"By order of the Governor's Mansion, we are here to confiscate illegal armaments in the West District. Those who lay down their weapons shall be spared. Those who resist..."
"Will be executed without exception!"
The private soldiers exchanged glances. Some began to hesitate, their muzzles slowly dipping toward the ground.
"Don't put them down!" the radical noble rushed out from behind, snatched a rifle from a soldier, and fired a shot into the air. "They don't dare fire! We are also subjects of the Imperium! They don't dare—"
BANG.
A bolt shell tore through his chest, erupting in a cloud of blood mist. The noble's eyes widened as he stared at the smoking hole in his chest, then he fell straight back, stiff as a board.
The colonel lowered his boltgun and continued into the loud-hailer: "Those who resist will be executed without exception."
However, the private soldiers did not drop their weapons. Instead, they glared at the colonel with vicious eyes.
When news reached the Governor's Mansion, Raynor was discussing the next phase of the plan with Carter.
"The nobles in the West District have gathered. They are using force to resist the liquidation," a messenger reported. "One has already been killed."
Raynor set down his documents and looked up. "It seems," he spoke slowly, "they have openly betrayed the Imperium."
The hall fell instantly silent.
Jay Chuck, the leader of the Chuck faction and the first noble to side with Raynor, spoke up hesitantly. "Gov... Governor, were they perhaps just incited by someone?"
Raynor looked at him, his gaze absolute. He understood what Chuck meant. The old noble was afraid—afraid that he too would be purged one day, meeting the same end as those men. Raynor didn't blame him; such fear was only human. But he had to make things clear.
"No." Raynor stood and walked to the window, looking toward the West District in the distance. "The troops I sent to seize the assets are elite PDF units returned from the front lines. They have bled for the Imperium; they are the finest troops under my command."
He turned back to face Chuck. "But those rabble dare to resist even the elite PDF. They are no longer ordinary subjects of the Imperium."
Chuck was terrified and didn't dare speak further. Raynor walked over to him and patted his shoulder. "Jay, you've been with me from the start. I remember that loyalty." His voice suddenly turned icy. "But for those who raise guns in the West District, we must strike with an iron fist!"
Raynor turned and walked toward the door, his cloak fluttering behind him like a battle flag about to unfurl. The heavy doors slammed shut behind him with a thunderous boom.
Sett would always remember that day.
It was his first day joining the Vanguard. Before this, he was just an ordinary scavenger in the Lower Hive. No, he wasn't even a scavenger. Scavengers could at least find scrap in the waste piles to trade for rations. Having not joined any gang, he was simply waiting to die.
His mother was too hungry to leave her bed. His younger brother and sister huddled in a corner, so thin their eyes protruded and their lips were cracked; they couldn't even find the strength to cry. Sett divided the last half-block of synthetic starch into four pieces, keeping the smallest for himself. Looking at those three pairs of eyes, he felt an urge to weep.
But he didn't. People in the Lower Hive couldn't afford to cry. Crying only consumed moisture, and moisture was more precious than food.
Then, one day, a recruitment team for the Vanguard arrived. Sett dragged two legs that felt as soft as caterpillars and squeezed into the long queue. Thousands were lined up ahead of him, all sallow and emaciated young men like himself. Some collapsed on the spot and were dragged away; no one spared them a second glance.
When it was his turn, the recruitment officer looked him up and down. "How old?"
"Nineteen."
The officer scoffed. Nineteen—he looked forty. In the Lower Hive, one year could pass for ten. "Can you fight?"
Sett didn't know if he could fight. In his life, he had only been in three fights—twice for trash, and once when someone tried to touch his sister. He had won all three times, because losing meant death.
"I can," he said.
After a few simple tests, he passed the Vanguard's evaluation. The officer tossed him a uniform and a card. "Put the uniform on. Take the card and go to the warehouse to collect your rations."
Sett looked down at the card. A line was printed on it: Vanguard Fifth Legion, Recruit Sett, Advance Rations: 50kg Standard Starch Blocks.
Fifty kilograms. He had never seen so much food in his life.
Until he returned home with the rations, he thought he was still dreaming. His siblings clutched the poorly packaged starch blocks as if they were the most precious treasures in the world. That night, they ate the first full meal of their lives.
His mother cried. It was the first time Sett had ever seen her weep. "Remember this mark," she said, pointing to the emblem on the card—the seal of the Brevis Governor's Mansion. "Remember who gave you all of this."
Sett nodded. He remembered.