Chapter 477 - 477: The Old Guard Has Their Own Way of Doing Things

Kian boarded a shuttle, kicked it up to 20G on ascent, and flew straight to Inquisitor Trasolh's flagship, finding him on the command bridge and laying the whole situation out.

Kian said: "That's the gist of it. Don't let the Church burn Lieutenant Colonel Noa at the stake."

Trasolh, delighted, hadn't expected Kian would ever come to him asking for a favor.

He'd been considering ways to keep Kian permanently attached to his retinue, but the man was simply too resourceful, too independently minded, and he'd just gone and brought back over five hundred Sentinels on top of everything else.

Trasolh was starting to feel like his only real value to Kian at this point was serving as a mobile transit hub and storage depot for the man's growing empire.

That wouldn't do at all. The longer this went on, the less indispensable he'd be to Kian, and if Kian ever decided to cut him loose, that would be a genuine loss.

So when Kian came asking for a favor, Trasolh puffed out his chest and promised immediately:

"Done. I'll go down personally and have a word with the Governor."

Kian said, "Treat it seriously."

Trasolh, bringing his bodyguard retinue and Kian along, took a shuttle straight down in a dramatic high-altitude drop, landing directly atop the Ecclesiarchy's spire in the hive.

The arrival sent shockwaves through the entire hive city. Nobles, dignitaries, marshals, generals, everyone scrambled, some hurrying to cover their tracks, others simply resigned to whatever fate awaited them.

Anyone who'd climbed to that level of power had plenty of dirt buried somewhere. If an Inquisitor decided to come after you, there was never a shortage of leverage to find.

But Trasolh had come to this planet purely to fight the greenskins, with no intention of settling scores or launching some purge. Which was exactly why he'd stayed off the surface entirely up until now, projecting an image of unified focus against the outside threat.

His sudden appearance today rattled the hive's elite thoroughly.

The shuttle doors opened, and Trasolh stepped out with his bodyguard escort.

The planetary Bishop, along with a retinue of Church officials, waited on the spire's landing pad to receive him.

The moment Trasolh emerged, the Bishop hurried forward, bowing low, oozing pure obsequiousness.

"My lord! What brings you here?!"

The Bishop was an old, withered man, not a single hair on his head, his skin creased like a shuttered rolling door.

Trasolh gave him a flat glance and scoffed.

"Oh? Am I not permitted to come here? Or do I need your permission to visit my own domain? Perhaps you'd rather I hadn't come at all? Could it be there's something heretical happening here that you're afraid I might see?"

That rapid-fire barrage of questions left the Bishop drenched in cold sweat.

"No, no, nothing of the sort! Welcome, my lord, welcome! Please, feel free to inspect anything you wish. Come, join us in the banquet hall!"

Trasolh continued walking as he spoke:

"A banquet? Wonderful! Meanwhile, our soldiers out there are bleeding and dying against the xenos, unable to get so much as a hot meal most days!

I'd love to see exactly what kind of delicacies you people, safely tucked away in this hive, protected by those very same soldiers, are dining on tonight. Hmph."

The sweat on the Bishop's forehead only intensified. He dabbed at himself frantically with a handkerchief, hurrying to have his attendants clear away the lavish spread and replace it with something plainer.

By the time Trasolh reached the banquet hall, what awaited him was a distinctly modest meal: hardtack biscuits, canned meat, and an unidentified porridge.

The Bishop seated everyone, then adopted a tone of deep, suffering solemnity.

"My lords, you're well aware of our planet's circumstances. There's little good food to be had, so we can only offer this simple fare in your honor. I apologize deeply for any offense."

No sooner had he finished speaking than Trasolh slammed a fist on the table, sending every plate in front of him bouncing.

"So you KNOW this pig-swill is an insult, and you served it anyway?!

Answer me! Was this deliberate?! Are you expressing dissatisfaction toward me?! Are you making a veiled attack against the Inquisition itself?! Do you have some grievance with Imperial policy?! Do you harbor doubts in your heart about the Emperor Himself?!"

Thud. The Bishop collapsed straight off his chair and slid under the table in sheer terror.

"M-m-my lord! N-n-nothing of the sort!"

Watching this from a corner seat, Kian burst out laughing.

Trasolh glanced over at him, and Kian shot him a thumbs-up.

"Accuse first, force them to pick a side after. Classic old-school technique."

Seeing Kian's approval, Trasolh only got more into it.

His hawk-like gaze bore down on the Bishop, still sprawled on the floor.

"On your feet! Answer me this: where is your sacred text?

Surely a planetary Bishop wouldn't be caught without his Litanies on his person. Where have you put it?!"

"Ah, no, no, I have it, I have it right here on me!"

The Bishop scrambled up, trembling, and pulled the sacred text out from inside his robes.

Before he could even fully draw it out, Trasolh bellowed again:

"The wisdom of the Litanies is meant to be held in the HEART! Carrying it around on your person, does that mean you've failed to internalize its lessons?! Is there any true faith left in your heart at all?!"

Clatter. The Bishop's hand went slack, and the text he'd just pulled out dropped to the floor.

Trasolh opened his mouth to berate him further, but Kian, having thoroughly absorbed the old guard's technique by now, jumped in first, pointing at the fallen text and shouting:

"Damn it! You just DROPPED the sacred text on the ground?! Are you saying it's disposable, like garbage?!"

"No! No, that's not it!"

The Bishop scrambled to snatch the text back up, clutching it tight to his chest, and Kian bellowed again:

"Damn it! Now you're clutching it against yourself?! Are you claiming the text is your own personal property, that YOU alone hold the right to interpret it?!"

"No! No, not that either!"

The Bishop hastily thrust the text upward, raising it high above his own head, and Kian pressed on regardless:

"Damn it! Now you're holding it OVER your head?! Are you saying the text is oppressing you? How exactly is the text oppressing you? What kind of un-oppressed society are you actually imagining here? One where YOU sit at the very top?!"

Nowhere left to hold it, low, close, or high, the Bishop was completely cornered. The sheer stress finally overwhelmed him, and he collapsed straight to the floor.

His eyes rolled back white, foam bubbling at the corners of his mouth, both hands curling into claw-like contortions, textbook signs of a stroke.

Kian looked immensely pleased with himself, glancing over at Trasolh, who applauded and said:

"Excellent. You've grasped the basics of the Inquisition's methodology quite well. But true mastery still requires diligent practice."

Kian's eyes widened. "The man's already collapsed into THAT state, and there's still more you could've done?"

Trasolh nodded, thoroughly pleased with himself.

"Look at him lying there. Why hasn't he gotten back up? Is something pinning him down, keeping him from rising?

Notice how straight his legs are held. Doesn't that suggest that even collapsed and crushed, he refuses to bend?

He's foaming at the mouth, spitting, in a sense, at whatever he's dissatisfied with. So who, exactly, is he spitting at?

His eyes have rolled back white, doesn't that suggest contempt for everyone around him? That he alone sees clearly while everyone else remains blind?

His hands curled like claws, doesn't that hint at some secret sympathy toward the xenos?

And if he dies right here, right now, isn't that itself a veiled accusation that this whole world has become unlivable?"

Hearing that entire chain of analysis laid out, Kian drew a sharp breath, then gave a full thumbs-up.

Incredible. The old guard really was the old guard. No wonder they said an Inquisitor, once he decided to arrest someone, could never be denied. This accusation technique was so airtight, even a genuine daemon showing up would have to hand over a jug of purified milk and apologize before being allowed to leave.

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