Once the al was prepared, Big Joel and Sansa served a feast that brought the weary Voss Guard back from the brink of exhaustion.
Kian stripped off his scorched armor and slung his primary weapons over a rack in the distillery. He turned to the squad, his tone returning to that of a professional Sergeant.
"For now, you lot stay here. Hold the bulkheads. Don't go wandering the streets until the vox-chatter confirms the riots have been suppressed. You've got at, you've got water, and you've got high-tier Lasguns. You're safer here than in a PDF bunker."
Kian then turned to Lady Nightingale, who was delicately sipping a cup of recycled tea.
"My Lady, I'll have to ask you to endure these 'peasant' accommodations for a short while. These twenty beauties will keep the door locked. No one gets in without my say-so."
Nightingale nodded, her gaze sweeping over the industrial architecture. "Master Voss, your hospitality is... unconventional, but effective. However, if you truly wish to assist my house, I require a high-frequency Vox-Relay. I need to establish a secure link to my family's Spire-Tip so they can authorize an extraction detail."
[DING! MISSION TRIGGERED]
Mission: The Spire's Signal
Objective: Deliver a long-range communication device to Lady Nightingale.
Reward: Nightingale Reputation 20 | Unlocks "House Campella Favor" Questline.
Kian didn't need to look for a device. He had Rudolphson's high-power Auspex Vox-Radio sitting in his stash back in the Sanctum.
"I'll have it for you within the cycle, My Lady," Kian promised.
Securing Nightingale's favor was his top priority. She wasn't just a rchant; she was a gateway to the planet's ruling class. If he handled this correctly, his transition from "Underhive Rat" to "Industrial Lord" would be set in stone.
He gave a few final orders to Shiv and the Kais brothers, then stepped out of the brewery.
Kian's original plan was to find a quiet corner, bite his suicide pill, and respawn in the Sanctum to grab the radio. But he rembered the private lift nearby.
The "Small Lift" connected directly to the Sump. Suicide and respawn took seven hours; the lift took minutes. Kian sprinted back to the warehouse, scanned the House Campella Signet Ring, and the doors hissed open.
He studied the control panel. The interface was a glowing tapestry of Gothic runes. This lift didn't just go to the Mid-Hive; it was a "Master-Key" transit that could bypass dozens of security tiers.
Kian's heart began to hamr with the fever of a true scavenger.
The Spire is currently a state of total anarchy, he realized. The shops are abandoned. The noble estates are empty. The PDF regulars have left behind crates of military-grade gear. It's a literal goldmine.
He understood the situation perfectly. Nurgle's rot hadn't hit its "Apocalypse" phase yet. There were no Great Unclean Ones or Warp-beasts roaming the halls. It was a failure of the local infrastructure—the virus had hit the Spire-citizens first, turning half the population into Poxwalkers.
The true elite were still safe behind the sealed airlocks of the Spire-Tips. They were busy "requesting" more PDF troops to clear the streets for them. Until those troops arrived and the "Great Sanitization" began, Kian had a window to loot the most valuable "Map" in the ga.
Equipping the Spire for Kian was like entering the Tarkov Labs or the Arena Breakout TV Station. High difficulty, but the loot density was legendary.
"Nightingale's theater still has crates of Lasguns," Kian whispered, his legs twitching with excitent. "And that Cogitator Array she used to unlock them... that's the Tier-3 component I need for my Intelligence Center! I have to go back up!"
He forced himself to calm down. Radio first. Logistics second.
He waited as the lift descended. The transit between the Mid-Hive and the Sump was a ten-kiloter drop. Even a Spire-tier machine couldn't ignore gravity.
Finally, with a heavy CLUNK, the lift reached the bottom. The iron doors slid open.
Kian stepped forward, his hand on his sidearm, but he stopped dead.
Blocking the exit was a small army of three hundred n. They were typical Underhive gangers—clad in scrap-iron armor, wielding rusted stubbers and serrated blades.
But instead of charging him, the gangers were standing in two perfect, disciplined rows. Every man had his hands folded politely at his waist, and their faces were masked with subservient, practiced smiles.
Kian stood at the elevator threshold, stunned.
A man who looked like the gang-boss—scarred, missing an ear, but wearing a clean, high-collared vest—stepped forward and bowed low.
"My Lord," the boss croaked. "We were not inford of a personal visitation. Have you co with new directives from the Spire? Does the Master require an increase in production?"
Kian blinked. He looked at his own clothing—grimy PDF fatigues covered in blood and soot. He looked at the gangers, who were waiting for a Spire-Noble's steward to step out.
The boss looked up, his expression shifting from submission to suspicion. He noted Kian's military uniform. Normally, people coming off this lift wore silk suits and slled of perfu. Kian slled of cordite and rot.
"Pardon , sir..." the boss said, his hand slowly drifting toward the grip of a pipe-pistol. "But identify yourself. You do not look like a Steward of House Campella."
Kian swept the room. It was a standard Sump-factory, identical in layout to his own, with four massive reactors visible in the distance. He realized he was standing at the heart of another House Campella Asset.
Kian offered a wide, arrogant grin. He tapped the Signet Ring on his finger, letting the gold and the data-chip glint in the dim light.
"Relax, you beauties," Kian barked, stepping off the lift and slapping the gang-boss on the shoulder. "We're all on the sa payroll. Now, tell , brother... what exactly are you lot producing for the Lady tonight?"
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