The silence extended for several seconds.
Kian blinked.
"That's... rather sudden, isn't it."
The General's gaze was unwavering. Intense. The iron plate on his skull caught the light.
"I have no choice! My line ends with . My family's title has to pass to soone. And you — your age is right, your capability I've witnessed personally, and you have the ambition to sustain a house with centuries of history behind it.
So. Be my adopted son."
Kian frowned.
There's a certain type of man who jokes about marrying into money constantly, makes it a personality trait, talks about it at every opportunity — and then, when the actual opportunity materialises in front of him, discovers that his dignity has opinions.
Kian was, apparently, that type of man.
(Sowhere in the Mid-Hive, Reynaud sneezed.)
"General. I appreciate the offer. I don't think I'm the right fit."
The General leaned forward.
"You are exactly the right fit. Every noble-born heir I've ever t is soft. Comfortable. They've had everything handed to them and they haven't done a single interesting thing with any of it. Their idea of ambition is a better wine cellar.
But you — you ca from nothing. You fought for every centitre you have. I can see it in your eyes. If you carry my title, you'll take this family sowhere it's never been."
"I appreciate that. The answer is still no. A friend told I have too much pride to eat soft rice. Taking a title from a man I'm not related to and calling him father — I can't do it."
Zeppelin and his steward exchanged a look. The steward stepped forward.
"My lord Baron. Are you aware of how many senior officials have raised concerns about your activities?
The Leman Russ tanks. The private army in the Underhive. The strategic reserve vault you've occupied. Several parties have attempted to bring formal action against you. My master has spoken in your defence on multiple occasions. Without his advocacy, you would have faced significant complications by now."
Kian's expression shifted. The steward raised a hand quickly.
"That is not a threat, my lord. I simply want you to understand the scope of what my master has done for you."
Kian sat with that for a mont, then redirected.
"General — for a title succession, wouldn't blood relatives be the conventional choice? Distant nephews, cousins — you must have so."
Zeppelin sighed. The steward answered.
"My lord, noble inheritance is more complicated than it appears. The General does have blood relatives who could technically inherit. But they all belong to established houses with their own interests.
If my master nad a relative from a powerful house as his heir, the result would not be the continuation of the Zeppelin family. It would be absorption. Within a generation, the Zeppelin na would be a footnote in soone else's genealogy."
Kian began to understand.
The General had gone through the family records before this conversation. Every blood-related candidate with a credible claim belonged to a house large enough to swallow the Zeppelin na whole. Inviting them in was not succession — it was a slow, polite form of extinction.
An adopted heir with no existing house, on the other hand, would carry the Zeppelin na forward as his own. The culture survived. The lineage continued in the only way that actually mattered.
And if that heir happened to be soone who had demonstrated a talent for building power from nothing — so much the better.
The General spoke again, more quietly.
"I've been watching you, Voss. Your military strength is approaching mine. I say this plainly: if you keep growing at your current rate, the high nobility will stop ignoring you. A gang lord in the Underhive is noise. A warlord with a real army is a political problem. You need cover from above.
As for —" He paused. "The Rejuvenat physicians have told the radiation has penetrated to the cellular level. My blood carries it. My bones carry it. With treatnt, I have perhaps eighty years left."
He dabbed at the corner of his eye.
Kian stared at the ceiling.
Eighty years. He's mourning eighty years as though it's a tragedy.
"So," Kian said. "You're essentially making a proposal. What are you offering?"
The steward was already prepared.
"My master's financial holdings—"
"Five hundred billion Agri-Scrips."
"—his industrial assets—"
"Three large-scale manufacturing complexes. Twelve mid-tier facilities. Ninety-two smaller concerns."
"—his territorial holdings—"
"Twenty thousand square kilotres of registered land."
"—his military resources—"
"Three ard atmospheric aircraft. Three thousand private soldiers."
"—and his connections—"
"Dining rights with the Planetary Governor. The Munitorum considers my master a personal ally."
The General made a small gesture.
"And if you find the paternal framing uncomfortable, we can fra it differently. Family by choice rather than formal adoption. Uncle and nephew, if you prefer."
The steward: "He'll settle for being looked after in his final eighty years."
Kian was quiet for a long ti.
Several different calculations ran simultaneously. Political cover for his growing operation. Industrial capacity. Territory. Three thousand soldiers in powered armour. Access to the Governor's table.
Against: a slight bruise to his sense of self-sufficiency.
He made his decision.
He adopted a tone approximately three registers higher than his normal speaking voice.
"Uncle Zeppelin~~~~ I'm hungry~~~~"
☆☆☆
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