Although he spoke of "simple conditions," the towering stained-glass windows on both sides of the corridor refracted brilliant light and shadow in the sunlight, depicting the deeds of the Emperor's saints, and the floor was paved with precious stone materials from distant Star Districts, every detail showcasing solemnity and magnificence.
They arrived at an intricately carved elevator, its door frame inlaid with pure gold saint reliefs.
After they entered the carriage, Alex suddenly noticed something, turning to gaze at the gleaming golden saint statue on the inner wall.
The facial contours looked more and more familiar, and he couldn't help but show a wry smile.
"An Ecclesiarchy saint statue, isn't it a bit much to put my face on it?" Alex asked the Old Bishop helplessly.
The Old Bishop's expression was calm, as if discussing the weather: "Governor, what do you think is the difference between you and a saint now?"
Alex's brow furrowed deeper, his fingers unconsciously tightening on the elevator handrail: "I'll say it again, I am just an ordinary mortal executing the Emperor's will.
Every soldier in the Expeditionary Force, every craftsman on the Forge World, and even the lowest-level laborers in the Hive City—we all serve the Emperor in our own ways. My duty is no nobler than theirs."
The Old Bishop's wrinkled fingers gently caressed the holy seal pendant on his chest, but the light in his eyes grew even more fervent: "Sir, do you know that it is this humility that makes your holy deeds even more dazzling?
When you say 'I am just a mortal,' you can lead the Expeditionary Force to defeat terrifying xenos; when you claim 'I am no different from anyone,' you can personally banish a Daemon Prince and send two xeno planets into the Warp."
The Old Man suddenly smiled mischievously: "You see, even the Machine Spirit in this elevator is exceptionally docile to you."
Alex glanced at the elevator's control panel upon hearing this—indeed, the elevator, which usually hummed, was running unusually smoothly and quietly today.
This made his temples throb faintly; such "miracles" would only deepen the fanaticism of believers.
He knew all too well the consequences of being placed on a pedestal: fanatical believers would treat his every word as a divine oracle, every decision as divine will.
At that point, let alone promoting reforms, even the most basic strategic adjustments would likely be resisted as "blasphemy against holy will."
He had always been very repulsed by the Ecclesiarchy's fanatical religious atmosphere; although he understood it was necessary, the fanatical religious atmosphere often made him feel disgusted.
Especially when he saw the Ecclesiarchy's series of rituals, where it was hard to tell if they worshipped the Emperor or the second oldest, Alex would genuinely feel a physical discomfort.
But in the Warhammer World, this living hell, if you don't believe in the Emperor, the other four will be eyeing your soul.
So believing in the Emperor is necessary, but overly fanatical faith is annoying. And this is precisely the key point of Alex's contradictory attitude towards the Ecclesiarchy.
"We've arrived." The Old Bishop's voice interrupted his thoughts.
The elevator doors slid open silently, and the scent of incense and parchment wafted out.
Alex took a deep breath, temporarily pushing these contradictions back into his heart—today's discussion was about other matters; theological debates could be continued another day.
"Bishop, regarding the topic of saints, I think we should still follow the regulations of the Holy Terra Ecclesiarchy Headquarters, what do you think?" Alex softened his tone, his fingers gently tapping the armrest of the chair.
He deliberately avoided the Old Bishop's eager gaze, turning his attention to the Emperor's holy icon hanging on the wall of the reception room—that was the true object of worship for believers.
A knowing smile appeared on the Old Bishop's wrinkled face; he nodded slightly, his white robe rippling with the movement: "Of course, Governor. I will formally submit an application to the Terra Ecclesiarchy, promoting the sacred procedure of canonizing you as a Living Saint."
He spoke with a devout tone, as if discussing a sacred mission that was already destined.
Alex's mouth twitched almost imperceptibly.
He picked up the teacup, took a small sip of tea, and used the steaming warmth to hide his helpless expression: "Let's talk about that when the day comes. For now, please don't engage in personal worship; I am very…"
He paused for a moment, searching his mind for words that could express his distaste while remaining polite, but ultimately just shook his head: "If you insist on using a holy icon, please continue to use the face of Saint Celestine. I don't think she would mind."
"As you wish." The Old Bishop nodded peacefully, his age-spotted fingers making the Aquila gesture over his chest: "I will remind the craftsmen to make the necessary adjustments."
He unexpectedly did not dwell on this issue, which made Alex secretly relieved.
The attendants silently exited the reception room, and the heavy oak door slowly closed under the drive of a mechanical device, making a dull "click" sound.
The Old Bishop pressed the runic button on the corner of the table, and with a hum as an energy field activated, a faint blue light illuminated the walls around the reception room—this was a sign that the most advanced soundproofing field was in operation.
Now, this room had become a secluded chamber, impenetrable to any listening device.
After confirming that the soundproofing field was perfectly operational, the Old Bishop relaxed his solemn expression from earlier; he leaned forward slightly, his wrinkled hands clasped on the table: "Governor, you have come specifically to see this old man, presumably to resolve the current labor shortage in the Star District?"
This conjecture was not surprising.
Alex looked directly into the Old Man's wise eyes and nodded decisively: "That's right, the labor gap in the entire Sub-Sector has already exceeded ten million.
The only channels that can provide me with qualified labor, besides the Adeptus Mechanicus, are those controlled by the Ecclesiarchy."
At this point, Alex's brow unconsciously furrowed.
He paused for a moment, seemingly choosing his words carefully: "The Adeptus Mechanicus's Life Womb Factory can indeed quickly produce laborers, but Sage Olegana's production line on Rostov III… its capacity is far from keeping up with the growth in demand for the entire Sub-Sector."
"I see." The Old Bishop slowly nodded, the light in his eyes under his silvery eyebrows flickering with understanding: "It seems the situation is even more severe than I imagined."
He caressed the holy seal pendant on his chest, but then suddenly changed the subject: "However, Governor, you should understand that even with the Ecclesiarchy's influence, organizing such a large-scale migration would not only require a long time to prepare but also an astronomical amount of resources."
Alex's lips tightened.
He had anticipated this answer and was prepared with a countermeasure: "I understand the Ecclesiarchy's difficulties."
His voice was steady and firm: "I understand. If the Ecclesiarchy has any needs, as long as Rostov can meet them, I will try my best to satisfy them."
"As long as you let the Emperor's light shine throughout the entire Sub-Sector." The Old Man's voice suddenly became incredibly clear, every word seeming to have been tempered a thousand times: "Let the people on every planet devoutly recite His holy name, and let His faith spread like a spark to every corner."
Alex's pupils constricted slightly, his knuckles unconsciously tightening on the armrest of the chair.
He had expected to hear specific conditions such as tax exemptions or missionary privileges, but he hadn't expected the Old Bishop's request to be so… pure.
The ancient mechanical clock continued to tick, its sound exceptionally clear in the sealed reception room.
The Old Bishop's aged fingers gently caressed the faded Aquila emblem on his chest, his gaze still resting on the mural—in which the Emperor's golden light was dispelling the gloom of Chaos.
Alex's brow relaxed almost imperceptibly.
This request was so simple it almost made him suspicious—no Attach clauses, no specific details, just the most unadorned permission to preach.
He pondered for a moment, then nodded decisively: "That is only natural."
He, of course, understood the value behind this.
When the Great Rift tore open the galaxy, only firm faith could protect the souls of mortals from being corrupted by Chaos.
Although the Great Rift would open in twenty years, Alex couldn't wait until it opened to prepare.
Twenty years, on an interstellar scale, was but a blink of an eye; he had to ensure that every planet built a spiritual fortress.
The Old Bishop seemed to see through his thoughts, and a knowing smile appeared on his wrinkled face.
The air between them suddenly lightened, as if a silent understanding had been reached that transcended words.
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