Chapter 154: The Vault of the Virtuoso
The woman in the tattered dress felt the cold, heat-stained barrel of Kian's rifle pressing into her teeth. She didn't hesitate. She pointed a trembling finger toward a heavy velvet partition on the left side of the room.
Kian offered a sharp, cynical smile. "My thanks, ma'am. Consider your audit closed."
He pulled the rifle back and approached the curtain, using the muzzle to slowly peel the heavy fabric aside.
Beyond the curtain sat a specialized Mechanicus-pattern medical suite. Resting on a levitating gurney was a young woman, perhaps twenty standard years of age. She was strikingly beautiful, her features elegant and sharp, though currently pale with exhaustion.
An IV line was connected to her arm, pumping a translucent green fluid—likely a high-grade lung-purifier—into her veins. Surrounding the bed was a forest of votive candles, burning incense, and at least a dozen parchment Purity Seals affixed to the frame. Opposite the gurney stood a small, intricate golden statuette of the God-Emperor.
Kian's tactical scan confirmed it: she was sick, but she wasn't rotted.
It was a display of Spire-tier wealth. When the Plaguefather's "Seasonal Grippe" had swept the upper levels, the commoners had died in the streets. But those with credits could afford high-end medical beds to treat the biology and high-end relics to shield the soul.
In the 41st Millennium, the "Cycle of Rot" was a slow process. If you applied enough Sanctity and enough antibiotics before the transformation took hold, you could stall the inevitable.
Lady Nightingale sat up on the gurney, her eyes—intelligent, mature, and entirely too calm for the situation—locking onto Kian's visor.
"Lady Nightingale?" Kian asked, his voice a low rattle.
"I am," she replied tonelessly. "And you are the PDF Sergeant who just turned my stage-crew into wall-decorations."
"I'm the Sergeant who's your only ticket off this floor," Kian countered, stepping closer. "Your steward—rest his soul—mentioned a private express conduit. A 'Small Lift' to the Mid-Hive. Tell me it's functional."
She nodded slowly. "It is. But the Machine Spirit is bound to my lineage. You need my iris-scan to wake the engine."
Kian grunted. "Good. Then you're coming with us. Can you walk, or do I need to carry you like a sack of grain?"
Lady Nightingale offered a faint, mocking smile. "I suspect you already know the answer to that, Sergeant. I am physically compromised."
Kian didn't waste time. He reached into his belt, pulled out the tin of Sanctified Purgation Salve, and smeared a dab onto her forehead.
She flinched, but when the ointment touched her skin, she didn't shriek or sizzle. Her soul didn't rebel. The "Divine Filter" held. She was human.
"Rugged etiquette, Sergeant," she whispered as Kian ripped the IV line from her arm and hauled her into his arms. He tossed her onto the back of a particularly hulking soldier. "You're lacking in Spire refinement."
"Refinement doesn't stop Poxwalkers, My Lady," Kian said, snatching a high-end Las-pistol from the bedside table and tucking it into his belt. "Today, we're playing 'Left 4 Dead: Hive Edition.' Strap in."
He turned to the doorway where the squad was gathered around the twitching form of Ash (Black Charcoal). Kian pulled a Regen-Bolt from his rig and slammed it into the Corporal's neck.
"Move it! We're extracting now!"
The squad adjusted their gear. They hauled the Lady and the wounded Ash toward the foyer. But as they reached the balcony overlooking the main auditorium, the sound of the world ending met them.
RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!!
Egghead's squad was pinned at the front gates. The heavy machine gun was screaming, brass casings hitting the marble floor like hail. Thousands of Poxwalkers had converged on the theater, drawn by the "Noise-Tithe." The street outside was a solid mass of grey, giggling flesh.
"Throne's blood," Kian cursed, looking at the density of the horde. "We can't breach that. We'll be buried in seconds."
The twenty men of the Voss Guard looked at the sea of monsters and felt the first cold touch of despair. They were trapped in a gilded box, and the lid was closing.
"You need more than solid-shot rifles," Lady Nightingale's voice came from the soldier's back, calm and authoritative. "Go back. To the left-hand maintenance corridor. At the very end is a reinforced bulkhead."
"A pantry?" Kian snapped.
"A private armory," she corrected. "My family maintains a garrison of security-serfs. The hardware inside is intended for Spire-tier suppression. Use it, and you might actually survive the walk."
"Shiv! Big Joel! Hold the stairs!" Kian roared. "The rest of you, with me! We're hitting the weapon-stash!"
They sprinted down the corridor, following the Lady's directions. They reached a massive iron blast-door. Kian didn't wait; he held the Lady up so the biometric scanner could catch her eye.
Chirp. CLANK.
The doors cycled open. Kian burst into the vault and stopped dead, his jaw nearly hitting his chest-plate.
It was a miracle of logistics.
Racks of pristine, high-pattern Lasguns stood in rows, their obsidian barrels gleaming in the emergency lights. Crates of power-cells were stacked to the ceiling.
But it wasn't just standard gear. Kian saw Backpack Power-Units—heavy-duty batteries that connected via a thick cable to the rifle, allowing for near-infinite sustained fire.
With a pack-unit, a single soldier could fire ten thousand beams before the Machine Spirit grew tired.
"Jackpot," Kian whispered, a manic grin spreading across his face.
"Arm up, boys! It's time to see how the Spire audits a riot!"
☆☆☆
-> 20 Advanced chapters Now Available on Patreon!!
-> https://www.pat-reon.co-m/c/Inkshaper
(Just remove the hyphen (-) to access patreon normally)
If you like this novel please consider leaving a review that's help the story a lot Thank you