Chapter 163: The Purgator's Protocol
Creak-grind-thud.
The massive gears of the private express lift screamed in protest before the heavy plasteel doors slid open, revealing the upper tiers of the Spire once more.
"Top-Tier Spire! Open for Audit!" Kian barked, stepping out into the House Nightingale warehouse.
He headed toward the primary blast door that led to the boulevard, but he stopped when he heard a dissonant sound echoing from the other side. It was laughter—hundreds of wet, bubbly voices joined in a rhythmic chorus.
Poxwalkers. A massive cluster was camping the entrance.
Kian looked around. Near the gate, an industrial ladder led up to the top of the perimeter wall. He scrambled up and peered over the edge. Below him, nearly five hundred Poxwalkers were packed shoulder-to-shoulder, surrounding the warehouse entrance.
They weren't attacking. They were celebrating. Some were singing distorted hymns to the "Bounty," others were reciting "rot-poetry." A few of the most bloated mutants were swaying their gas-filled bellies in a sickening dance, while their companions let out wet squeals of "praise." One Poxwalker had found a shard of shattered mirror and was staring into it, giggling as it admired the weeping sores on its own face.
The leader of the group—a creature with a wooden horn growing through its eye-socket—looked up and spotted Kian on the wall.
"Oh! A new brother!" the monster shrieked, its voice full of friendly, toxic glee. "Come down, traveler! Join the Family! Share the laughter! Share the Gift!"
The entire horde turned as one, reaching their grey, pustule-covered hands toward Kian.
"Come down, Master! We have so much joy to give! No more Spire-taxes! No more fear! Only the Grandfather's love!"
The sound was a psychic buzzing that made Kian's vision swim. He knew what was happening—the "Nurgle-Filter" was trying to take hold of his mind. If he stayed too long, these monsters would start looking like his old school friends.
Kian reached into his tactical rig and pulled out a flask of Sanctified Spirits. He took a massive, burning swig, held the high-proof liquid in his mouth, and then leaned over the edge.
"PFFFFT!"
He sprayed a fine mist of the holy alcohol directly onto the front row of mutants.
The moment the Sanctified Spirits touched the rotted flesh, a violent reaction occurred. The Emperor's power met the Plaguefather's rot, and the results were combustible. A sudden, brilliant flash of Spirit-Fire erupted.
Thirty Poxwalkers were instantly transformed into screaming torches of golden flame. But the fire was only half the punishment.
The holy mist acted as a "Sanity-Nuke." For the first time in weeks, the "Gift" was stripped away from the monsters. They didn't see a beautiful garden anymore. They saw reality.
"I... WHAT HAVE I BECOME?!" one mutant shrieked, staring at its own falling-off fingers.
"THE EMPEROR! THE EMPEROR JUDGES ME!!"
"KILL ME! SOMEONE KILL ME!!"
The horde collapsed into a panic of lucid horror. Those who weren't burning to death were driven to a suicidal frenzy by the return of their sanity. Some ran head-first into the stone walls until their skulls shattered; others clawed their own throats out in a desperate attempt to end the rot.
Kian took another swig and repositioned himself, raking the back of the crowd with more holy spray.
Within minutes, the street in front of the warehouse was a graveyard of scorched carbon and broken bone. The few survivors had vanished into the side-pipes, howling in madness.
Kian wiped his mouth, staring at the empty flask. Efficient, but the range is pathetic, he thought. I can't clear the whole Spire by spitting like a camel.
He turned back to the lift. He had a plan. He needed to talk to Little Hank.
[LITTLE HANK'S FUEL-FORGE - SUMP LEVEL]
The lift doors hissed open, revealing the same "Reception Team" of fuel-gangers. When they saw Kian—armored and smelling of burnt Pox—their subservient grins turned into looks of genuine confusion.
Hank hurried over. "My Lord! Back so soon? Did the Lady require a different blend of promethium?"
Kian didn't waste time. He pointed at a fuel-ganger in the back who was carrying a heavy iron tank on his shoulders, connected to a primitive nozzle-wand.
"That. The Sump-Pattern Flamer. Sell it to me. Now."
Hank hesitated, but seeing the Signet Ring glinting on Kian's hand, he shut his mouth. "Lord... it's a hand-welded 'Fire-Can.' Very crude. Not fit for a Spire- Noble."
"I'm not looking for a decoration, Hank. I'm looking for a Purgator."
"It is yours, Excellency! A gift from the Fuel-Rats!"
Hank signaled the guard to surrender the gear. He walked Kian through the operation. "The rear tank is for the gas-pressure. Ensure the needle stays out of the red. The larger tank is for the payload—our 'Blue-Flame' Promethium mix. You light the pilot-wick with a lighter, pull the valve, and let the Machine Spirit scream.
"You can adjust the nozzle. Tight stream for thirty meters of reach, or a wide mist-cone for ten meters of 'Crowd Control.' One tank gives you about twenty long bursts."
Kian nodded. "I also need ten backup drums of raw fuel. Load them into the lift."
Kian then detoured to his Sanctum. He returned to the lift hauling five liters of Sanctified Oil and a gallon of Sanctified Spirits.
As the lift ascended back to the Spire, Kian began his alchemical work. He poured the holy liquids directly into the promethium drums and stirred the mix with a metal rod. The fuel turned a shimmering, iridescent gold, and a faint hum of power began to vibrate through the metal containers.
He loaded the flamer with the new "Sanctified Mix" and primed the pressure.
The lift hit the Spire floor. Kian stepped out, a massive fuel drum in each hand and the flamer-wand held tight.
He kicked open the warehouse doors and strode into the boulevard, the golden aura of his armor reflecting off the marble walls.
"Alright, you giggling freaks," Kian whispered. "Time for a deep-clean."
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