On the third day of Raynor's return, the Upper Hive Council convened a special session.
Inside the Grand Hall of St. Gallus Castle—usually a stage for the nobility's power struggles—the silence was so profound today that one could hear a pin drop. The hall was packed. The heads of the Twelve Star Families were all present, and the gallery seats behind them were overflowing with minor and mid-tier nobles, all holding their breath.
Their eyes darted around, carefully avoiding the solitary empty chair placed directly below the primary throne. That was the Governor's seat. Everyone was waiting for the man who had crawled back from the mountain of corpses at the Forbidden Wall, the one who had slain two Greenskin Warbosses, subjugated the ice plain wildmen, and was hailed by the masses as the Emperor's Chosen.
Kyrie Von.
The heavy alloy doors were pushed open, and Raynor walked in precisely on time. He wore his Governor's uniform, with the white beast-hide cloak draped over his shoulders. Without looking at anyone, Raynor walked straight to the empty seat, flipped his cloak back with a flourish, and sat down composedly. His movements were slow and deliberate, yet the moment he sat, the atmospheric pressure in the hall seemed to drop further.
The meeting officially began. The first half was as tedious as ever. It wasn't until the agenda was halfway through that Raynor finally looked up.
"Gentlemen, I intend to launch an expedition against Dolido to thoroughly resolve the Greenskin threat."
As his voice fell, the hall became deathly silent. Dolido—the Greenskins' home base—was a sword hanging over Brevis's head. Everyone knew the Greenskins were a dire threat, but no one dared mention an expedition. That meant burning money and shedding blood; it meant the nobles would have to dig deep into their own pockets.
Raynor's gaze swept across the room, his tone flat: "But an expedition requires resources. Ships must be repaired, soldiers must be fed, and cannons must be forged. None of this can be achieved without your support. So, I have invited you all here today to discuss exactly how much each of you can contribute."
Silence reigned for several seconds. The nobles quickly exchanged looks—eyes filled with fear of Raynor's combat record, hesitation over coughing up their fortunes, and a lingering, hidden sense of luck. They knew Raynor held the military power and his prestige was at its zenith. As the Emperor's Chosen, no one dared defy him openly; it was impossible not to pay.
Yet, greed and arrogance were at work in the depths of their hearts. No matter how strong the Governor was, surely he couldn't actually exterminate nobles who had been rooted in the Hive for a thousand years?
Raynor took in every expression. He did not rush them or press for answers. The silence lasted for a full half-minute. Finally, in the oppressive atmosphere, a voice rose from the back, breaking the dead silence with an intentionally light, fawning tone.
"Since the Lord Governor has spoken personally, we shall naturally do our utmost to assist. However..." The speaker was the head of House Loren, one of the lower-ranked families among the Twelve Stars—a well-groomed, portly man in his forties. "We have long heard that the Lord Governor fought a bloody battle at the Forbidden Wall, narrowly escaping death. You must be quite thirsty."
The fat man rubbed his hands, his tone becoming increasingly sycophantic. "How about this: if my Lord can drink ten cups of Dolido wine in succession... just ten cups, and House Loren will contribute one hundred million tons of grain!"
Dolido wine, produced on the agricultural world now occupied by the Greenskins, was the most prestigious and potent spirit in Brevis's noble circles. As soon as these words were uttered, the hall fell silent once more. But this time, the silence lasted only a moment before scattered voices of agreement rose up.
"Yes, yes! The Lord Governor is a hero of legendary capacity; what are ten cups of wine!" "My family will match that! One cup of wine for ten million tons of grain!" "I'm in too! Drink as much as you like, Lord Governor!"
The heckling grew louder. The original oppressive fear was dispersed by this brief moment of "jesting." It wasn't that these nobles weren't afraid of Raynor—they had already prepared to pay a heavy price today. Raynor's military power, prestige, and victories were undeniable. But now, they saw a chance to mock this insufferable Governor before paying up. To see him make a fool of himself in public, even for a moment, would satisfy their pathetic sense of superiority. Fear was temporarily suppressed as foolishness and luck sprouted like weeds.
Carter's face turned livid, veins bulging at his temples. But just as he was about to stand, Raynor lightly raised a hand. Carter paused, looking at Raynor in confusion. Then he smiled; this was the composure of a man meant for great things.
Raynor's face showed no trace of anger; he simply smiled faintly. He reached out, picked up the first cup of Dolido wine on the table, and drained it without hesitation. The crimson liquid slid down his throat, its fire-like intensity instantly searing his gullet. Yet his expression remained unchanged, as if he were drinking plain water rather than a potent spirit.
He set down the empty cup and picked up the second, draining it as well. One cup after another, his movements were fluid and uninterrupted.
From the high seat, High King Karadogon lifted his eyelids, his indifferent gaze sweeping over the drinking Raynor. Then he closed them again, letting out a silent sigh. Long before Raynor's return, he had already made concessions for the Emperor's Chosen. Most of the nobles who had plotted the attack on Raynor had been investigated; he had packaged their heads and estates for Carter to handle. That was merely surface-level "sincerity," a welcoming gift for Raynor.
As for the remaining people, he had specifically left them for Raynor—to serve as targets for his venting upon his return. This was the most appropriate way to handle the homecoming of a "God of War" from the frontier.
But now, Raynor was neither angry nor making a scene; instead, he was sitting here drinking with these wastes. Karadogon's brow furrowed deeper. This abnormal calm meant that what was about to follow would be far more violent.
The ninth cup went down. A faint flush finally appeared on Raynor's face. But his eyes remained clear, without a trace of intoxication. He picked up the tenth cup.
The room held its breath. All the heckling nobles widened their eyes, excitement gleaming in their gaze. Nine cups! This arrogant Governor had truly downed nine cups of the strongest Dolido wine! As long as he drank this final cup, they could go back and brag endlessly: We made the invincible Lord Governor drink ten cups of wine! Their reputation would be secure, and they would even feel a sense of "glory" when paying out the grain later.
But Raynor didn't drink. He looked up, his purple eyes scanning the hall. Everywhere his gaze landed, the excited, greedy, and mocking looks instantly chilled. The temperature in the hall plummeted to the freezing point.
Raynor flashed his signature smile, but it carried no warmth. In the next second, he flicked his wrist sharply. The bright red liquid poured down, splashing at his feet.
Raynor tossed the empty cup aside, turned, and walked straight toward the exit. He didn't say another word. The heavy alloy doors slammed shut behind him with a deafening boom. It sounded like a death knell, echoing in the heart of every noble.
The hall returned to silence. The head of House Loren, who had made the first proposal, found his fawning smile frozen on his face. He opened his mouth to say something—to explain it was just a joke—but found his throat as dry as sandpaper. He turned his head sharply, like a drowning man grasping at a final straw, looking toward Karadogon on the high seat with eyes full of desperate pleading.
High King! Save me! I was just momentarily confused!
Karadogon only gave him a fleeting glance. That look held no emotion whatsoever. Then, he rotated his High Throne, turning his back to the assembly and completely shutting out the panic and pleas of the nobility.
The Loren patriarch's legs gave out. Unable to support himself any longer, he collapsed heavily into his chair, his face the color of ash. "It's over..."
The other nobles finally reacted, their faces turning paper-white as they began to tremble. They finally remembered exactly what they had just done. They had mocked a God of War who had just slain two Greenskin Warbosses and single-handedly turned the tide of battle. A man who was personally certified by the Emperor as the Chosen.
In the most foolish way possible, they had provoked a man they absolutely could not afford to offend. Fear, like the howling winds of the ice plains, flooded the council hall, chilling them from head to toe.