Ring! Ring!
Ring! Ring!
As the electronic chimes rang out once more, the exam time officially concluded. Candidates filed out of the venue to submit their papers. Those who felt they had no hope of passing left immediately, shoulders slumped in dejection. Those confident in their performance, however, flocked toward the west side of the plaza.
A ten-meter-high electronic screen stood there. Shortly, the rankings for this exam would be broadcast upon it. Candidates waiting for the results gathered in small clusters, whispering amongst themselves. Most of the chatter wasn't about the test itself, but rather speculation and anxiety regarding the newly added practical phase.
"You think the Minister added this test just to screw with us?"
"Usually, Tax Collector selection is just a written exam. Adding a practical phase out of the blue... maybe they want to test our combat skills?"
"Don't be ridiculous. We're testing to be tax collectors, not the Imperial Guard. Why would we need combat skills?"
"Don't be so sure. Don't forget, a huge chunk of people taking this exam are just trying to dodge the draft. Maybe the Minister increased the quota to a hundred just to use this 'test' as an excuse to ship the extras straight to the front lines."
At those words, several faces turned ashen. The fear was palpable. It took a while before someone spoke up to argue.
"Stop with the conspiracy theories. The Tax Department falls under the Ministry of Finance. Even if they're picking people, the Imperial Guard doesn't have the authority to step in. It's likely a test of our adaptability. Korol isn't exactly peaceful; you're bound to run into trouble while collecting taxes. You need a bit of backbone for the job."
This explanation was met with general nods of agreement, and the tense atmosphere eased slightly. Nearby, Byrne took in every word of their conversation. He knew all too well that in this cesspool of a world, any "reasonable" rule could hide a filthy transaction. While he didn't want to believe the darker theories, in the world of Warhammer, even the most absurd paranoia often became a bloody reality. In this meat-grinder of a universe, the lives of the low-born were cheaper than weeds.
Before long, fifteen minutes had passed. The dark electronic screen flickered to life, displaying a line of bold Gothic script.
[Public Notice: Top 100 Candidates for the Tax Collector Qualification Exam]
The list began to scroll. It showed only names and seat numbers, not the actual scores. Conventionally, the higher the name on the list, the higher the grade. The scroll speed wasn't fast, but for the waiting candidates, every second was agony.
"Yes! I see my name!"
"It's over... I didn't make the top hundred. I'm going to be drafted..."
Byrne scanned the screen and quickly found his name near the top of the second column. With the help of NZT-48, Byrne could have easily scored a perfect hundred. However, he had chosen not to.
17th place. Not at the absolute top, but well within the safe zone. It was perfect. For a kid from the Lower District to take first place would be too conspicuous; it was better to keep a low profile.
Beyond his own name, Byrne spotted Selena's. Unlike his reserved approach, the noble lady had been quite blatant—she had taken the top spot. For a sheltered noble daughter to not only take an entry-level exam but to crush thousands of competitors was something that "experiencing life" couldn't fully explain.
Suddenly, a broadcast boomed across the plaza.
"All top one hundred candidates, assemble at the transport vessels on the north side of the plaza within fifteen minutes. Latecomers will be considered to have forfeited their qualification."
The announcement sent the crowd into a frenzy. While many were lost in confusion, Byrne simply clasped his hands behind his head and strolled toward the assembly point. In his view, worrying about "what-ifs" was useless; he would deal with whatever came his way. With NZT-48, even if the test was a trap, he was confident he could find a way out.
Fifteen minutes later, at the northern assembly area, the hundred candidates had gathered. It seemed the fear of the unknown was still secondary to the terror of the Imperial Guard conscription. Two large transport ships were parked nearby—massive, gunmetal-gray vessels emblazoned with the golden Imperial Aquila.
The hatches hissed open, and several soldiers in black carapace armor stepped out.
"All personnel, line up by rank. Have your tickets ready for boarding. No talking or wandering during flight."
The candidates didn't dare hesitate. Byrne took his place as the seventeenth person in line. Once aboard, he noted the cabin was spacious, with rows of metal seats along the bulkheads. Selena, the first to board, sat at the very front with her eyes closed, resting.
Byrne found a seat by a porthole. The moment he sat, magnetic restraints snapped across his waist, securing him. A few minutes later, the hatches sealed, and the cabin lights dimmed, leaving only the natural light from the portholes and the occasional flicker of status lamps.
With a slight vibration, the ships lifted off. Byrne watched through the glass as Imperial Plaza shrank into a tiny, blurred speck of light. The cabin was deathly silent; no one dared to speak. Faces were grim, fists were clenched, and everyone sat in stifling anticipation of what was to come.
An hour later, the transports reached their destination: a factory complex built in the middle of a wasteland. Once the ships settled, a black-armored soldier stood up. "Attention. Release restraints and disembark in order."
The soldiers exited first, standing guard on either side of the ramp with bolters held ready. Stepping out, Byrne surveyed the area. The factory wasn't particularly large, and judging by the crumbling masonry, it had been abandoned for a long time.
Just then, a man in heavy gray power-plate approached. To Byrne, this was the first true "big guy" he had seen in the Warhammer world. Compared to this man, the "Governor-esque" Keith looked like a little brother.
"Greetings. I am Marcus, your primary proctor for this test. You may have thought being a Tax Collector was a cushy job—sitting in an office, checking ledgers, and collecting tithes."
Marcus paused, his voice booming. "Wrong. Dead wrong. In Korol, a Tax Collector must deal with cunning merchants, rebel raids, xenos pests, and even the taint of the Warp."
"Therefore, the subject of this test consists of only two words: SURVIVE!"