Chapter 136: The Declaration of War
The Tox-Mother snatched the document from the table, her eyes scanning the High Gothic script for a fraction of a second before she shredded it into a cloud of white confetti.
As the leader of the Alchem-Hounds, she was a master of chemical warfare and bio-mutation. She was the one who had engineered the Onslaught-Stimms and the Chem-Sows. She was literate, cunning, and currently vibrating with a rage that threatened to short-circuit her nervous system.
She had spent half her personal treasury to secure the G-9 Reactor. She had bought the components, paid the Dark-Adepts, and sacrificed dozens of her best men just to restart the turbines. And now, this upstart from the Sump had used a Spire-tier bureaucratic loophole to claim the entire asset as his own.
"You spineless parasite!" the Mother shrieked, her voice echoing off the high ceilings of the justice hub. "You coward! You think a piece of parchment makes you a King?!"
Kian Voss didn't flinch. He leaned back in his chair, exhaling a plume of blue smoke that drifted lazily over the shredded remains of the contract.
"Tear it all you want, Mother," Kian chuckled. "It's a copy. Do you want me to print you another? I have a master-link to the Mechanicus archives. I can bury you in paperwork before your junkies can even load their pipe-guns."
The Tox-Mother lunged forward, her long, jagged fingernails reaching for Kian's throat. Before she could cross the table, the Enforcer Marshal's heavy hand slammed down on hers, pinning her fingers to the wood.
"BITCH!" the Marshal roared. "You think you're in a sump-alley?! This is a hall of the Lex Arcanum! You point those claws at a sanctioned contractor again, and I'll have your fingers harvested for servitor-spare parts!"
The Mother pulled back, her chest heaving. She looked at the Marshal, her eyes wide with shock at his blatant favoritism toward Kian. "But... sir... he is a liar! He stole—"
CLAP.
The Marshal slammed his hand on the table again, but this time, the force was so great that a heavy roll of Agri-Scrips slid out of his utility pouch and hit the floor with a dull thud.
The room went silent. Everyone stared at the bundle of credits—at least ten thousand scrips, bound in a Voss Syndicate rubber band.
The Tox-Mother went quiet. The Marshal coughed, a look of brief, tactical embarrassment crossing his face.
Only Kian remained unbothered. He stood up slowly, leaned over, and picked up the credits. He tucked them back into the Marshal's pouch with the practiced ease of an old friend, patting the leather flap shut. He then turned to the Mother, his eyes cold and mocking.
"You have three cycles to evacuate your 'wraiths' from my reactor," Kian whispered. "If I find a single Hound on my property after the deadline, I'll consider it a breach of contract. And I'm very thorough with my 'liquidations'."
The Tox-Mother realized the shouting was over. The law had been bought, the gears had been greased, and she was the one being ground down. She stood up, her leather robes creaking.
"Fine," she spat, her voice a low, toxic hiss. "If you want a war of the ledgers, I'll give you a war of the pits. We meet in the Strategic Vault. I will catch you, Scav-rat. I'll turn you into a Chem-pig and keep you in a cage until your heart explodes!"
Kian blew a final cloud of smoke into her face.
"You talk a big game for a street-dealer, Mother. Do you think you can win because you have more bodies? In this Hive, the sun doesn't shine because of the Emperor; it shines because my network of patrons allows it.
"I have the Enforcers. I have the Administratum. I have the Mechanicus and the Water Guild. I have the PDF and the Church. You're a peddler of sludge, and I'm the man who owns the pipes. What chance do you actually have?"
This wasn't just a threat; it was a demonstration of "Gothic Face." Kian was reminding her that in a relationship-based society like the Imperium, having the right "Shadow-Patrons" was more important than having a thousand rifles.
The Tox-Mother turned and vanished through the heavy iron doors, her teeth grinding loud enough to be heard across the hall.
The Marshal turned to Kian, his expression neutral once more. "The declaration is noted. In three cycles, you will settle this in Sector S-65. The Lex Arcanum will designate the vault as a Sanctified Kill-Zone. What happens in the dark stays in the dark. Don't damage the structural pillars, or the bill will be... steep."
"Understood, Marshal," Kian said, offering a respectful nod. "Praise the Throne."
Kian left the hub and returned to the Sump. He didn't head for the brewery; he went straight to the Chemical Factory. It was time to mobilize the Voss Guard.
[VOSS SYNDICATE - COMBAT AUDIT]
Kian stood on the training gantry, looking down at his assembled force.
His "Veteran Core"—Shiv, the Joels, and the Kais family—were at the front. Behind them stood two hundred "New Blood" recruits. They had been training for three months, fueled by real meat and fresh produce. They were no longer skeletal dregs; they looked like a proper militia.
Kian had organized them into a modern tactical structure:
Heavy Support Wing: 5 squads of 10 men each. Each squad operated a wheeled 20mm Lumberer-pattern Heavy Stubber.
Armored Spearhead: A 20-man dedicated crew for the reclaimed Chimera.
Infantry Guard: 150 riflemen equipped with refurbished PDF autoguns and Grade-4 Carapace armor.
The Chimera was the center of attention. Shiv had learned the basics of piloting the beast, though his movements were still clumsy. Little Joel sat in the gunner's seat; his self-taught knowledge of the 40mm turret was surprisingly deep.
Imperial weaponry was designed for idiots—it was rugged, simple, and intuitive. In a galaxy where the average soldier had a primary school education, a high-tech weapon that was too complex to use was a liability. The Chimera was a blunt instrument of war, and his boys were ready to swing it.
Kian looked at his private army—heavy guns, armored transport, and a wall of reinforced ceramite.
"Three days," Kian whispered. "Then we show the Hounds that the 'Old Management' is never coming back."
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