Inside the Exchange Hall, the crowd grew ever more agitated—frantic, even.
The value of Dawn City's Webway Core Assets kept climbing. The gain was about to blow past 40%, and there was no sign of stopping.
That was terrifying.
More terrifying still: the high nobles were still buying. None of them wanted to stop—terrified of missing their chance.
"We missed the best window. No one can stop this now…"
"N-no… don't panic. It might just be a technical adjustment. We still have time."
"By the God-Emperor, our family funds are running dry. Mortgage… I'm mortgaging two Hive Worlds!"
Many nobles trembled—more nervous than they'd been back at the West Icevault Hotel.
They were finally realizing: the price crush had hit, and a new consensus had formed.
Namely: Dawn City's Webway Core Assets will rise—and won't stop in the short term. The earlier you buy, the greater your return.
Besides, the number of core assets is fixed—especially in the first-wave districts, which are essentially the prime sites of the Webway.
If a house fails to secure a foothold now, it will be culled in the ferocious competition to come.
That's inevitable. In the old days, because of pre-Webway limits, noble houses and free-traders could only do business in their adjacent sectors or parts of a region.
With the Webway, their trade can reach the entire Imperium.
That's a vast market—and staggering profit. If you don't enter, how do you compete?
In this scenario, there's only one choice: rush. No one will abandon such spoils.
Buy. Buy. BUY!
Suddenly, the market changed. The nobles fell silent—then exploded with noise again.
"They're gone. How can they be gone?!"
"Impossible! There were still many districts unsold!"
They discovered, abruptly, that they could no longer purchase new core assets. The catalog count hit zero and greyed out.
Sold out already?!
Breaths quickened. Eyes stabbed at their neighbors—everyone else looked like a base plunderer, the thief who'd stolen their inheritance.
Weren't we supposed to hold the line together and force the Webway prices down? Since when did you all sneak aboard behind our backs?!
Just as despair set in, a fresh notice arrived—and they exhaled in relief.
A technical adjustment.
Due to the shocking rate of increase, trading was temporarily halted. Purchase access would be released in waves thereafter.
Some top Webway assets would be sold by auction.
Smiles crept back. As long as they could still buy, they still had a chance.
But the emotional whiplash—roller-coastering in minutes—shattered their bottom line of expectation.
A few nobles began to really get it. Their faces darkened.
This was a crafted market maneuver—the Savior's Commerce Ministry was controlling float by phasing purchase windows and adding auctions.
That not only manufactured scarcity; it also managed and elevated price levels. They would pay more—much more.
A vile, shameless commercial trap!
They fumed, but there was nothing they could do. Into the trap they marched.
There was no other path.
In this round of commercial war, they'd been routed—completely.
"Praise the Savior—I bet right!"
Drew Ovelia bit down on the grin tugging at his lips, lest joy draw hatred to him.
He'd gone all in before the spike, and House Ovelia's books had nearly doubled.
After today, his claim to inheritance was immovable.
"Heh—I called it! I called it!
I, Warren Tartaros, am a born financial genius!"
A fat lord's laugh boomed.
The man looked close to swooning from sheer excitement.
The House Tartaros heir—the Savior's so-called "lapdog," the Armageddon Sector's famous "country squire's fool," an oddity among nobles—had unexpectedly become one of the biggest winners.
Warren wasn't smart. He'd broken under torture, developed PTSD, and reflexively prostrated before the Savior.
When he sobered up, the mockery only pushed him to double down out of spite—he staked most of the family patrimony.
He could—he's the sole heir.
Now the house big-winner was filthy rich—basking in an unrivaled sense of achievement, and even more firmly planted at the Savior's side.
The "lapdog" jeers only enraged the other nobles further—their eyes red with envy.
Fists clenched all around.
If not for Emperor's Angels patrolling the hall, they'd have rushed the Tartaros fool already.
Across the floor, the other side was pure celebration.
The new rich had bought swathes of Webway core assets early; this surge launched them into the stratosphere.
A killing. An absolute killing.
Who'd have thought one's net worth could double in half an hour?
Those who levered hardest—taking on debt to go all in—had spiked even farther, joining the Imperium's top tier of wealth instantly.
A small subset of new rich, however, regretted everything.
Their faith had been weak; they'd only bought fringe assets.
Now that the core exploded, they could no longer touch that wealth. They'd effectively bowed out of the Webway game in advance.
The future would not be kind.
Their regret cut deeper than the nobles', because the Savior had mercifully offered them opportunities—extra loan support included.
They hadn't cherished it. They'd missed this chance.
There was nothing left but a dim retreat.
"Praise the Savior~
His Majesty never lets faithful effort go to waste—our stakes returned multiplied!"
Yor and company straightened, faces flushed with irrepressible joy.
They were the new rich who believed the most and invested the deepest—and their rewards defied imagination.
Especially Yor: he'd placed nearly everything into core Webway assets; even his least tranche had doubled.
And those small palaces in the top-tier residential district had become prey for frenzied nobles.
The can-seller's fortune now placed him among the richest even against old blood.
"Tonight I'll book the Herax Hotel—you're all invited to a banquet to celebrate our victory in investment and our faith!"
Yor lifted his hands, brimming with vigor.
He still carried a touch of roughneck spirit—daring and loyal to the Savior.
The guests gladly accepted; they wanted a place to share the joy—
—and to seal more deals.
"Ah—but we might not make it in time…"
A few new rich looked sheepish.
The Herax Hotel—decked in sacred relics—ranked among Dawn City's premier lodgings.
More importantly, it sat in the High-Tier Residential zone—a long trek from the Exchange.
"Dawn City" is a sector-scale zone in truth; crossing districts is essentially interstellar travel.
Only the Webway makes it swift.
At this hour, there was no way they could reach Herax before dawn.
"Which lanes do you use?" the one-eyed trader asked them.
Inside Dawn City, different Webway lanes are assigned by clearance, to avoid interference.
"A-ah… we only have access to standard lanes for now. It's… slower," they admitted.
"We run exclusive and ultra-fast lanes. You're on standard—no wonder you'll be late."
The one-eyed trader's smile thinned. "If you're on standard lanes, perhaps you're not… qualified for this banquet.
Better if you don't come."
In Dawn City, access to exclusive and ultra-fast lanes is typically reserved for high-ranking officials, elite talent, Imperial warriors—
—and those who paid dearly for high-grade residences or strongly backed Dawn City's build and thus received special plates granting fast-lane rights.
From the Savior's perspective, he's a businessman—deliver quality and quantity. If he's going to harvest this hard, a little compensation sits better with the conscience.
It's also a badge of status and honor—an added value for elite housing.
And it subtly pressures more nobles to buy into the high-tier districts.
Like now: those with high-tier residential stakes instantly outclass those without.
If you're slow even in getting around, how will you mingle in the noble circuit?
More to the point, refusing to buy high-tier residences signals tepid faith—
—a lack of wholehearted support for the Savior.
That's one reason the one-eyed trader and other new rich were freezing them out.
Before long, the new rich filtered out toward the banquet.
Most nobles stayed, eyes glued to the giant screen.
Every so often, a new slice of core Webway assets would be released.
They had to watch like hawks—or see the rarest lots snatched away.
…
Commerce Ministry.
In the data command hall, dozens of huge displays tracked every Webway asset; dense streams of figures logged the transactions.
From here, they gripped the commerce of Dawn City's Webway and the Imperium's regions.
Only thus could the Savior's invisible hand steer the Imperial economy.
"Brother Eden, so this is Dawn City's Webway commercial economy?
What an ocean of profit… If the Indomitable Crusade had even a tenth of these funds, it wouldn't have been so brutal."
Guilliman's voice shook with incredulity.
In such a short time, the Commerce Ministry had reaped an immense tide of capital.
Enough to buy several of Ultramar's Five Hundred Worlds.
Even as a wealthy Primarch, his own holdings amounted to the wealth of a single highly prosperous sector.
The Savior, though, was harvesting across thousands of sectors through the Imperium.
Not the same order of magnitude.
And this was just the start. Once all core assets are sold, the total will surpass imagination.
Worse (or better), it isn't a one-off. The Savior will keep collecting annual taxes.
A very fat income.
Then tack on commerce taxes, port dues, and so on…
"Old G, Old Khan—when the Webway economy goes full-spectrum, how many Ultramars do we rake in per year…?"
Eden eyed the spinning numbers, musing.
He'd grown used to using Old G as a unit of measure.
For instance: the Khan's combat power is about 1.3 Guillimans. Dawn City Phase I's early property and land tax revenue equals about 3.5 Ultramars.
No one batted an eye at the unit.
Guilliman felt slightly insulted—but that brother of his had earned the right to insult.
It was also, annoyingly, true.
"I have to push harder," Guilliman thought, suddenly desolate. His gap with Eden widened by the day—soon beyond reach.
As if a pathetic barrier had risen between them.
Then—
"Hahahaha! Brother Eden—this much wealth and materiel! We could raise an even greater crusade!
One day, we'll ride beyond the galaxy and smash the Great Devourer flat!"
The Khan's laughter filled the hall.
The White Scars' Primarch had never forgotten their first ideal:
Riding the starlanes to war—conquering every place they could reach.
Guilliman's eyes lit with tears.
Yes—the Imperium finally had money.
He felt it deeply because he had known poverty. When he launched the Indomitable Crusade, he nearly hocked everything—including his pants.
Under Eden's stewardship, the treasury no longer starved. They could finally do things.
"Truly, Father chose well in naming Brother Eden."
Guilliman's heart swelled.
He, too, burned to launch a crusade grander than the Great Crusade of old—
To win more victories and glory than even the Emperor.
"Hey—don't start spending these piles yet. They're earmarked for Webway construction. There's a mountain of nodes to clear and rebuild—mega-hubs to raise.
"And more than half goes to Father's Sacred Tower—for life support."
Eden doused them both. "For now, we're lucky to fund the Redemption Crusade. And don't forget—the Chaos gods are watching.
"They won't let us reach our goals easily."
The Ruinous Powers feed on disorder and suffering—they hate order.
If the Misty Expanse stabilizes, it's like tearing a slab of meat from their jaws.
They won't accept it.
Eden's face hardened. Even with momentum, he couldn't relax.
The gods are hateful, undying—and always plotting a reversal.
Remember the Emperor—at the brink of victory, struck by Chaos treachery.
The price was hideous.
Worse, the Emperor's drift toward darkness had dulled the holy light's counter to Chaos—shrinking its reach.
That meant Eden must lean more on hard power, not holy radiance.
Our "big thigh" isn't as thick as before—and might become the enemy's giant thigh. Not a comforting thought…
The Imperium thrives—yet greater threats draw near.
Like the Aeldari empire—one misstep, and the height of splendor became the pyre of ruin.
Such is this thrice-cursed 40K universe—stability and grace are rarest jewels.
Guilliman and the Khan fell silent.
They knew now—it wasn't as rosy as it looked.
Perhaps more dangerous than the birth of the Great Rift.
Bzz—
An alert chimed on Eden's comms—urgent war channel.
He glanced down, frowning.
"We prepare. New intel from the Misty Expanse—we're under attack.
A Dark Angels fortress world fell with staggering speed…"
Both Primarchs stiffened.
—
Not long ago.
Misty Expanse Hub — Fortress World.
WHOOOM—
A grotesque beam lanced out, annihilating the fortress world's orbital defenses. A Dark Angels void keep went up like fireworks in the void.
On the ground, blast after titanic blast. The crust split; fountains of lava speared into the sky.
The mighty fortress world fell.
Apocalypse writ large swept up a relief frigate as it arrived—dragging it into the storm.
Soon, the ship lurched free of the dust cloud—hull in tatters.
"By the Emperor… what kind of monster is this?!"
On the bridge—
Arcs of electricity spat; a hole gaped in the dome.
Armored corpses lay where they fell.
A warrior in dark green power armor—winged helm crests marking him a Son of the Lion—stared through a shattered viewport at his dying world. His photo-optic shook violently.
He had never faced an enemy as horrific as this.
(End of Chapter)
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