"Impossible?!"
Such an enormous sum of High Thrones made the hearts of Saraph and the Angels Vigilant pound wildly.
They had been poor for too long, and had never seen so many Thrones.
The High Thrones in the account before their eyes were enough to re-equip the Chapter's roughly two hundred warriors—and still have plenty left over!
"This is the war-fund I helped you secure for purchasing equipment."
The stranger in red armor removed his helm.
His thick brows and broad eyes were all righteous solemnity; his voice was low and full of trust:
"We are all the Emperor's Angels. We ought to go to war against the enemies of the Imperium with the finest armor and weapons.
Only so do we not fail the Emperor's protection!"
Saraph swallowed, forcing himself to look away.
He felt even more ill at ease.
He looked at that warm-hearted stranger with both doubt and hope, seeking an answer: "Where… did these Thrones come from?"
The stranger's smile was magnanimous, his manner ever friendlier:
"Brother, this is your reserve credit on the Redemption Armory. Whenever you lack funds in the future, you can draw as needed.
Never again fret over shortages."
Simply put, the stranger had used the Chapter Master of the Angels Vigilant's "ident-sigil" to take out a massive loan.
After hearing this, Saraph frowned. "Ah, brother, that's borrowing, isn't it? I'm a little worried…"
In the galaxy, every deal has a price. Especially loans of this size—they often demand even heavier prices in return.
Large Imperial merchant houses or great family syndicates also offer similar lending… usually with exorbitant interest.
Crushing.
Once you sign, you must pour out interest without end; the burden can break an entire civilized world.
This Chapter Master knew the Angels Vigilant did not have the power to service such interest, and that they might be mired in troubles from it.
Unless they took the resources and defaulted—ran.
But the cost of that was immense.
Within the Imperium's frontiers, contracts are sacred and must be observed, and those contracts from the great merchant houses and great clans are often overseen and enforced by the Masters of Seals of the Ministry of Law.
The Imperium is laughably inefficient in many matters, but on certain records and enforcement it is meticulous.
For example, should some merchant dynasty owe the Imperium a single Throne and drag it out for a hundred years, the debt will still be doggedly pursued.
Even if that dynasty is destroyed, the Imperium may still send people to hunt down its remnants.
Until they retrieve heirlooms equal to the value of that one Throne, plus interest, to balance the ledger—following procedure to the end.
Stubborn to an extreme.
Which is to say: once the Angels Vigilant signed a contract to borrow Thrones, there was a very high chance they would indeed have to repay principal and interest.
Moreover, after they registered entry at important Imperial worlds or void-fortresses, they could be dunned for payment.
Unless they had no wish to live within the Imperium—forever drifting in the void like wild men.
Saraph's earlier excitement drained away, leaving only worry.
It was said that the Chapter notorious for its poverty—the Carcharodons—had once taken an Imperial loan.
Later, being unable to repay, they dared not enter Imperial space for centuries, forever dodging the Ministry of Law's collectors.
But even after wandering free for centuries, they did not escape ruin.
In the end, during a trade with the Mechanicus, the Carcharodons were seized by the Ministry of Law in concert with the Inquisition.
They were forced to make restitution; some warriors had even their armor stripped away.
The entire Chapter was plunged back into poverty.
"By the Emperor, that's a terrifying fate!"
At the thought, Saraph's body trembled despite himself.
As if that was to be the future of the Angels Vigilant.
If they were caught by the Ministry of Law and the Inquisition and pressed for debts, there would be no room to resist.
For the moment Angels of Death raise a hand against the Ministry of Law or the Inquisition, they are judged to have betrayed the Imperium—becoming traitors spat upon by all.
No honor, no loyalty left to their name.
They would only flee everywhere, and be hunted by many battle-brothers besides.
A miserable end.
Indeed, that low is the status of Astartes in the Imperium.
Most Space Marines stand only a little higher than the Imperium's bottom-rung mortals—pitiful.
At all times they must accept Imperial oversight and investigation; some unlucky Chapters are even wronged and annihilated without cause.
Or driven into the realms of Chaos.
And all this, blame a man ten millennia past—the head of the Space Marine Legions, the Warmaster Horus.
The galaxy-wide blaze he lit almost burned away the credibility of the Astartes.
It may be that the Inquisition's brain-boosted psyker cats now outrank most Astartes in loyalty standing.
Only after the Primarch of Extremis revived did the standing of the Astartes begin to rise again.
And once the Savior took the reins of Imperial power, the Astartes' status rose further still—second to none in the Imperium.
But these Angels Vigilant, cut off from the noosphere for over a hundred years, clearly did not know of these changes.
"By the Emperor, we may be about to sink into endless contract-debt!"
When the Angels Vigilant learned they had borrowed one and a half million High Thrones, they felt the sky was collapsing.
They had come only to buy some equipment, and a strange "brother" had tapped a few times on a data-slate—and somehow they now bore a crushing loan.
So many High Thrones—so much debt—even if they sold themselves, they couldn't repay it!
Anxious miasma hung on every Angel Vigilant; there was confusion, helplessness.
They had that "city tricks run deep" feeling—this was more complicated than fighting xenos and heretics.
The new Imperial capital was truly too dangerous!
After the panic passed, Saraph and the others turned their eyes to the culprit who had caused all this.
Yet before they could act, the stranger spoke again.
Facing the unfriendly looks of the Angels Vigilant, the stranger was untroubled—only more patient:
"My brothers, you needn't worry. The Redemption Armory is an official, regular platform under His Majesty the Savior.
New Chapter accounts, according to size, may borrow up to 1.5 to 5 million High Thrones, with a hundred-year interest-free period.
Even after a century, the annual interest is extremely low—not as dear as a single crate of bolt shells!"
This stranger spoke like a righteous angel, endorsing the Redemption Armory.
Hearing him, Saraph hurried to check the account terms—and found it was in fact so.
The Redemption Armory was a reserve-fund platform established by the Savior specially for Astartes Chapters, providing access to large sums of Thrones.
To free Space Marines from the pain of equipment and resource shortages.
In other words, a variant of "consumer credit."
And the loan terms on the platform were very lenient; the repayment period had no set limit—it was nearly a gift.
Which in truth it was: the Savior had no intention of making money off interest here; he simply wished the Astartes to owe him.
Imperial mores were still fairly honest of late; there was no "the debtor is the lord" attitude.
Once the Astartes owed the Savior, they would naturally be more respectful before him, and grateful for this benefaction.
In short, the Savior feared not that the Astartes would borrow too much—only that they would not borrow.
Besides, though he would not earn by interest, once the Astartes drew loans, would they not buy the arms and vehicles he manufactured?
That money would end up back in his hands, and he would still take the profits of Imperial munitions.
That was the main harvest.
Astartes are a sizable high-tier cohort within the Imperium; how could one revive the Imperial economy without their participation?
Now the Savior provided consumer credit to the Astartes, letting them consume ahead of income.
This not only fully revitalized and stimulated Imperial consumption and economic vigor, it also increased the scale and circulation efficiency of Imperial arms production.
A beautiful policy.
In short: make more, sell more, expend more—only then does Imperial manufacturing have a future!
Otherwise, as before—one suit of armor passed through eight generations, and not replaced for hundreds, thousands, even ten thousand years—how could the Imperium's weapons and equipment industry have the motive to expand, to refine production, to develop?
It couldn't!
The Angels Vigilant were newly arrived and had not yet grasped the situation in the Astartes District—nor did they know of certain consumption policies.
Naturally they knew nothing of the Redemption Armory platform.
Now, with the stranger's help, it was easy to borrow a massive sum of High Thrones from the platform to purchase war-gear.
Saraph, having finished his review, finally let out a long breath.
He couldn't help but smile, and offered the stranger an apology: "Forgive us. We were rash a moment ago—we nearly spurned your kindness, brother.
We've only just come to this district; there is much we don't yet understand."
"May the Emperor protect us. We are the Emperor's Angels—all battle-brothers. It's only right to help one another when hardships arise far from home.
Battle-brothers don't cheat battle-brothers!"
The stranger invoked the Emperor with every other breath—so loyal, so generous and bold.
He took no offense at the earlier misunderstanding, and even passed Saraph the ident-code to his vox-channel:
"This city truly isn't like other parts of the Imperium. If you need anything later, contact me without hesitation."
Seeing this, Saraph and the Angels Vigilant felt all the more contrite.
They had nearly wronged a loyal Angel of the Emperor—that would have been a mistake.
Fortunately, the misunderstanding had been cleared.
To receive such warm help upon arrival—each of them felt a pleasant warmth inside.
They watched the stranger head deeper into the showroom, then remained to discuss how to use that windfall.
The warriors were all very excited.
Suddenly, Saraph realized he had yet to ask the warm-hearted warrior's name.
He looked up and saw the man chatting animatedly with the attendants, as if picking out many fine things.
Sensing Saraph's glance, the warm-hearted warrior turned back with a frank, hearty grin.
He even made an "OK" hand sign.
"Perhaps that's some local etiquette?"
Saraph did not know what it meant, but smiling broadly, he returned the sign in the same way.
Afterward, the warm-hearted warrior followed attendants into the fitting suites—and came out in a brand-new suit of crimson Terminator plate.
Its broad, flowing lines drew the eye; its kinetic reserves were abundant.
It was nearly the most expensive suit in the shop—best-in-class among masterwork stock beneath the artisan-saint tier.
Beyond that, he had kitted himself head-to-toe with more master-grade weapons, luxurious relic trinkets, and even one piece that was artisan-saint level.
Obviously, he had bought a great many things in one go—downright extravagant.
"Brothers, keep discussing. I've a mission to prosecute!"
The warm-hearted warrior came out to bid Saraph and the others farewell.
Then, as if receiving an urgent call, he hurried off, tugging a light grav-crate laden with his old kit—moving at a brisk clip.
"He really is a warm-hearted—and wealthy—warrior!"
Watching the man's departing back, Saraph's eyes flashed with a hint of envy.
He too wished to outfit himself as that warrior did, buying more and better war-gear.
But for the Chapter's sake, he had to be frugal—first ensure his warriors all had new armor and weapons,
Instead of keeping to their battered gear.
"His Majesty the Savior is too generous."
"No wonder the Imperium has changed so. He is a Primarch-ruler with true capability."
After that, the Chapter Master returned to the discussion with his warriors; every face beamed with smiles.
Their attitude toward the Savior had, without their noticing, already shifted.
Such is the power of coin.
Yet the Angels Vigilant had been pinched for so long that, even with a fortune in hand, they dared not splurge; instead they compared every price and performance point, item by item.
They wanted to cost out everything.
Chasing the so-called ultimate "value-for-Throne"—you can't buy everything.
"My suit still works. I don't need to replace it, do I? I've used it for centuries; its machine-spirit is far more attuned to me."
Saraph hesitated, and said so.
His power armor could already be called a Chapter relic; a dedicated thrall tended it, soothing the irascible machine-spirit within.
If he switched, he feared maladjustment.
"Hmph. So-called machine-spirit 'attunement'—that's just a poor man's excuse!"
A hearty voice, with a streak of brutality, came rolling in.
Chapter Master of the Carcharodons—Tyberos—strode in with his warriors, apparently dismissive of Saraph's stance.
Saraph felt a flicker of displeasure.
"Ty… Tyberos? What are you doing here?!"
He looked toward the voice—and froze, as if dazzled.
Too extravagant!
Tyberos wore opulent, dark-golden armor studded with rare relics and over-coated in Blackstone; over the whole, a faint special radiance shimmered.
The kit started at masterwork and went up; it looked exceptional.
In an instant, the gap between him and the other warriors yawned wide.
If Saraph's usual gear was a "vanilla +0 mix-and-match," then Tyberos's ensemble was a "+10 set."
Beyond compare.
"Such equipment…"
Saraph could not hide the envy in his eyes—and his disbelief.
Was this truly the same poverty-stricken Chapter Master of the Space Sharks who once had to borrow a few crates of bolt shells from him, who couldn't even assemble a full suit of plate?
How had their brother-in-hardship become rich overnight?!
"Ever since we Carcharodons followed the great, merciful, and generous His Majesty the Savior, our days have been much better."
Tyberos was smug; his nostrils all but tilted at the ceiling.
When he spoke of the Savior, his tone held reverence—bordering on fawning, as if he might lick the boots then and there.
These years, the Carcharodons had scoured for ancient relics—Imperial, Chaotic, xenos—whichever, they dug up and seized,
Then traded them to the Urth Mechanicus for resources.
Life was especially good; even the Chapter's size had swollen severalfold.
This time Tyberos had come to the market with a cadre of promising warriors to spend hard.
He spared Saraph no more glances, and swept his hand wide:
"You're all in old-pattern suits—two whole iterations behind. Turn them in for reclaim and replace the lot—if you like it, take it!"
The Carcharodons' Chapter Master spoke as if he were buying out the place; the sheer momentum suppressed the nearby Angels Vigilant.
"Even those suits—so new—you're replacing? Straight reclaim, not even keeping them?"
The Angels Vigilant stared at the armor on the Carcharodons—and were shocked.
They could tell those suits were relatively new—and far better than their own Chapter's gear.
They even wanted to ask:
"Brother, if you're discarding them, why not just let us wear them?"
They mumbled for a bit, but in the end could not speak such shameful words aloud.
They could only stare, eyes big and hopeful.
"Brother Saraph, I'll say it again: 'machine-spirit attunement' is just a poor man's excuse."
Tyberos spoke with weight:
"Imperial gear now gets better the newer it is—and the pricier, the better. The machine-spirits within are stronger and more obedient.
Those low-tier old suits can't compare to the new ones at all; use them once and you'll know!"
Please—how can those old machine-spirits compare to the machine-spirits the Omnissiah's brides have… trained?
What's more, gear made under the Savior's banners iterates in real technology—and receives the benedictions of the Holy Spire's hallow-light.
The newer and dearer the kit, the more powerful—and the farther ahead its machine-spirit!
So nowadays, the Imperium's better-off Chapters regularly replace with the latest patterns—and needn't worry about "compatibility."
So-called machine-spirit compatibility was only because the old spirits were too pathetic; the new kit's machine-spirits are impeccably mannered.
Using such equipment is a delight!
After picking out gear with his warriors, Tyberos swaggered off.
On to the next place to sweep the shelves.
"Perhaps that braggart Tyberos is… right…"
Looking at the Angels Vigilant gazing enviously after the departing Carcharodons, Saraph, too, made up his mind—to replace a batch of equipment.
Since they had that massive loan, they would use it to raise the Chapter's combat power!
The Chapter Master of the Angels Vigilant was infected by the spirit of spending, and he and his warriors splurged properly.
He even bought himself a suit of lightly luxurious, Blackstone-coated plate—so he wouldn't look shabby when meeting other Chapter Masters later.
Yet when he went to settle the bill, he discovered a serious problem.
"Impossible—how did our tab grow by an extra hundred thousand High Thrones out of thin air?"
Saraph almost shouted it, demanding an answer from the attendant before him—he hadn't spent that much on himself!
(End of Chapter)
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