Chapter 25: Tier-2 Black Market Protocol
Kian Voss waved a dismissive hand, looking entirely too bored for a man who had been pink mist a few hours ago.
"Don't worry about the details, Nephal. Just pay the bill."
Nephal, the sallow-skinned dealer, stared at him, his mouth hanging open. "But... my scouts saw you. They said a naked madman sprinted into the Hound's recruitment hall and turned himself into a tactical firestorm. They said the explosion was big enough to register on the Hive's seismic cogitators! They were certain it was you!"
"Look at me," Kian said, gesturing to his very solid, very non-exploded body. "If I were dead, would I be standing here asking for credits? It was a twin. Or a clone. Or maybe a very dedicated fan. Now, the money."
Nephal leaned back, his eyes darting across Kian's face. In the 41st Millennium, logic was often a secondary concern. People were resurrected by Dark Mechanicus tech, cloned in illegal vats, or sustained by Warp-fueled spite every day. Maybe Kian was a Perpetual. Maybe he was just lucky. In the end, it didn't matter. Business was business.
Nephal slid ten thousand scrips across the table. "Fine. Keep your secrets, Voss. But whatever you did, it worked. The Alchem-Hounds' recruitment drive is in shambles. Half their new blood is dead, and the other half is too terrified to go near their 'Mother'."
Kian counted the money with practiced ease. He didn't care about the mystery. He cared about his bank balance, which now sat at a healthy 85,000 Agri-Scrips.
"Our partnership has proven... fruitful," Nephal said, his tone shifting. His hollow eyes took on a predatory gleam. "Perhaps it is time I showed you the 'Inmost Sanctum' of my collection. Since you're a Tier-2 associate now, you might find my high-end hardware worth the price."
[DING! Nephal Reputation: Rank 1 → Rank 2]
[Tier-2 Trade Goods Unlocked!]
Kian followed the dealer into the back of the shop. This wasn't a room of rusted scrap; it was a graveyard of heavy industrial machinery, salvaged from defunct factorums and derelict ships.
Three massive units stood out, each glowing with the faint red hum of a standby Machine Spirit:
High-Pressure Industrial Forging-Press:
Price: 120,000 Scrips.
Utility: Essential for the Machinist's Station (Level 3). Can press scrap into reinforced plates, manufacture bullet casings, and forge high-end weapon components.
Munitorum-Grade Munitions Cogitator:
Price: 30,000 Scrips.
Utility: For the Ammo-Forge. Allows the production of high-penetration sabot rounds and explosive-tipped slugs.
Ceramite Powder Homogenizer:
Price: 80,000 Scrips.
Utility: Used for Armor Smithing. Mixes refined ceramite dust with metal alloys. When used with the Forging-Press, it can manufacture Carapace Armor and, eventually, Power Armor plates.
Kian looked at the prices and felt his soul wither.
He had 85,000 scrips. He'd killed thousands of people, detonated himself, and crawled through sewers just to reach this point—and he couldn't even afford the press, let alone the set. The total cost was 230,000 scrips.
"The grind is eternal," Kian whispered, a hollow look in his eyes.
Nephal chuckled, sensing Kian's despair. "Quality isn't cheap, Voss. But I'm sure a man of your... unique talents... will find the funds soon enough."
"Got any more work?" Kian asked, hopeful.
Nephal shook his head. "Not today. Boss Iron-Eye is licking his wounds. But come back in a week. War always finds a way."
Kian bought a heavy-duty Tactical Rebreather and walked out of the shop, his mind racing. How could he make big money fast? In the "Extraction" logic, there were two ways: find a "Red-Tier" relic or start selling high-end manufactured goods.
He thought of the Sanctified Pancakes.
A single bite could purge Warp-taint and bolster the human spirit. If he could get those to a high-ranking Cardinal of the Ecclesiarchy or the Planetary Governor, he'd be a billionaire overnight. But he wasn't stupid. If he tried to sell "Holy Bread" as a nameless Underhive rat, the Inquisition would burn him at the stake for heresy, or the Governor would turn him into a servitor to harvest the secret recipe from his brain.
He needed more power before he could play that game.
[SANCTUM - PREPARATION PHASE]
Kian returned to his vault and suited up for Reno's mission—the "Water Guild Audit."
He didn't need a rifle for this. This was a message. This was personal.
He donned his PDF Flak vest and helmet. He strapped reinforced iron plates to his forearms and shins for close-quarters grappling. He packed six Toxic Cinder-Flasks (gas grenades) and two smoke grenades. He tucked his 15mm stub-cannon into his waistband.
Finally, he picked up the "Audit Tool."
It was a two-meter length of heavy-gauge iron piping from the Water Guild's surplus. One end was jagged where it had been sawn off—good for thrusting. The other end had been fitted with a heavy 90-degree steel joint, giving it the weight and profile of a primitive mace.
Stamped clearly onto the side of the steel joint was the Crest of the Mercator Aqua (Water Guild).
"If you're going to break a leg," Kian muttered, swinging the heavy pipe through the air until the iron whistled, "make sure they know who's sending the bill."
He donned his new rebreather, checked the seal, and stepped out into the dark. He was heading for the "Red-Light Sump"—time to show the Sump-Matron why you never steal from the men who control the taps.