The convoy came to a halt in the designated sector of the Great Square.
Raynor took a deep breath, straightened his collar, and was the first to descend from the armored transport. Sarah, in her guise as "Isud," followed closely, her hand still held firmly in his. Her internal unease, transmitted through their neural link, was temporarily smoothed over by Raynor's calm reassurance. Gus, Dobby, and the rest of the retinue exited behind them, forming a defensive perimeter around their Governor.
Raynor looked up. Stretching from the square to the cathedral's main entrance were hundreds of white stone steps, wide enough for twenty men to march abreast. At this moment, the stairs were lined with solemn religious monastics and Battle Sisters clad in gleaming power armor. Holding scriptures or bolters with unwavering, devout gazes, they formed a sacred gauntlet through which the new Governor had to pass.
At the summit, on either side of the arched entrance, the two Knight mechs stood like silent, metal mountains. The oppressive weight of their presence grew heavier with every step Raynor took.
He began the ascent. His boots made a sharp, rhythmic sound against the white stone. Sarah took his arm, following him with a grace that masked her mechanical nature.
Gus followed a few paces behind, his heart hammering against his ribs and his palms slick with sweat. The gazes of the surrounding monks felt like physical weights—a mixture of fanatical faith and cold, critical judgment. The air was thick with the scent of heavy incense, melting wax, and ancient stone, creating that unique brand of "holy oppression" found only in the most sacred of Imperial sites.
With every step upward, the air felt denser, as if an invisible force were squeezing their very souls. But Gus was the most agitated of all. Only he truly understood the danger of what came next.
The State Mass.
This was no mere welcoming ceremony or a ceremonial rubber-stamping of power. This was the "ultimate test" of the Governor's humanity and his loyalty to the Golden Throne. During the Mass, the Archbishop would verify Raynor's human identity before the Emperor's icon and the eyes of the faithful.
This verification was not a simple genetic scan or a spoken oath. It involved psychic resonance, the purity of faith, and the deep essence of the soul.
In Gus's eyes, Raynor was the ultimate heretic. Gus had seen the terrifying insectoid organisms that obeyed Raynor's every whim; he had seen the bio-armor and the xenos swarms on the Song of Respect. In Gus's mind, Raynor was definitely not human—he suspected the man was a humanoid Tyranid in disguise.
How could such a creature pass the scrutiny of the State Religion? If any abnormality was detected during the Mass, their entire group would be torn apart and purged on the spot.
The higher they climbed, the more Gus struggled to breathe. Sweat soaked his tunic. In a moment of sheer panic, he reached out, wanting to grab Raynor's arm just to feel a shred of security.
His hand was only halfway there when Raynor, without even turning his head, slapped Gus's hand away with a sharp crack. The movement was casual, as if he were swatting a bothersome fly.
Gus awkwardly withdrew his hand, muttering under his breath, "What's the big deal? You're holding your 'wife's' hand—can't you spare a bit of support for me too?"
Raynor said nothing, though his silence spoke volumes. He wondered if Gus was finally losing his mind under the pressure.
They finally reached the top of the long stone steps. Standing before the massive archway were several high-ranking clergy members. The leader was an aged, bald Bishop.
"Your Excellency, Governor Raynor von; Lady Isud Cora; and your esteemed entourage—may the Emperor's Light guide your path," the old Bishop said softly, performing the Sign of the Aquila.
"May His glory endure with us forever," Raynor returned, his posture and tone flawless.
"The Mass begins. Please, follow me."
Led by the Bishop, the party entered the main hall of the cathedral. Instantly, the noise of the crowds outside was cut off, replaced by an overwhelming sense of grandeur and sacred stillness.
The interior was so vast it induced vertigo. Twenty-one colossal pillars supported the vaulted ceiling, their surfaces carved with the valiant deeds of the Primarchs. On the dome, an epic mural of the Unification of Terra shimmered with real gold. The air was heavy with the scent of burning Brevis pine resin, a fragrance designed to calm the mind and suppress worldly desires.
A deep crimson carpet stretched toward the massive Imperial icon at the far end of the hall. The pews on either side were already packed with the planet's elite. Every powerful figure on Brevis was there, their eyes fixed on Raynor. Their stares were a complex cocktail of curiosity, calculation, contempt, and—in a rare few—desperate expectation.
Raynor felt the pressure of those thousands of eyes trying to dissect his every move. His expression remained a mask of calm as he led Sarah toward the pulpit. Their footsteps echoed through the hall, accompanied by the low rumble of the pipe organ and the ethereal chanting of the choir.
Finally, they reached the space directly before the icon. Behind the pulpit stood an old man in magnificent red robes, holding a golden scepter. He was the embodiment of ancient dignity.
But his most striking feature was his eyes. They were pure white, devoid of pupils or iris.
Archbishop Goodwin.
The supreme leader of the Brevis Diocese had served for over three hundred years. His eyes had been transformed by centuries of devout faith and the channeling of the State Religion's power. He had gained the "Sight"—the ability to look past illusions and see the essence of a thing.
In Goodwin's vision, Raynor did not appear as flesh and blood. He saw the soul.
Raynor's soul...
Goodwin's white eyes sparked with a silent shock.
Complex. It was impossibly, terrifyingly complicated.
The core of the soul was not a single entity. It consisted of two distinct parts—one bright, one dark—violently intertwined and feeding off one another. Around this spiraling spirit-core swirled a chaotic aurora of multi-colored spiritual light, suggesting a fate tied to countless unknown variables.
Most striking of all was a dense, impenetrable shroud of purple light. It wasn't merely surrounding him; it was "fused" with Raynor's soul, a symbiotic bond born of some strange, alien emotion.
In his three centuries of life, Goodwin had never seen such a contradictory soul composition. Even the wretches who had fallen to the Ruinous Powers did not possess a spirit as convoluted as the man standing before him.