The banquet was held in the grand hall located behind the main reception area. It was the primary venue for the union's major events, a space massive enough to accommodate thousands of souls.
Currently, three or four hundred guests had gathered. Most were presidents and senior executives from other guilds, or merchants who maintained deep business ties with the Ryan Union. They stood in small clusters, clutching glasses and speaking in hushed, urgent tones. Their topics were predictable: the scarcity of food, dwindling work orders, the maintenance of production lines, and the encroaching shadow of the Green Tide.
The arrival of Raynor and his two companions caused an immediate stir. Dobby's enormous, slab-muscled frame and fully armed appearance were far too conspicuous to ignore. Though Raynor was dressed plainly, his composed demeanor and the striking woman at his side made him stand out from the crowd of weary industrialists.
"Who is that?"
"I've never seen them before. They must be from one of the High Houses."
"Wait, was that the group outside? The one shouting 'Kerry, ten thousand tons'?"
"Ten thousand tons... that's a king's ransom in this climate."
"Which 'Kerry'? I haven't heard that name among the major players before."
Amidst the murmurs, a figure emerged from the depths of the hall. He was a man in his late fifties, short but possessed of a solid, workmanlike build. He wore a charcoal-black utility suit; his hair was a shock of gray, and his face was etched with a fatigue that no amount of rest could cure.
This was Trevor Ryan.
His gaze swept across the guests, finally settling on Raynor. In that instant, Trevor's pupils contracted sharply. He recognized him. Trevor had been present at the National Mass three days ago. Though he had been seated in the distant rear rows, he clearly remembered the young Governor standing upon the pulpit, raising his scepter amidst the Emperor's light.
The new ruler of Brevis. The Emperor's Chosen.
Trevor's heart had skipped a beat when he first heard the name from his Iron Guard. He had wondered who it could be, but he never truly expected the Governor himself to grace such a desperate gathering. Despite his trepidation, Trevor forced a warm smile and stepped forward to greet his guest.
"Welcome, welcome! I am Trevor Ryan, the host of this humble gathering." He was careful not to reveal Raynor's true identity to the room.
Raynor took his hand and smiled. "Think nothing of it. It's just a small gift to mark the occasion."
Trevor breathed a secret sigh of relief; at least the Governor didn't appear to have arrived with a detachment of Enforcers. "You are too kind. Please, come in."
He led Raynor and his companions deeper into the hall. The crowd parted like a tide, their eyes following the trio. They were desperate to know what kind of influence could make an old lion like Trevor act so deferentially.
Trevor guided Raynor to a secluded rest area on the wing of the hall. It was furnished with simple sofas and low coffee tables, shielded from the main banquet by a row of glass display cases.
"Your Excellency," Trevor whispered tentatively, his voice dropping to a low rumble. "May I ask... to what do I owe the honor of your presence today?"
His tone was respectful, but it carried a sharp edge of wariness. Raynor waved a hand dismissively and sank into the sofa.
"Don't be so tense, Chairman Trevor," Raynor said with a smirk. "I'm not here in an official capacity today." He gestured to his casual overcoat. "I simply heard it was your birthday, so I came to share a drink and enjoy the festivities."
Trevor stared at him, not believing a single word. Why would a Governor, burdened with the weight of a dying planet, make a special trip to the birthday party of a struggling union president—and bring ten thousand tons of grain as a "small gift"?
Raynor leaned back, looking relaxed. "When does the feast begin?"
"Right away, right away. We are just waiting on a few stragglers," Trevor said hurriedly.
"No need to wait." Raynor stood up. "Nearly everyone is here. Let's begin. Don't keep your guests waiting on my account."
Raynor's tone was natural, yet it carried the weight of a command. Trevor paused, then nodded. "As you wish, my Lord."
He walked to the center of the hall and announced the start of the banquet. However, the atmosphere remained strained. Many of the guests seemed to sense the truth of Raynor's identity; they acted with the stifled "restraint" of students who had suddenly realized their headmaster was monitoring the classroom.
"Why is everyone staring at me?" Raynor asked, noticing the workers glancing his way and then quickly averted their eyes.
Raynor laughed, raised his glass, and shouted loudly, "Play the music! Let the dancing begin!"
He then downed a glass of the local "Coal Cinder" liquor in one go. Seeing that the Governor was approachable—and even willing to stomach their harsh rotgut—the tension finally broke. The atmosphere turned lively as people flocked to the long tables, grabbing synth-meat and ale, laughing and talking with newfound vigor.
The band caught the cue and struck up the "Forging March," a popular Midtown anthem with a heavy, driving rhythm that felt like the beating of a great engine.
Dobby, meanwhile, became Raynor's dedicated "drinking proxy." The massive Ogryn guard quickly became the star of the night.
"Come on, big guy! A toast!" A muscular foreman, nearly two meters tall, held up a tankard for Dobby.
Dobby looked at Raynor, who gave a slight nod. Grinning, the Ogryn picked up a full wine barrel from the floor. Gulp, gulp, gulp...
In ten seconds, a five-liter cask of Coal Cinder was empty.
"GOOD!!!" The crowd erupted in cheers.
Even Raynor was momentarily stunned. He was still feeling the burn from his single glass; the Ogryn's constitution was terrifying. The foreman laughed and downed his own drink in a show of solidarity. "Again!"
"Come on then!" Dobby bellowed.
Though he was chronologically only eight years old, Dobby's digestive system had been genetically forged for the harshest conditions. Combined with his sheer mass, he was functionally immune to intoxication. A "Drink the Giant" frenzy began, as one worker after another challenged him. Dobby met them all, bucket for bucket, as challenger after challenger collapsed in a drunken stupor.
As the banquet reached its final stages, the hall was littered with unconscious revelers. The aftereffects of Coal Cinder were brutal; barely half the guests were still standing. A dozen empty barrels were piled around Dobby's feet. He remained standing, though his face was a deep, healthy flush.
Raynor had consumed his fair share, but his enhanced constitution kept his mind sharp. Even Chairman Trevor was slumped on the ground nearby, his eyes unfocused. The Union President had clearly been using the alcohol to drown his mounting sorrows.
"Lord... Lord Kerry," Trevor slurred, his tongue heavy. "What... what brings you here, truly?"
The alcohol had finally stripped away his defensive layers. Raynor set down his glass and looked the old man in the eye.
"I told you. I came for a drink."
"I don't believe it," Trevor said, shaking his head. "A man like you doesn't walk into a scrap-heap like this without a reason."
"And what kind of man am I, in your eyes?" Raynor asked.
"A predator," Trevor muttered. "You are young, and your eyes... they hold an ambition I haven't seen in decades." His voice dropped to a conspiratorial rasp. "Are you here for my factories? Is that it? Have you come to strip the last of the Ryan Union's bones?"