Those noble representatives who had previously been the most vocal in their dissent now lowered their heads, their faces pale. They understood perfectly well that Carter's newfound confidence was backed by the Governor's raw power. To offend Carter was now synonymous with offending the Governor himself.
Carter set down his teacup and began to methodically dismantle, point by point, the "Proposed Suggestions for Limiting the Authority of the Governor's Office" they had submitted the previous week. After refuting each point, he paused, his gaze sweeping over the nobles who had proposed them.
"You worry that the Governor's military power is too great? If it weren't for the Governor, you would have all become Greenskin fodder sooner or later."
"You worry that the refugees will consume too much grain?"
"If the Governor hadn't personally gone to the front lines, who would have driven the Greenskins away? You?"
Carter looked at one noble, who shook his head frantically.
"Or perhaps you?" He looked at another.
That person also shook their head in terror.
By the time he finished outlining all the reforms, even Karadogon, seated at the head of the table, had not uttered a single word of opposition. The nobles' faces shifted between shades of blue and white, yet none dared to argue.
As the meeting concluded, Carter stood up and scanned the room once more. "Does anyone else have an opinion?"
No one answered.
Carter nodded in satisfaction and turned to walk out the door. It wasn't until he felt the cold wind outside that his tight lips finally curled into a smirk. In over twenty years of service, this was the first time he had ever stood his ground so firmly.
After Carter left, several core nobles quietly rose and retreated into a secret chamber behind the council hall. Under the dim lights of the hidden room, several figures sat with grim expressions.
"This Kyrie Von... what exactly is his background?" a portly noble asked, breaking the silence.
"Unclear," replied another noble dressed in an ornate robe, shaking his head. "The intelligence we gathered earlier said he was just a puppet who climbed his way up by clinging to women. It seems that was all a lie!"
"A puppet?" an irritable noble barked, slamming the table. "What kind of puppet kills two Greenskin leaders in a single month?"
Silence fell over the room again, fear written on every face. After a long while, the portly noble spoke up cautiously.
"What does the High King say? Has the House of St. Gallus made any move?"
At the mention of St. Gallus, all eyes turned toward a noble in a platinum-colored suit—a member of a branch family of St. Gallus. He shook his head. "House St. Gallus has been very quiet lately. High King Karadogon stays behind closed doors and sees no one. As for that boy Leo, he's currently flourishing on the front lines with the Governor. He might have already defected to the Governor's side entirely."
"Dammit!" the irritable noble slammed the table again. "Did we... pick the wrong side?"
That question echoed the unspoken dread in everyone's heart. Silence returned to the secret chamber. No one answered, and no one dared to. They all simultaneously realized that if the Governor truly managed to completely defeat the Greenskins and seize control of Brevis, what would they do? Continue to resist, or take the initiative to surrender and curry favor? Their expressions shifted uneasily; who could have imagined that among a long line of useless Governors, a "hard character" had finally emerged.
Six days after Erko's death, the banks of the Wide River in front of the main gate of the Brevis Hive had never been so crowded.
The Upper Hive nobles stood in the front row, draped in their finest robes and adorned with precious jewels. Standardized, fawning smiles were plastered on their faces, but their eyes constantly flickered toward the opposite bank, betrayed by tension and unease. They were not here to welcome a hero, but to show their subservience to Raynor to protect their vested interests.
The Mid-Hive workers were squeezed into the second row in clean overalls, their faces glowing with genuine joy and reverence. To them, Raynor was the hero who had saved their homes. They craned their necks, staring at the far bank in anticipation of the hero's return.
The Under-Hive dregs stood in a dense mass at the very back. Though dressed in tattered rags and covered in dust, the fanaticism in their eyes was unmistakable. To them, Raynor was not just a hero, but their salvation. Many were relatives of Vanguard soldiers, and they had only survived because of the triple daily rations Raynor provided to every soldier.
At the very edge of the riverbank, a group of wildmen with thick white fur stood out prominently. These were representatives of the Brevis wildmen specially permitted to attend the triumph, hailing from the Snow-Claw and Ice-Fang clans. The surrounding elites looked at them with wariness and disdain, but the wildmen didn't care. They were here for only one person: the one they called the "Frost Lord."
Every eye was fixed on the road across the river, currently shrouded in wind and snow. The gale howled and the blizzard fell thick, completely obscuring the path. But no one left; everyone waited with bated patience.
Near noon, a beam of light finally pierced through the clouds, illuminating the land. At that moment, movement finally appeared on the far bank. First came the faint, low-frequency roar of engines from within the snow, growing louder and more rhythmic. Everyone on the bank held their breath.
Then, something shocking happened.
The swirling snow suddenly seemed to be pushed aside by an invisible hand, parting to either side of the road to reveal a clear path. The blizzard continued to howl, but it could not encroach upon that corridor by even an inch. Low gasps of amazement rippled through the crowd. Some instinctively knelt, hands clasped in prayer. Others raised holy icons of the Emperor with fanatical eyes, whispering to one another:
"The Emperor is protecting the Governor!"
A massive Coldfront Super-Heavy Tank was the first to emerge from the snow. The Governor's banner—a golden eagle on a blue field—fluttered fiercely from its turret in the wind. The tank's wheels were gargantuan, crushing deep ruts into the drifts, each forward rotation exerting a heavy sense of pressure. Following behind were ranks of Vanguard tanks and infantry, encased in heavy power armor and carrying rifles, marching with solemn, synchronized steps.
The crowd finally saw the man standing atop the lead tank.
Raynor was clad in master-crafted power armor, the blue plating glinting with a cold luster under the sunlight, decorated with golden filigree on the shoulders and chest. Upon his head sat a green laurel wreath personally gifted by Arch-Cardinal Goodwin, symbolizing the Emperor's recognition. Draped over his shoulders was a cloak of pure white fur, soft as a cloud, billowing in the wind.
It was a parting gift from the Snow-Claw and Ice-Fang clans. They had collected the softest belly fur from over a million ice-striders, and their most skilled craftsmen had spent seven days and nights weaving it. This cloak represented the highest respect of the ice plain wildmen for the "Frost Lord" and their absolute loyalty to Raynor.
Raynor stood tall atop the tank, his gaze calm as he scanned the crowd on the bank. His face showed no arrogance or vanity, only the steady composure of a man who had endured the battlefield. The wind and snow howled around him as if making way for his passage.
In truth, it was merely a coincidence of the weather. But no one present was willing to believe it was a coincidence; they preferred to believe it was the Grace of the Emperor.
"Long live the Governor!!!"