The Consul is Truly a Champion

The city-state council hall. Peter sat on the Consul's marble throne, his sheer weight collapsing the seat that boasted a "long history" of two hundred years. Anthony and Marco flanked him left and right, while the other brothers stood guard outside the hall.

Now the council chamber was packed to overflowing, a constant murmur of whispers filling the air. Nearly a thousand noble elites and their families from the city-state had gathered here. In truth, the space was never meant to hold so many, but Skaman dared not twist the angel's words: "Summon all nobles and their heirs."

Skaman noticed that some families' second sons and collateral branches had also arrived. Skaman himself wouldn't dare defy the angel's command in the slightest—he had even brought the young women of the family. Skaman now sat in his seat, nervously watching the Consul below, who was about to meet the angel.

Peter sat upon the throne, likewise gazing at the Consul before him, clad in traditional white Chiton linen. He wore a dignified purple cloak and leather sandals, appearing utterly unremarkable. This mortal had graying hair, no longer young, but his muscles suggested he hadn't given up on training.

Facing the angel, he bowed slightly to show respect:

"Angel of the God-Emperor, you return from the stars. Have you come to deliver the God-Emperor's decree?"

"Hmph!" Anthony beside him let out a dissatisfied snort. In his view, a mortal facing a Forged Steel Lord should do more than just bow—at least a single knee to the ground counted as respect.

Peter raised a hand to signal Anthony not to mind:

"We are not angels of the Emperor, nor will we deliver any decree. I have come to rule you. From now on, you will obey my commands."

"Rule!" The seasoned Consul felt a stir of unease at the word and decided to probe further.

"You mean... you will become Consul?"

Peter shook his head in reply:

"I have no interest in becoming some Consul. You may keep that title. In terms you can understand: you will all become my slaves and obey my orders."

The Consul swallowed hard. His hanging heart finally died. The angels had descended to seize his power—this was utterly incomprehensible. Yet he kept his composure as best he could, quietly feeling for the item beneath his cloak. It was a relic passed down by his family's ancestors, which he had brought along just in case before leaving home. He nervously assessed the risk: if he resolved this angelic descent before countless nobles, his family would secure the Consul's seat for how many more years.

"Then, my lord, what do you require of us?" The Consul made idle conversation while his mind raced, recalling how many angels he had seen and silently calculating. He slightly raised his eyes, observing the thickness of the angel's armor and the position of their heads.

In an instant, at a speed unbefitting his age, the Consul drew the relic from beneath his cloak and pulled the trigger. The angel dodged the first shot by turning his head, raised his arm to block the second with his vambrace, and when the third struck the angel's chest, it left only a black dot. The angel had already risen and stood before the Consul.

Hearing the gunfire, the warriors outside burst through the door, leveling their Bolter Guns at everyone present.

"Whoa, badass."

Filon also entered the hall and couldn't help but remark upon seeing the mortal holding a Laser Pistol aimed at the boss.

Seeing this, the Consul was utterly stunned. This relic had helped his family countless times with assassinations; he himself had tested it on slaves clad in iron armor. All he had to do was heat a Black Block in fire and insert it into the relic to release a red death ray. They once had more Black Blocks, but those compatible with the relic gradually deteriorated with use, leaving only four still functional.

In his understanding, no iron armor, no matter how thick, could resist this death ray. He planned to use two or three rays to eliminate one angel. He still had three Black Blocks in his cloak, with some reserve to spare. Besides, the three angels before him weren't even wearing helmets. But reality surpassed the Consul's imagination: the angel not only dodged the death rays but also stood up, moving so fast the Consul couldn't react.

"Champion."

Peter looked at the Consul and gave his appraisal out of respect, casually sheathing his combat knife. The Consul seemed to realize something and reached for his neck. Bright red arterial blood sprayed from his carotid artery, and then the Consul's vision rolled as his head thudded to the floor.

"Ah!" Several women fainted at the sight, one of them being the niece standing beside Skaman. He now regretted bringing the women.

Peter paid it no mind, turning to all the nobles present and speaking in the local language:

"We are now taking over this world. Who agrees? Who opposes?"

Silence. A long silence. No one dared answer, not even daring to look up at the angel.

"Good. Then let's move to the next step. Those who speak Gothian, stand on the left. Those who don't, stand on the right."

The crowd moved immediately. They had already seen the Consul's fate and had no desire to be next. After about five minutes, the crowd split into two groups: around five to six hundred on the left, and over three hundred on the right. Skaman and his brothers had just set down his niece and exchanged glances, struggling to understand the situation. Everyone stood at a loss, uncertain of what fate awaited them.

"This will be the last time I speak to you in the local language."

With that, Peter unlocked the magnetic seal, pulled a Bolter Gun from his thigh, and opened fire. Bang, bang, bang—in a single volley, all the warriors fired together! The roar of over a dozen Bolter Guns filled the hall, turning the three hundred on the right into corpses.

Switching back to Gothian, Peter replied coldly:

"I don't have time to wait for them to learn. Congratulations—you are now the nobles of this world."

Most of those present simply covered their ears, never expecting such a sound to erupt. It felt like someone was stirring a needle inside their ears. But among those covering their ears, one young girl stood out like a crane among chickens. She stood upright in place, staring fixedly at Peter.

This young girl also wore white Chiton. She had golden hair and emerald-green eyes, her hair tied in a bun with a ribbon adorned with peridot and pearls. Her chest heaved uncontrollably, as if... as if in anger. Her eyes locked onto Peter without shifting an inch. She just stared at the Iron Angel, silent.

"What are you looking at?" Peter had actually noticed this girl staring at him earlier, but since others occasionally glanced his way too, he hadn't paid it much mind.

But when she heard Peter's question, the girl's body trembled. She realized death was drawing near.