Unlike their previous meeting at the Governor's Mansion, she wasn't wearing a helmet this time.
Her face was sharply defined, with several old scars etched across her cheekbones and jaw.
Her short silver hair stood straight against her scalp, every strand as stiff as wire.
Her gaze was direct and stern, with a penetrating force.
Black power armour covered her from head to toe.
The thick plates bore signs of wear and welding repairs around the joints.
The searchlight cast a pale sheen across the surface of her breastplate.
The edges of the Aquila Symbol engraved in its center had grown faint from years of polishing, but it remained clearly visible.
She stood with her back straight and her shoulder plates relaxed.
Her right hand stayed close to the grip of the Boltgun at her waist.
The armour's hum was low and steady, keeping time with her breathing.
Rovi stepped forward to meet her.
He neither grovelled nor showed excessive enthusiasm.
He simply stopped five paces away.
It was a safe distance, one that showed respect without making her feel threatened.
He bowed slightly.
"Welcome to Granary Seven, Captain of the Guard."
Lilith didn't speak at once.
Her gaze swept over Rovi like a scanner.
Then she looked past him, toward the laborers digging trenches in the distance.
Next, she turned her attention to the Fermentation Tanks rumbling nearby.
Finally, she looked at the newly modified Harvester in the corner, its shape a menacing mass of machinery.
"Not bad. It's in keeping with the 'basic production order' you mentioned in your report..."
Lilith's voice was hoarse yet steady.
It had the metallic quality of someone who had spent years shouting on the battlefield.
She pointed toward the people queuing in orderly lines to collect their meals, without a trace of disorder.
"On my way here, I saw the situation at Granary Three and Granary Five."
"Those places are a complete mess. The Supervisors are cowering in their fortresses, while mobs loot the warehouses."
Lilith looked away.
She sized up the young man before her, who seemed rather thin—or perhaps bookish.
That night, the Governor had sent her to collect Rovi.
At the time, she hadn't thought there was anything special about him.
She'd assumed it was just another routine assignment.
Now, she had to admit she shouldn't have judged him by his appearance.
"But here, what I see is an army."
The words carried weight.
In the Imperium, forming a private army was a sign of impending rebellion.
Rovi's heart tightened.
But his expression remained as calm as stone.
"This is simply the necessary organization to ensure production, Captain of the Guard."
Rovi answered without either grovelling or defiance.
"As you can see, these people are holding shovels and wrenches, not Boltguns."
"They're fighting for the Governor's Imperial Tithe, not for anything else."
"For the Imperial Tithe..." Lilith mulled over the words. "A good reason."
"If that useless Kais had half your sense of duty, he wouldn't have turned himself into a lump of flesh that can only do arithmetic."
Clearly,
the Governor's Mansion knew everything that had happened here.
Rovi didn't respond.
Silence was the best answer at a time like this.
Lilith waved a hand.
The soldiers behind her immediately opened the rear hatch of the armored vehicle.
Inside, Rovi found no Military Police or Inquisitors, as he'd feared, but rows of neatly stacked wooden crates.
The crates bore the Aquila Symbol of the Department of Munitions.
They were also marked with Warning Runes: "EXPLOSIVE" and "DANGEROUS GOODS."
"The Governor received your letter."
Lilith walked up to Rovi and spoke in a low voice.
"'The umbrella's frame is ready; it only lacks a canopy'... Hmph. You have a knack for metaphors."
She patted her heavy Power Armor Glove.
"There are six Heavy Logging Guns, two thousand Armor-piercing Rounds, and fifty High-Explosive Incendiary Grenades in here."
"They're old surplus from the last Hive War. Some might jam. But they're still better than the steel pipes in your farmhands' hands."
Rovi looked at the crates and let out a breath of relief.
This wasn't charity.
It was recognition.
It was Governor Alicia's recognition of his abilities.
It was also tacit approval of his actions—asking forgiveness rather than permission.
"Please thank the Governor for her generosity." Rovi bowed deeply, sincerely this time. "With this 'canopy,' the umbrella will hold."
"Don't celebrate too soon," Lilith warned. "These things aren't free. The Governor asked me to pass on a message."
She spoke each word distinctly:
"The rain has already begun. If your umbrella leaks and gets the Imperial Tithe ledger wet... then you might be the next one sent to the Adeptus Mechanicus to be made into a Wetware Server."
Rovi met her gaze without backing down.
"Please pass this on to the Governor."
He spoke slowly, his voice carrying an iron resolve.
"As long as I'm still standing, not a single drop of rain will reach the stores at Granary Seven."
A few seconds later, Captain of the Guard Lilith smiled.
It was a brief smile.
There was a hint of admiration in it, and a hint of pity.
"Good luck, Scribe... No, Special Agricultural Advisor."
She turned and strode toward the armored vehicle.
"Let's go. They don't need us here anymore."
As the engine roared back to life, the black convoy vanished into the night as swiftly as it had arrived.
Only tire tracks remained.
And the wooden crates filled with instruments of death.
Rovi stood where he was, feeling the night breeze cool his face.
He had guns, grain, and people.
The stage was set.
Now all that remained was to see when the "audience" lurking in the shadows would make its entrance.
"Buck!"
Rovi gave an order.
The hem of his coat snapped in the wind.
"Move these crates into the Repair Workshop. Tell Priest Alpha to bring out the best lubricant."
"We're not sleeping tonight. We're giving these old girls a full tune-up!"
"Yes, sir!"
Buck shouted excitedly.
A bloodthirsty gleam shone in his single eye.
For a soldier, nothing brought more comfort than the feel of a heavy machine gun beneath his hand.
The doors of the Repair Workshop slammed shut.
They shut out the noise of the wind and the digging outside.
The air was thick with the smell of Machine Oil and incense smoke.
A few unsteady Lumen Lamps cast a dim yellow glow.
The shadows of gears and Hydraulic Rods stretched out, warped and sinister.
Rovi took off his dust-covered coat and rolled up his sleeves.
He bared his arms.
They weren't particularly strong, but they were lean and sinewy.
Six Heavy Logging Guns, freshly unpacked from the crates, lay on the workbench before him.
Even in the dim light, their poor condition was obvious.
Dark red rust covered the barrels, and several pieces were missing from the heat shields.
The feed mechanisms were clogged with dried lubricant and some kind of black grime.
Dried blood still stained the firing mechanism of one gun.
It was the last trace left by its previous owner before he died.
"The Machine Spirit is displeased."
Priest Alpha stood across from Rovi.
Several Mechanical Tentacles cautiously probed inside the gun barrel, scanning it.
Concerned red lights flickered in his Cybernetic Eye.
"These sacred creations are badly worn internally. The tolerances on the piston connecting rods exceed the standard by eighteen percent."
"Without an Appeasement Ritual, using them as they are would give them a forty percent chance of jamming."
"Then let's make them happy."
Rovi picked up a wire brush and dipped it in special rust remover.
"Alpha, prepare the Sacred Oil and incense. We're giving these old friends a deep clean."
He didn't say "disassemble and repair."
Instead, he used terms more in keeping with the doctrines of the Adeptus Mechanicus.
Science was heresy.
Only faith was truth.
Even when turning a screw, one had to be praying to the Machine God.
"Praise the Omnissiah."
Priest Alpha murmured the words.
Then he ordered two Servitors to bring over a burning censer and a golden bottle of Sacred Oil.
Rovi got to work.
He moved slowly, with almost excessive care.
Each time he tapped out a pin or removed a spring,
he would pause to examine it with an almost reverent gaze, then carefully wipe it with a clean linen cloth.
It wasn't just for Alpha's benefit.
To Rovi, these battered lumps of iron were the lifeline of fifty thousand people.
The slightest mistake, a single grain of sand left behind, could mean death on the battlefield.
Click.
With a crisp metallic clink, the first Logging Gun's Bolt Carrier Group came apart completely.
Rovi picked up the carbon-crusted Firing Pin and examined it under a magnifying glass.
"The firing pin's tip is slightly deformed, but it's still within usable limits," he muttered.
Then he took some fine sandpaper and began to polish it patiently.
"Buck, pass me the bottle of No. 2 Sacred Oil—the one mixed with Graphite Powder."
Buck, who had been standing by as his assistant, quickly handed him the bottle.
The one-eyed commander watched Rovi's practiced movements and couldn't help asking:
"Advisor, did you... used to work for the Department of Munitions? You take guns apart more neatly than any old armorer I've ever met."
"I just like reading," Rovi replied without looking up. "Books have everything in them. You just have to be willing to read, think, and understand the logic behind how the metal components fit together."
Of course, he couldn't tell him that it came from his former-life love of mechanical engineering.
In this world, knowledge was a dangerous power.
It was always safer to disguise it as "talent" or "the Emperor's revelation."
Time slipped by.
The only sounds in the Repair Workshop were the clinks of metal.
And Priest Alpha's low prayers.
Rovi's fingers had been stained black by machine oil, and fine beads of sweat had gathered on his forehead.
He remained focused to a suffocating degree.
Removing rust, polishing, lubricating, assembling.
He performed every step with meticulous care.
He checked every component over and over.
By the time the first Heavy Logging Gun had been reassembled, it looked completely different.
The dark red rust was gone. After he applied anti-rust oil, it gleamed with a cold, faint sheen.
The sound of the bolt being pulled was no longer rough and grating. It had become smooth, muffled, and full of power.
"Click."
Rovi pulled the bolt, then squeezed the trigger.
The firing pin struck the empty chamber with a crisp snap, producing a satisfying sound.
"The Machine Spirit... is calm."
Blue light flickered in the Priest Alpha's augmetic eye, and his tone was full of admiration.
"You soothed its anger with your own hands. What exquisite... prayer technique."
Rovi said nothing. He simply picked up the second gun.
He didn't need praise.
He only needed these guns, when their triggers were pulled, to send bullets into the enemies' chests.
And not explode in his hands.
Before you continue