Death Sentence Commuted to Suspended Death Sentence

Makarov bit into a piece of braised pork, chewing and swallowing in complete silence.

A suffocating pressure, wrapped in the aroma of meat, spread through the banquet hall.

Fu Haoran lifted his eyes, his gaze subtly sweeping over Wade by the door. The latter, sweat beading on his forehead, gave him a heavy nod.

The two had a plan in place: if negotiations collapsed, they would drag the Inquisitor and his party down with them, rather than be slaughtered without resistance.

Fu Haoran was never one to sit idly by, nor did he like letting others decide his life or death.

If it came to the worst, Fu Haoran would blow up the Governor's Office, fight his way out of the Hive City with Wade and the others, and become a space pirate.

Of course, that was the last resort.

"Lord Makarov, how do you find these canned goods?" Fu Haoran broke the dead silence first.

"To be honest, I have a stable, special channel that can continuously supply this kind of material."

"I can become the Empire's special node in this star sector, and you will be the sole driver and beneficiary of this matter."

After speaking, Fu Haoran waited quietly, betting on Makarov's ambition.

Compared to being stuck collecting taxes on a fringe planet, this Inquisitor was in greater need of a merit to return to the core of the Inquisition.

Makarov tapped his fingers lightly on the table, once, twice...

Makarov had to admit that Fu Haoran's words had indeed struck a nerve.

The world believed that an Inquisitor's power stemmed directly from the Emperor and the Inquisition's mandate, requiring no allies or interest-brokering... but that was all bullshit.

Makarov had once believed in that system himself, until he later understood that birth determined one's height. Without an excellent mentor, rising through the Inquisition on one's own strength was hopeless.

Fortunately, Makarov was lucky enough to follow a Lord Inquisitor.

The only flaw was that this Lord Inquisitor had more than one disciple.

And even more unluckily, that mentor had died not long ago, leaving him with a pitiful share of political inheritance. Otherwise, he wouldn't have stooped to managing such a messy task as tax collection.

An Inquisitor's power seemed to come from the Emperor, backed by the entire Empire, but those were just empty promises. An Inquisitor's actual authority depended on solid capital, connections, and achievements.

"Continue." Makarov suppressed the tremor in his voice, trying to hide the flicker of interest in his eyes.

"My value lies not in this planet's present poverty, but in the future I can bring." Fu Haoran's tone was neither servile nor arrogant.

"Give me three years, and I will make up three hundred years of Tithe."

"This is not a plea, but an investment."

"If I fail, you report as planned, with no loss."

"If I succeed, you not only complete the tax collection task but also gain a favor—far more worthwhile than executing a nameless governor."

Makarov gently stroked his chin.

Executing a planetary governor was as easy as turning his hand, but letting him off and taking a gamble... also seemed like a decent choice.

Moreover, the kid's ruthlessness in intercepting and killing the traitor had earned him a bit of respect from Makarov.

Finally, he pressed his heavy hand firmly on Fu Haoran's shoulder, nearly forcing him to his knees:

"I've served for 123 years, and you're the first governor who dared to negotiate terms with an Inquisitor."

"You're clever, but whether your skills match your guts, I deeply doubt."

He leaned in, his cold breath almost spraying onto Fu Haoran's face: "I can give you three years."

"Remember, this is not a pardon, but a stay of execution. You and everything you own are now on my observation list."

"Three years from now, I want to see the full Tithe, not a single credit short. If you fail... the Mechanicus Cult's Servitor conversion line will have a spot reserved for you."

"I'll make sure to tell them to keep your full consciousness intact, so you can taste a fate worse than death in eternal, endless labor."

He gave a heavy pat, then turned and strode away.

"Sir, is this appropriate?" the adjutant pressed in a low voice.

"Just a reasonable observation. The Ministry of Internal Affairs won't find fault." Makarov's tone was indifferent, but a hint of amusement lurked in his eyes.

"Still, those nobles thought pushing up a scapegoat would solve everything. They don't realize they've shoved a wolf into the game."

"Let's see how this wolf chews through that Messy Situation."

News of Fu Haoran's interception and killing of Brandon had long been on his desk.

The decisiveness and ruthlessness of a young governor who climbed from the bottom piqued Makarov's interest.

Watching the Thunderhawk Gunship vanish into the clouds, Fu Haoran leaned back in his chair and let out a long breath of turbid air. His back was already soaked with cold sweat.

[Class Quest: Crisis Negotiation Completed]

[Achievement Unlocked: Dance of the Blade]

[You danced on the edge of an Inquisitor's death sentence, using cross-world resources as leverage to pry open a gap for survival, converting an immediate execution into a three-year stay of execution.]

[Reward: Universal Points +666, Charisma +1, Intelligence +1, Unlocked "Dimensional Storage Space" (allows storage and transport of cross-world materials)]

[Main Quest Updated: Imperial Duty · Tithe Collection]

[Current Progress: 20%]

[Quest Hint: Stabilize the planet's core production capacity as soon as possible, establish a cross-world specialty product supply chain]

Wade slipped in from the side door, his hand still resting on his holster: "My lord, he... really gave a grace period?"

"He did." Fu Haoran's face showed no joy. "Good news is, the seat is stable for now. Bad news is, we only have three years to fill a three-hundred-year pit."

He stood, his gaze sharp: "Let's go. See for ourselves just how rotten our 'empire' really is."

With a three-year deadline hanging over his head, Fu Haoran didn't dare waste a second. He turned and strode quickly out of the banquet hall.

Anyone who doesn't understand the Warhammer Universe will never grasp this despair.

In the boundless star domain of the Imperium of Man, a single edge-world hive city, a single planetary governor, is as insignificant as a speck of dust. Fail to complete the tithe? The Inquisitor executes you, and he doesn't even need to bother writing a special report.

Meanwhile, in low orbit around Planet S-S Four, the modified private escort ship Silver Heron hung at anchor.

Inside the bridge conference room, there were only three people—yet they were the three most powerful people on the entire planet, veritable petty kings.

On the left side of the long table, "Commodore" Valerius Costa tapped the surface with his metal prosthetic finger, the stars on his shoulder pauldrons self-made imitations of the Imperial Navy's insignia.

When the rebel army Fu Haoran belonged to stormed the Governor's Office, it was thanks to Costa standing his ground and refusing to move.

Now, a fleet of three destroyers and five frigates, plus over a hundred armed merchant vessels, formed the planet's only space force.

"Makarov actually gave him three years." Valerius's voice was low. "The Inquisitor's patience is greater than I imagined."

"Living three more years, or dying now—is there a difference?" Countess Martha Haig on the right took a sip of wine, her tone flat.

Her black velvet gown wrapped around a body that controlled seventy percent of the hive city's Promethium output.

Across from her, Rogue Trader Rake Vance toyed with his guild emblem, sneering: "General, you worry too much."

"Even if we gave him our full support, he couldn't complete the tithe in three years."

He paused, then said with relish: "What's more, we won't just refuse to help—we'll throw a few obstacles in his way from time to time."

"After all, the tax rolls don't have our names on them. The Imperium wants the planet's output and population, not a few nobles who've already registered offshore and transferred all their assets."

Countess Martha snorted, setting down her glass: "Besides, the Red Blade Gang, the Iron Claw Gang, the Bone Crusher Gang in the Lower Hive... they're all dogs we keep on a leash."

"When those strays get hungry enough, they'll always know whose door to beg at."

"Even if our new governor sees through it, what does he have to feed them? What does he have to arm himself for a purge?"

"No food, no fuel—that Governor's Office of his is just a slightly fancier cage."

Valerius stood, walked to the viewport, and looked down at the hive city below, a cold smirk curling at the corner of his mouth: "That kid thinks he's breaking the game, but every step he takes is a pit we've dug for him."

Rake raised his glass with a laugh: "Then let's toast to His Excellency the Governor. May his performance... be entertaining enough."

Three crystal glasses clinked softly in the dim light.

In their eyes, the matter was already settled. Popping the champagne early was perfectly fine.

But the curse born from the 2K era would teach anyone bold enough to pop champagne at halftime exactly how to spell "death."