Death Sentence Commuted to a Suspended Sentence

Makarov bit into a piece of braised pork, chewed, and swallowed without a word.

The oppressive tension mingled with the aroma of meat and spread through the banquet hall.

Fu Haoran raised his eyes and glanced discreetly toward Wade at the doorway. Sweat beaded on Wade's brow as he gave Fu Haoran a firm nod.

The two of them had planned for this in advance. If negotiations fell apart, they would drag the Inquisitor and his party down with them rather than let themselves be slaughtered without a fight.

Fu Haoran had never been the type to sit back and wait for death, much less let someone else decide whether he lived or died.

If it came down to it, 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 worst-case scenario.

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

"To be honest, I have a reliable, specialized supply channel that can keep providing these goods."

"I can become a special hub for the Imperium in this sector, and you would be the sole person to make it happen—and the only one to benefit."

After he finished speaking, Fu Haoran waited quietly, wagering on Makarov's ambition.

Rather than being stuck on a backwater planet collecting taxes, the Inquisitor needed a solid achievement to return to the Inquisition's inner circle.

Makarov tapped his fingertips against the table, once, twice...

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

People thought an Inquisitor's authority came directly from the Emperor and the Inquisition, that he didn't need to cultivate allies or distribute favors... But that was all bullshit.

Makarov had believed it himself in his early years. Only later did he realize that your birth determined how far you could rise. Without an excellent mentor, there was no hope of distinguishing yourself in the Inquisition through your own efforts alone.

Fortunately, Makarov had been lucky enough to serve under a Lord Inquisitor.

The only drawback was that he wasn't the Lord Inquisitor's only pupil.

Worse still, his mentor had died not long ago, leaving him with a pitiful share of his political legacy. Otherwise, Makarov wouldn't have stooped to handling the miserable business of tax collection.

An Inquisitor's authority seemed to come from the Emperor, with the entire Imperium at his back. But that was all just an empty promise. An Inquisitor's actual influence depended on real resources, connections, and achievements.

"Go on." Makarov kept the wavering emotion out of his voice, trying to hide the interest in his eyes.

"My value isn't in this planet's present poverty, but in the future I can bring." Fu Haoran's tone remained steady and respectful.

"Give me three years, and I'll make up three hundred years' worth of Tithes."

"I'm not begging. I'm offering you an investment."

"If I fail, you can carry out your original plan and report that the job is done. You lose nothing."

"If I succeed, you'll not only complete your tax collection mission, you'll gain a favor in return—far more worthwhile than executing an unknown Planetary Governor."

Makarov gently rubbed his chin.

Executing a Planetary Governor would be effortless, but sparing him and taking a gamble... didn't seem like a bad choice.

Besides, the ruthlessness Fu Haoran had shown in ambushing the traitor had earned him some respect in Makarov's eyes.

At last, Makarov planted a massive hand on Fu Haoran's shoulder, nearly forcing him to his knees.

"In my 123 years of service, you're the first governor who's dared to bargain with an Inquisitor."

"You're clever, but I have serious doubts that you have the ability to match your nerve."

He leaned forward, his icy breath almost brushing Fu Haoran's face. "I can give you three years."

"Remember, this isn't a pardon. It's a suspended death sentence. From this moment on, you and everything you own are on my watch list."

"Three years from now, I expect the full amount of the Tithe, every last coin. If you fail... the Mechanicus Cult's Servitor conversion line will have a place reserved for you."

"I'll give them special instructions to preserve your entire consciousness, so you can experience something more profound than death as you toil endlessly for eternity."

He gave Fu Haoran's shoulder a heavy pat, then turned and strode away.

"Sir, is this really wise?" his adjutant asked in a low voice, hurrying after him.

"It's just a reasonable period of observation. The Ministry of Internal Affairs can't find fault with it." Makarov's tone was indifferent, but a trace of amusement lurked in his eyes.

"But those nobles think that pushing a scapegoat forward will solve everything. They have no idea they've sent a ravenous wolf into the fray."

"I'd like to see how that wolf tears through this mess."

The news that Fu Haoran had ambushed Brandon had already landed on Makarov's desk.

The young governor's ruthless decisiveness, after clawing his way up from the bottom, had piqued Makarov's interest.

As the Thunderhawk Gunship disappeared into the clouds, Fu Haoran leaned back in his chair and let out a long breath. His back was already soaked with cold sweat.

[Career Mission: Crisis Mediation Complete]

[Achievement Unlocked: Dance of the Blade]

[On the brink of an Inquisitor's death sentence, you leveraged cross-world resources to pry open a narrow path to survival, changing an immediate execution into a three-year suspended sentence]

[Rewards: Universal Points +666, Charisma +1, Intelligence +1, Dimensional Storage Space unlocked (can store and carry cross-world goods)]

[Main Mission Updated: Imperial Duty: Tithe Collection]

[Current Progress: 20%]

[Mission Hint: Stabilize the planet's core production as soon as possible and establish a cross-world supply chain for specialty goods]

Wade slipped in through a side entrance, one hand still on his holster. "Sir, did he... really give us more time?"

"He did." Fu Haoran showed no sign of happiness. "The good news is that my position is secure for now. The bad news is that we have only three years to fill a three-hundred-year-old pit."

He stood up, his gaze sharp. "Come on. Let's see just how rotten our 'Imperium' really is."

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

Anyone who didn't know the Warhammer Universe would never understand the depths of this despair.

Across the billions of stars in the Imperium of Man, a backwater Hive City and one Planetary Governor were as insignificant as specks of dust. Fail to pay the Tithe? The Inquisitor could execute you without even bothering to write a report.

Meanwhile, the Silver Heron, a converted private frigate, hovered in near orbit around Planet S-Sai IV.

There were only three people in the conference room on the bridge, but they were the three most powerful people on the entire planet—the undisputed rulers of their own domains.

At the left side of the long table, "Commodore" Valerius Costa tapped his metal prosthetic finger against the tabletop. The admiral's star on his shoulder board was a homemade imitation of the Imperial Navy's insignia.

Fu Haoran's rebels had managed to storm the Governor's Office because Valerius had held his forces back at the time.

His fleet, made up of three Destroyers, five frigates, and more than a hundred armed merchant ships, was now the planet's only space force.

"Makarov actually gave him three years." Valerius's voice was low. "The Inquisitor's more patient than I expected."

"Does it make any difference whether he dies now or lives three more years?" Countess Martha Haig took a sip of wine, her tone flat.

Her black velvet gown hugged the figure that controlled seventy percent of the Hive City's Promethium production.

Across from her, the Rogue Trader Reck Vance toyed with his merchant charter and scoffed. "Commodore, you're worrying too much."

"Even if we gave him our full support, there's no way he could pay the Tithe within three years."

He paused, then said with amusement, "Besides, we won't help him. We'll make trouble for him from time to time."

"After all, our names aren't on the tax rolls. The Imperium wants the planet's output and population, not a few nobles who registered their assets offshore long ago and finished transferring them."

Countess Martha Haig gave a snort and set down her wineglass. "And the Red Blade Gang, the Iron Claw Gang, and the Bone Crusher Gang in the Lower Hive... They're all dogs we keep."

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

"Even if our new governor sees through it, what can he feed them with? And how will he arm himself to wipe them out?"

"Without food or fuel, his Governor's Office is nothing but a slightly more elegant cage."

Valerius stood and walked to the viewport, looking down at the Hive City below. A cold smile tugged at his lips. "That kid thinks he's breaking out of a trap. In reality, every step he takes is into a pit we dug for him."

Vance raised his glass with a smile. "Then let's drink to our dear governor. May his performance... be entertaining."

The three crystal glasses clinked softly in the dim room.

As far as they were concerned, the matter was settled. There was nothing wrong with popping the champagne early.

But the curse of 2K would teach anyone who dared celebrate before the game was over exactly how to spell the word "death."