4: Chapter 4 Death Sentence Coupled to Suspended Death Sentence

Makarov bit off a piece of braised pork, chewed, and swallowed, remaining silent throughout.

An oppressive atmosphere, wrapped in the aroma of meat, spread through the banquet hall.

Fu Haoran looked up, his gaze discreetly sweeping over Wade at the door; the latter, sweat pearling on his forehead, gave him a heavy nod.

The two had a contingency plan: if negotiations collapsed, they would take the Inquisitor's party down with them; they would never allow themselves to be slaughtered.

Fu Haoran was never one to sit and wait for death, nor did he like letting others decide his fate.

If it truly came to the worst, Fu Haoran dared to blow up the Governors Mansion, lead Wade and the others to fight their way out of the Hive City, and then become a space pirate.

Of course, that was the worst-case scenario.

"Lord Makarov, how does this canned food taste?" Fu Haoran took the initiative to break the dead silence.

"To be honest, I have stable special channels and can continuously supply this type of material."

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

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

Compared to being stuck on a fringe planet collecting taxes, this Inquisitor was in more urgent need of an achievement to return to the core of the Inquisition.

Makarov's fingertips tapped lightly on the tabletop—once, twice...

Makarov had to admit that Fu Haoran's words had indeed poked his sore spot.

The world thought an Inquisitor's power stemmed from the direct mandate of the Emperor and the Inquisition, needing no allies or exchange of benefits... but that was all nonsense.

Makarov had believed that in his early years, only to realize later that birth determined one's height; without an excellent mentor, trying to stand out in the Inquisition by one's own strength alone was hopeless.

Fortunately, Makarov's luck was decent; he had followed a Lord Inquisitor.

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

Even more unfortunately, this mentor had died not long ago, and the political legacy he received was pitifully small—otherwise, he wouldn't have condescended to manage such a mess as tax collection.

An Inquisitor's power might seem to stem from the Emperor, with the entire Imperium standing behind them, but those were just empty checks; the extent of an Inquisitor's power depended on solid capital, connections, and merit.

"Continue," Makarov said, suppressing the ripples in his tone, trying to hide the flicker of interest in his eyes.

"My value lies not in the current poverty of this planet, but in the future I can bring," Fu Haoran said in a tone that was neither humble nor arrogant.

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

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

"If I fail, you complete your mission as originally planned, with no loss."

"If I succeed, you not only complete the tax collection task but also gain a favor—which is far more worthwhile than executing an anonymous Governor."

Makarov lightly stroked his chin.

Executing a Planetary Governor was as easy as turning over a hand, but letting him go and taking a gamble... seemed like a decent choice as well.

Moreover, the ruthlessness this kid showed in intercepting and killing the traitor made Makarov hold him in slightly higher regard.

Finally, he pressed his large hand heavily onto Fu Haoran's shoulder, nearly making him buckle:

"I have served for 123 years, and you are the first Governor who dared to negotiate terms with an Inquisitor."

"You are very clever, but I have deep doubts about whether your ability matches your guts."

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; it is a stay of execution. You and everything you own are now on my observation list."

"Three years from now, I want to see the Tithe paid in full, not a penny less. If you fail... the Adeptus Mechanicus's Servitor modification line will have a spot reserved for you."

"I will specifically instruct them to preserve your full consciousness, so that in eternal, endless labor, you can taste a flavor deeper than death."

He gave a heavy pat and turned to stride away.

"My Lord, is this appropriate?" the adjutant asked in a low voice, following him.

"It's just a reasonable observation; the Departmento Munitorum won't find any fault with it," Makarov said indifferently, though a hint of amusement was hidden in his eyes.

"However, those nobles think pushing up a scapegoat will solve everything, not knowing that what they've pushed up is a vicious wolf."

"I'd like to see how this wolf gnaws through those messes."

The news of Fu Haoran intercepting and killing Brandon was already on his desk.

The decisiveness and ruthlessness of a young Governor who rose from the bottom had sparked a bit of interest in Makarov.

...

Watching the Thunderhawk Gunship disappear into the clouds, Fu Haoran leaned back in his chair and let out a long breath, his back having long been soaked in cold sweat.

[Class Quest: Crisis Mediation Complete]

[Achievement Unlocked: Blade's Dance]

[On the edge of the Inquisitor's death sentence, using cross-world resources as leverage, you successfully pried open a gap for survival, changing an immediate execution to a three-year stay of execution.]

[Rewards: Universal Points +666, Charisma +1, Intelligence +1, Unlocked 'Dimensional Storage Space' (Can store and carry 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 and establish a cross-world specialty product supply chain.]

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

"He did." There was no joy on Fu Haoran's face. "The good news is, the seat is temporarily secure. The bad news is, we only have three years to fill a three-hundred-year pit."

He stood up, his gaze sharp: "Come, let's see just how rotten our 'empire' has become."

With the three-year deadline hanging over his head, Fu Haoran didn't dare delay for a second and turned to stride out of the banquet hall.

Those who don't understand the warhammer universe will never understand this despair.

In the territory of the Imperium of Man's billions of stars, a fringe Hive City and a Planetary Governor are as small as dust. Fail to complete the Tithe? An Inquisitor executes you and doesn't even need to write a special report.

...

Meanwhile, in the near-orbit of Planet Scylla IV, the modified private frigate, the Silver Heron, hung suspended.

Inside the bridge's conference room were only three people, yet they were the three most powerful people on the entire planet—veritable local tyrants.

On the left side of the long table, 'Brigadier General' Valerius Costa's metallic prosthetic finger tapped the table; the stars on his shoulder boards were self-made imitations of the Imperial Navy's.

The reason the rebels Fu Haoran was with could storm the Governors Mansion was also due to him holding his troops back then.

Now, the fleet composed of three destroyers and five frigates, along with over a hundred armed merchant ships, was the only space force of this planet.

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

"Is there a difference between living three more years and dying now?" On the right, Countess Martha Haig took a sip of wine, her tone flat.

A black velvet gown wrapped around her body, which controlled seventy percent of the Hive City's Promethium production.

Opposite them, Rogue Trader Reck Vance toyed with his merchant guild badge, dismissive: "General, you worry too much."

"Even if we gave him our full support, it would be impossible to complete the Tithe within three years."

He paused and said playfully: "Moreover, not only will we not help him, but we'll also cause him trouble from time to time."

"After all, our names aren't on the tax list. The Imperium wants the planet's output and population, not a few nobles whose assets have long been registered offshore and transferred."

Countess Martha sneered and set down her wine glass: "Besides, the Red Blade Gang, Iron Claw Gang, Bone Crusher Gang in the Underhive... they're all dogs we keep."

"When these wild dogs get hungry enough, they'll always know whose house to return to for food."

"Even if our new Governor sees through it, what does he have to feed them, and what does he have to arm himself with to clear them out?"

"Without food, without fuel, that Governors Mansion of his is nothing more than a slightly fancy cage."

Valerius stood up, walked to the porthole, and looked down at the Hive City below, a cold smile curling his lips: "That kid thinks he's breaking the deadlock, but in reality, every step is a pit we've dug for him."

Reck laughed and raised his glass: "Then a toast to our Lord Governor. May his performance... be spectacular enough."

Three crystal glasses clinked lightly in the dim light.

In their eyes, the matter was already settled; there was nothing wrong with opening the champagne early.

However, the curse from 2K would teach anyone who dared to open champagne at halftime how to write the word 'death'.