87: Chapter 87 The Sacrifice of the Dwarfs

The coronation ceremony was complete. After a few words with The New Lord Chancellor, the Ecclesiarchy Bishop quickly departed; this place belonged to the newcomer, and his presence would only steal the spotlight.

The Old Lord Chancellor sat at the edge of the banquet, in the darkest corner, like a lesion already rejected by this circle.

The surrounding nobles seemed to have reached a tacit understanding, collectively ignoring his existence.

Only a few of the most senior nobles would give a slight nod as they passed; there was no respect in that gesture, only a perfunctory greeting to someone about to be completely erased from memory.

Four hours ago, that pale young man who had avoided eye contact during the handover ceremony had now changed into his most magnificent robes. Patterns of irises and tulips were nested within patterns, densely filling every bit of blank space on the robe, enough to trigger anyone's trypophobia.

This was the aesthetic of the nobles of Terra; they could, and only could, use the extreme complexity and layering of their robes to mask their incompetence and the false fullness of their power.

They used, and could only use, decoration to fill a substantive vacuum, and magnificence to hide their own insignificance.

In the end, they turned themselves into the comical court dwarves recorded in ancient human civilizations. Dwarves were often seen as strange beings embodying both "deformity" and "luck." Physical "deformity" had vanished, for the Imperium loathed the xenos and was wary of mutants, yet "luck" remained—just like himself, and like that young New Lord Chancellor.

The Terran nobles present and that young man had yet to realize what the endorsement of mortal power truly was.

In the dark corner, the flickering candlelight shone on his face, the light and shadow cutting him in half.

He began to review his political career, reflecting on his achievements.

His power came from his family, from two hundred and thirteen years of political maneuvering in the position of Lord Chancellor, from the private army he had assembled, from the loyalty the Imperial Lords pledged to him and his family, from the resources of over a hundred worlds controlled by his family, from his family's control over most of Terra's logistics and transport, and even more from his own personal charisma.

The sources of power consist of only five elements: personal charisma, resource allocation, ultimate violence, spiritual inspiration (legitimacy), and pointing the way; at least three of these must be possessed for power to be accurately exercised.

The family background, political maneuvering, loyalty of lords, resources of hundreds of worlds, and logistics he possessed were all merely resource allocation.

The private army he assembled was more like a household guard, which to the non-humans of the Imperium was as flimsy as paper. Many times he envied the Knight Houses; they were poor, but they truly possessed power derived from ancient compacts, even if the vehicles they piloted were merely civilian machinery from the Golden Age.

The compact of an Imperial Knight is etched in iron and fire, endorsed by both the Emperor and the Machine God.

Whereas the resources, wealth, and loyalty he and his family possessed were all on paper, liable to be torn up at any moment.

With his abdication, the legitimacy brought by spiritual inspiration vanished. As for pointing the way, that was the prerogative of the Emperor; the Ecclesiarchy had once usurped His authority during the Age of Apostasy, ultimately placing Him upon the throne of godhood.

He is the Emperor to the Ecclesiarchy and the Adeptus Custodes, He is the Omnissiah to the Adeptus Mechanicus, while mortals can only follow, can only obey blindly, and cannot even think or criticize, for that would invite the corruption of the Warp.

He gave a bitter smile. Under the light of the candelabra, half of his face was that of the dignified former Lord Chancellor, loyal to the Emperor, while the other half had become a dwarf.

It was only now, as he began to review his life, that he suddenly understood.

He finally realized clearly that the actions he once took pride in were merely using the subjects of the Imperium to feed xenos and dark gods. He had achieved only one thing: the Imperium still existed. Like all his predecessors, he had merely maintained its existence.

Yes, the twelve High Lords never believed in the Emperor. The closer one is to a god, the less they believe; such is the disparity between faith and reality. No one dared to say it, but they dared to do it. They merely stole the vast resources of the Imperium of Man to seize benefits for themselves or their factions.

For instance, him, and his list of power: political maneuvering, private armies, loyalty of lords, resource monopolies.

Measured by any normal standard of the Imperium, each item could be compiled into a thick file of corruption.

But the problem was, in the courts of the Imperium of Man, these were not called "corruption"; they were called "operation."

Can a Master of Finance not know how to balance accounts? No.

He managed the Imperium's taxes, tithes, and resource allocation.

These were directly related to the offerings for the Ecclesiarchy, the operation of the Adeptus Arbites, the tribute agreements with the Adeptus Mechanicus, and so on. Any discrepancy in the accounts was a crime that directly violated the Holy Law.

Trajann Valoris would execute him because he defiled the Emperor's divine order; the Adeptus Mechanicus would turn him into a Servitor because "incompetence" itself was a sin requiring purification. The Adeptus Arbites would judge him corrupt, and the Officio Assassinorum would assassinate him, because corruption in the Administratum would directly shake the foundation of the Ecclesiarchy's legitimacy, even if he were recognized by the Emperor.

But can an Admiral of the Imperial Navy not understand void warfare? Yes!

The nobles planting personnel to steal the authority of the Imperium was an open secret known to everyone, except perhaps the rats of the middle hive and the vermin of the lower hive.

The position of a Naval Admiral was a rare and lucrative post where one could install scions, embezzle military funds, and control trade routes.

An incompetent Admiral who rose through family background was far easier to control than a military genius who truly understood void warfare.

The latter would demand operational requirements, prioritize supplies, accumulate battle honors and prestige, and form their own political faction.

Therefore, having an incompetent fool in that position suited the interests of all internal factions of the Imperium.

The nobles installed the Naval Admiral and let his incompetent self sit in that position not because the Imperium needed him to win wars, but because the nobles needed him to hold that spot.

None of that mattered.

What mattered was this: as the Master of Administratum of Terra, the "highest representative of mortals," to perform his duties normally and implement any policy, he first had to become a master of political maneuvering, family deals, and the funneling of interests. Only a master parasite of the Imperium could fulfill the Emperor's "divine" mission.

Beyond that, he could do nothing. His "operation" was his most profound "professional skill."

The candlelight flickered again, casting his shadow onto the cold stone wall like a bound beast that had long since lost the strength to struggle.

He picked up the long-cooled wine cup before him. The amber liquid reflected the frost at his temples—not a gift of age, but the price of years spent navigating the whirlpools of power and balancing various factions. They were the rust stains left by his powerlessness to stop himself from gradually becoming the very thing he once most despised.