Chapter 313: The Former Lord Marshal

“These heraldry seals…”

Anruida lowered his head and examined the noble crests they had collected, their cold metal surfaces smeared with ash and dust, a faint sense of unease settling in.

Some of these sigils belonged to obscure minor houses, families so small they were barely recorded beyond the Tower-Spire’s archival ledgers. Even if the Noble Guard or the Spire Guard were drawn from aristocratic bloodlines, Imperial custom dictated proportional obligation, and it made little sense for such insignificant houses, some numbering only a few dozen souls, to be forced to contribute personnel.

Anruida voiced his doubts to Grey, then produced a brass-colored crest tangled with engraved weeds, its heraldic filigree worn almost flat by time. “This is the sigil of House Andor. According to the Librarium archives, the entire family numbers barely thirty individuals. Their only young member is a woman. They’re allowed to remain in the Spire solely because of their ancient lineage… yet even a house like this is required to send someone to the Guard.”

Grey took the crest, glanced at it, and raised an eyebrow.

“A pledge of loyalty, perhaps. No matter how small the house, they must provide bodies for the Guard. And the Guard is commanded by officers infected by the Genestealer cult. If a house refuses to participate, the Governor won’t trust them. That’s likely the reason.”

“Then how many families in the Spire can still be considered clean…?” Anruida said helplessly. His bio-processor was already running projections; based on available data, the probability that every family in the Tower-Spire had betrayed Humanity stood at ninety-five percent.

The remaining five percent existed only because of one statistical variable: baseline human unpredictability.

“Doesn’t matter,” Grey said, turning toward the Tower-Spire’s vast, skeletal superstructure, its upper levels lost in smog and firelight. “Let’s seize the Governor.”

Above them, the warship in orbit continued its relentless bombardment. Following the data-records of noble heraldry, the ship methodically annihilated estates linked to each tainted bloodline.

After ten minutes of advance, the four of them had yet to encounter a single intact manor. The Tower-Spire was ruin upon ruin, once-opulent causeways collapsed into fused slag, proof enough that the rot had spread almost everywhere.

As they moved, Anruida continued reviewing the data he had scanned from the Librarium earlier.

One volume in particular caught his attention again, a chronicle detailing a mass exodus of Tower-Spire nobility.

Seven years earlier, many noble families had begun relocating to the Upper Hive, abandoning ancestral spires for newer, better-shielded districts. Other records noted increasing tensions between the Upper Hive and the Tower-Spire. While some joint ceremonies still occurred, such as the parade held when Anruida first arrived, the Upper Hive had quietly formed its own independent guard force, outside the Governor’s formal authority.

At the time, Anruida had not understood the reason behind the noble flight. Now, the truth was clear.

Some Tower-Spire houses must have sensed the corruption early. Families unwilling to collaborate with the Governor and the Genestealer cult fled instead. Yet they lacked the courage to openly oppose him. Even when the Thunderborns had arrived on the planet for the parade, none dared to bring accusations.

This alone suggested that the Tower-Spire truly no longer harbored any untainted authority.

After advancing three kilometers, Grey’s power armor auspex detected a dense cluster of hostile signals. As they moved toward the contacts, a fortress came into view roughly a kilometer ahead.

Considering that the Governor might not be hiding in a public shelter but instead within a heavily defended stronghold, the four decided to breach the fortress regardless.

“Conduct a limited orbital strike,” Grey said, activating his visual orbital bombardment guidance. In his augmented vision, a red targeting circle enclosed the fortress. “Minimize energy output. Don’t collapse the underground air-raid bunker. The Governor of Beisu I may be hiding below; we need his memories intact.”

“Acknowledged.”

Aboard the Thunderborn warship in orbit, crew members adjusted the particle lance emitters, recalibrating power output. The ship’s cogitators calculated the projected blast radius; the crew fine-tuned the yield accordingly.

The entire process required at least ten seconds.

Grey and the others stood silently among the ruins as they waited.

Inside the fortress, the soldiers remained unaware of the impending strike. Clad in uniforms nearly identical to those of the Planetary Defence Force, they manned the battlements and firing slits, maintaining routine vigilance.

Then the main gate opened.

Two slaves pushed a handcart outside, dumping the corpses of Noble Guard soldiers onto the ground. They doused the bodies with promethium and set them ablaze.

“Abort the strike!” Grey barked.

But the firing sequence had already been initiated. The crew could only retarget at the last second, redirecting the particle lance toward a distant wasteland.

The two slaves were drawn by the sudden flare of light, turning their heads just in time to see the distant impact. Only ten seconds later did the thunder of the explosion reach their ears, a delayed roar that rattled the fortress walls.

“They don’t seem to be enemies,” Chen Ye said, pointing toward the fortress.

Grey ordered the ship to transmit a top-down visual feed of the fortress. The image revealed bodies scattered throughout the interior, some wearing Planetary Defence Force uniforms, others clad in Noble Guard armor, their placement suggesting recent close-quarters fighting rather than execution.

Once it was confirmed the fortress was not hostile, Grey ignited his jump pack and launched himself skyward, vaulting directly into the stronghold.

The others waited in place.

Two minutes later, Grey emerged from the fortress gates, walking alongside an elderly man.

The old man wore the ornate uniform of a Planetary Defence Force Lord Marshal. The attire was once resplendent, heavy with braid, medals, and rank insignia, but patches marred both his coat and boots.

“Come here,” Grey called out. “This… this marshal knows where the Governor is.”

Yoan and Anruida joined Chen Ye and approached.

They entered the fortress together.

The old man, whom Grey addressed as Marshal, carried himself with remarkable dignity. He leaned on a sword-like cane, his gait unsteady, yet his presence radiated authority.

“Report, Marshal!” A young officer ran over and saluted. “The armored units and infantry are fully assembled. We are ready to reclaim the Tower-Spire at any moment!”

“I know,” the Marshal replied calmly. “Return to your duties.”

“Yes, Father—!”

“Hm?”

“I—Yes! Marshal!”

The young man hastily withdrew.

The scene left Grey and the others deeply puzzled.

Under normal circumstances, the title Lord Marshal placed him directly beneath the planetary governor in matters of war, granting authority over all PDF regiments, armored battalions, artillery divisions, and hive-based reserve formations. A Lord Marshal commanded tens, sometimes hundreds of thousands of soldiers, controlled logistics chains, armor depots, and orbital defense coordination.

Yet the entire garrison numbered barely two thousand, a force more appropriate for riot suppression or ceremonial duty than hive-scale warfare. The so-called armored unit consisted of three Centaur-pattern carriers, one of which was being violently kicked by its driver in a futile attempt to start it, clearly on the verge of total breakdown. A true Lord Marshal would command full tank companies, artillery batteries, and air support, not this.

This “Planetary Defence Force” marshal was little more than a commander in name alone, presiding over a hollow echo of authority.

Grey had no interest in unraveling the farce. He went straight to the point.

“Where is the Governor?”

“You are too few,” the Marshal said sternly. “A cardinal sin of war is inadequate preparation. We are not merely driving the Governor away, we intend to capture him and all his lackeys in one decisive blow. That requires meticulous readiness!”

He turned and scanned the four of them. When his gaze fell upon Chen Ye, the White Scars Space Marine, his eyes widened in brief shock. Still, he held firm to his conviction that four warriors were insufficient and refused to tell them.

“Stubborn old fool,” Grey muttered under his breath.

The Marshal continued his preparations. Two thousand infantry assembled. Two armored carriers rolled into formation. Then, a group of maidservants hurried forward, their hands calloused, their uniforms little more than repurposed household garb.

“Report, Marshal! Logistics unit assembled!”

“Very good. Fall in behind the main force!”

“Yes, sir!”

“…”

Chen Ye watched the spectacle in silence, utterly dumbfounded. It felt less like a military operation and more like a grotesque parody.

At that moment, the officer who had earlier called the Marshal “father” approached, holding a book inscribed with the battle records of the White Scars Chapter, the sigil of the White Scar stark against the page. He presented it respectfully to Chen Ye.

“My lord, would you honor us with your signature?”

Chen Ye took the quill pen tucked between the pages and signed his name. Then he glanced at the officer.

“What’s the deal with your father?”

“Heh. Marshal, Planetary Defence Force…” the officer scoffed quietly. His voice dropped to a whisper.

“It’s nothing more than a performance. A bunch of family guards, servants, and slaves putting on a show, just to indulge the fantasies of a former marshal who was stripped of his command long ago.”