Nimrod knew Vostonia's endurance waned, and he had resolved to swiftly conquer the Sea of Canticles.
Having established the transaction's framework, Nimrod engaged Sage Kiwior-9 in exhaustive discussions to confirm every particular of his new battlecruiser.
He would not accept a hollow shell of a vessel. Consulting Rosicky, he probed the Cult Mechanicus's most advanced technologies, from the minutiae of deck plating to the grandeur of engines, lances, void shields, and myriad other modules.
Among the armaments, beyond the broadside cannons, were elevated aether cannons mounted on the warship's dorsal wings.
Naturally, he stipulated bespoke accommodations—a dormitory and armory tailored to his Primarch stature—laying out precise requirements.
This warship, after all, would serve as his flagship until his return to the Imperium.
Throughout the negotiations, Nimrod maintained his spirit vision, scrutinizing the auras of both parties for any hint of duplicity.
With all details ratified, Nimrod and Kiwior-9 affixed their signatures to the Accord on Technological Development and Trade Between Lord Nimrod and the Martian Mechanicus.
He eschewed the title of hive-lord or king, opting instead for a novel Low Gothic term imbued with portentous intent.
This choice carried a profound political resonance: he would emerge as the sovereign unifier of Vostonia.
Kiwior-9, intrigued by the term "lord," queried its significance. Upon learning it was a self-ascribed honorific tied to Nimrod's dominion over four hive-cities, the sage probed no further.
Rosicky, however, grew pensive. His time at Nimrod's side had taught him that the giant never acted without purpose.
At the moment of signing, Nimrod paused briefly, resolving to employ the symbolic sigil of the Black Emperor pathway as his seal.
With deft strokes on the data-slate, he sketched a chaotic lattice of black arcs, encircled by wings, spikes, and crowned by an abstract diadem.
Wojciech swiftly rendered the image into an electronic seal.
With the accord formalized, Nimrod ordered the Fourth Regiment to withdraw, commanding them to gather all spoils, including Fra'ow glass blades and psychic staves.
On the bridge, he received Szczesny's report with attentive gravitas.
"My lord, after coordinating with the Fender and Kournikova families, I devised a stratagem. Using spoils as bait, I lured Robert into a trap, leading an assault team to seize his vessel. He is now in custody."
"Well done," Nimrod nodded approvingly, Szczesny's growth affirming his keen judgment. "Detain him. Upon our return to Vostonia, deliver him to Bukayo."
As Nimrod's fleet charted its course toward the Sea of Canticles, within Vostonia's Lukovka Hive, beneath the Novgorod Dome of the lower strata, a scene unfolded.
A frail child, clad in tattered garments and caked in grime, voiced his trepidation.
"Mikhailovsky, you said there's corpse starch to eat here. Is it true?"
"Look at all these kids, thousands of 'em. You think anyone'd feed us, scrawny burdens with no grown-ups to work?"
A youth in patchwork trousers, his ill-fitting boots riddled with holes, clapped the boy's shoulder reassuringly.
"Gregorzh, trust me. My word's solid."
"This lord, they say he's young like us. He held a trial like this in another dome already."
"But there's a catch to gettin' fed. It's a brutal test. Last time, thousands from a dozen domes tried, and only three hundred passed."
Mikhailovsky's brown eyes gleamed with fervor. "Pass it, and you'll eat full every meal."
Gregorzh swallowed hard, his hunger palpable. "If I can eat my fill, I'll pass any test, no matter how tough."
As clusters of youths murmured among themselves, a figure emerged from the shadows—a brown-skinned boy with piercing blue eyes.
At his side, a lad of fourteen or fifteen struck a high platform's iron frame with the sheathed chainsword in his hand, the clang startling the crowd.
All eyes turned to the stage, where a youth in bespoke carapace armor stood.
Bukayo gazed down upon the throng, his voice resonant with authority.
"Not long ago, I was like you—a starving stray of the underhive, scraping by. Now, I eat what I please, when I please."
"You, too, can seize this chance. Complete my two trials, and you'll join the ranks of Vostonia's Third Regiment."
"Behold," he gestured.
The crowd followed his pointing hand to a pitch black gate, creaking open with a mechanical groan.
"Within that manufactorum, all light sources have been extinguished. Scattered inside are one thousand black stones, each faintly aglow, like this one in my hand."
"Unobstructed, their light is visible within a meter. Those who retrieve one will earn a ration of corpse starch equivalent to an upper-hive tech-thrall's daily allotment."
"No means are barred. Steal, snatch, ally, or go it alone. If fortune favors you, hide a stone's glow and smuggle it out."
Bukayo clapped his hands, drawing eyes back from the gate.
"The key rule: exit through one of the three other portals with a stone to pass the first trial."
"You may not seize stones from those who've left the manufactorum!"
His blue eyes swept the crowd with a steely glare.
"The rules are simple. The trial begins now!"
Bukayo watched the youths surge toward the manufactorum, a wry smile tugging at his lips.
The underhive's weak—old, sick, or infirm—endured the grimmest fates. His own past taught him the desperate struggle of these boys.
Most underhive youths perished before adulthood; survivors were hardened predators. Even those, like he once was, recruited by gangs barely clung to life.
Offer them a path to survival, and they'd pledge unyielding loyalty. Unlike scheming adults who scorned his youth and frame, these boys were malleable, their potential boundless.
Those who passed his dual trials excelled in strength, wits, or specialized talents.
The chainsword-wielding youth beside him, robust and sharp-minded, was adept in close combat. With a mere pipe, he'd breached three checkpoints, mastering the first form of the "Osberh-Vaya" sword art in just three labor cycles.
One standard hour later, the first youth emerged from the manufactorum.
Gregorzh, clutching a stone, sprinted with desperate fervor. His clothes were shredded, his shoes lost, yet as he stumbled into the glow of overhead lumens, he knew he had triumphed.
Bukayo's second trial tested endurance. Each youth traversed a narrow corridor, with the three hundred who persisted longest passing.
As Bukayo's second trial commenced, Nimrod's fleet reached orbital anchorage above the Cradle of the Sea.
Rosicky, linking his data-slate to a cogitator, began his briefing.
"The Cradle of the Sea spans 702 million square kilometers, of which 594 million are oceanic, comprising 84.62 for each hundred parts."
"Its landmasses consist of 7,381 islands, varying in size. Over 1,672 are inhabited, with a pre-xenos-invasion population of approximately 17.5 million."
"More than 17 million souls dwell across forty-nine key islands, their seafood and grain sustaining Vostonia's prosperity. The sages beseech you to purge the xenos invaders from these islands."