May 30th, 4186

Glorious Tributeans,

I come before you to shatter the rumors that plague our realm. You have doubtless heard terrifying claims I intend to unleash horrors upon this world, tales painting me as a harbinger of unspeakable torment.

Let me be clear: these rumors are all true. Likely, they are but pale echoes, understating the agonies I shall inflict upon you and all those you love.

Behold the reverse of this decree, where my glorious vision is etched in full measure. Pause now, and devour its words.

Wondering if you and yours can evade this terrible fate? Indeed, for I have no desire to harbor sniveling weaklings and the pathetic.

The vast Kondunean region, spanning over two megameters squared, governed by the off-worlder Lord Qinfen Dikaiosyne, shall rise as a lustrous imperial bastion, sealed beneath a majestic dome.

There, the air shall be purged of burning fogs, halved in air pressure, lightened in gravity's grasp, and bathed in sunlight, a haven for the spineless, where the soft-bellied may wallow in indolent ease.

Moreover, by the boundless mercy of Saint Hidetada, a heavy-class transport cruiser shall descend monthly, bearing away the feeble. Free passage awaits them to one of three worlds, where they may flee.

Until our own facilities are operational, transports will continue carrying some of our children away to Cloisteranage, but no longer will only our sons be sent.

Further, for those of unyielding faith and spirit who yearn to remain and claim this world as their eternal crucible, a trial of exile awaits: you must endure a full year off-world. This is no mere whim, but a sieve to cull the faint of heart, the frail, the feckless, those with a passive outlook who crave comfort's velvet chains.

I seek only the iron-wiled faithful, those fervent devotees who pledge their blood and breath to God above and our glorious Empire, a life given in sacred tribute to the Three and Holy War.

In the fullness of time, Tributeans shall be forged into the galaxy's unrivaled champions, the unbreaking spear that pierces the throats of our Empire's innumerable foes, causing even the ancient evils of the infernal abyss to quake in fear.

Suffering shall be our shared sacrament; you shall bleed and break, and I, alongside my lineage yet unborn, shall bleed and break with you, unflinching.

If men worship God from base greed, theirs is the groveling of merchants; if from fear, the cringing of slaves; but if from profound gratitude, that is the exaltation of the truly free.

Though this world shall bow beneath my iron fist, ruled under theocratic tyranny, its people shall walk in freedom unbound, for true liberation comes only in total surrender to our Lord, the King of Kings.

Some among you, shadowed by ancient grudges, may fear that I, a Mecian by blood, will mete out injustice skewed against the rest. Cast aside such illusions: injustice shall rain upon all alike, a storm impartial and relentless.

Old hatreds die hard, yet I vow never to forget that my rule extends over every soul on this soil, all Tributeans, united as one glorious people, tithing the Almighty blood and battle endless.

Let it be known: This decree marks the termination of the local adulthood exemption, effective on the final stroke of New Year's Eve, December 31st.

Beginning January 1st, 4187, any individual under the age of sixteen shall henceforth be considered a minor. All marriages involving individuals under sixteen solemnized before this date shall be grandfathered in and remain legally recognized. However, no marriage involving persons under the age of sixteen shall be permitted or recognized thereafter.

Furthermore, as of January 1st, 4187, for any union to be deemed valid in the eyes of the Holy Empire, it must be consecrated through the Sacrament of Matrimony, duly witnessed by an ordained Ecclesiastic.

For God and Empire!

Baron Angar Mecia, Holy Knight, ruler of the planet Tribute, Bellator Summus of the Lord Hungers, a fine cult of unrelenting glory

Angar clutched the decree as he rode toward the rift-site.

The parchment was of thick and quality stock, and bore his heraldry in vibrant hues, twin crests of crimson and obsidian on the top left and right, really making the blessed Mother pop, her rage and hate almost palpable.

They were flanking the sacred Trey, its Eye of Providence within a pyramid gleaming in gold and white at the document's head.

He traced the words again, his heart swelling with fervor. He loved it. It was perfect.

South and North Point's lone fabricators groaned under ceaseless labor, forging components for vital structures. Printing six million decrees demanded a halt to these tasks, a sacrifice Angar deemed necessary.

Lesser stock and uncolored heraldry would have significantly hastened the process, but this was no measly missive.

This was his first command to his people, a testament to his rule, and it would not be lacking.

He had ordered the rulers of Tribute's forty-two fiefs to summon volunteers for the initial official clergy of the Lord Hungers to be sent to Seminary. From these, he demanded only the elite.

Two hundred men and two hundred women from each fief, divided equally into those above and below sixteen years, their faith and ferocity proven beyond doubt.

Among them, Angar would meet the hundred girls under sixteen from each fief, all unwed, who would be shuttled to South Point as the decrees were distributed.

From their ranks, there would be his future partner for the warrior covenant.

These girls would be sent to Cloisteranage, and thereafter undergo a shortened Seminary, which the Church demanded of all unordained Ecclesiastics.

Some would rise to the Grim Ordeals, and most who passed would not return, called to higher service as Crusaders, at least for some time.

Others, seduced by the softness of imperial life, would forsake their home, craving an existence of sacrifice-free ease.

Angar expected no more than half of the rest to complete the shortened Seminary and return. And that was as it should be.

He sought only true believers, those whose devotion burned brighter than the infernos of the Underworld, yearning to offer blood and battle in eternal tribute to God in Holy War, to be part of something greater, regardless of the sacrifices demanded.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

The thick forest's dense embrace battered the hover vehicle, grinding over tangled roots and sodden earth that slowed it.

Angar set aside the decree as the vehicle lurched to a halt. He slammed the door release and forced his armored bulk through the narrow exit, scraping the frame.

He stood upon the hallowed ground where a gateway to the Underworld would soon tear the veil asunder.

For now, prefabs specially treated for Tribute's environment housed clergy and guards. Nearby, iron cages held Heretics.

Past them, a light-class corsair lay, a nicer ship provided by Hidetada, housing the Hierarchs, providing them all modern comforts during their extended stay.

The air cracked with the roar of auto-blasters as perimeter sentries felled a beast, its death-scream swallowed by the suffocating canopy.

This plan had borne sacred fruit beyond its surface. Duty bound Angar to offer the redeemable Heretics repentance, a chance to reclaim their souls for the Three's glory.

Already, he had saved many, reducing his penance to a mere thirty-nine souls. Today, he hoped to lighten that burden further.

Striding to the cages where dozens of Heretics languished in chains, Angar's voice boomed. "Will any repent before three are chosen to open rifts this day?"

Six hands shot up, fervent in their desperation for absolution. Or survival.

His heart surged. With these six, only thirty-three souls remained for his penance.

Chamas Firestarter, her eyes blazing with defiance, spat out her blasphemy. "There is no God, Nephew. Or I hope not, because if there is, He hates us, and revels in our suffering. I have no sin to repent."

Angar's jaw tightened. Chamas, who had schooled his mother in witchery and visited Urdmut at least twice yearly throughout his life, was as close as kin, an aunt in all but blood.

But her Heresy couldn't be abided. "I guess Holy Theosis is a figment of all our imaginations, then, Aunt."

Chamas sighed heavily. "How is a machine causing words to appear in our eyes any different than the machines making voices appear in your ears?"

Angar sighed in turn. "Because one is Divine and the other is merely technology. How do you explain the empowerment, Aunt?"

A smile cracked her lips. "I've read much of the information given in this System. What makes it special? Are there not many forms of empowerment? Gene-forging, apotheoser…"

Angar interrupted her blasphemy. "Then you'll have no qualms opening a rift, Aunt."

She cackled, unbowed. "This life is all I have, Nephew. Of course, I mind. But I'm no longer a witch and oath-bound to maintain religious neutrality. I won't hold my tongue. I speak only truth now."

"Preaching Heretical lies is death," Angar barked. "Repent, Aunt. Embrace the Three and bask in the Lord's eternal light."

"There is no God," she hissed, her defiance unyielding.

Angar exhaled, heavy with resolve. "Remove those who seek to repent their Heretical ways," he commanded the guards, who knew to deliver them to an Ecclesiastic for absolution.

"Take Chamas Firestarter, and that one there, and…that noseless one there." He pointed to the final two. They looked weak, and he'd rather they not be given time to think and repent.

The three chosen were dragged to a clearing where the air thrummed with unholy dread.

A vast ritual circle marred the earth, its boundaries etched with sanctified runes that glowed distinctly under Tribute's sullen sky.

Within it, smaller circles pulsed with Divine wards, many of them alive with writhing rifts to the Underworld. Hellspawn clawed at their shimmering protective fields, their muffled snarls relentless, desperate to break free.

Chamas Firestarter and the other two were hauled to three dormant circles, each ringed by clergy chanting Holy litanies.

Chains inscribed with Treys and Holy sigils bound the condemned, their links biting into flesh to stifle both screams and resistance.

Guards stood ready, shock-batons trained, while a Hierarch clutched a reliquary containing unholy relics of Abyssal Catalysts and Infernal Artifacts.

Chamas was forced into her circle first, her eyes blazing with defiance as the Hierarch unveiled a Mirror of Souls, the obsidian surface rippling with trapped, screaming visages.

"Gaze upon your damnation, Heretic," the Hierarch intoned, shoving the mirror toward her face, its edges crackling with profane energy. Chains tightened, pulling her head forward to ensure her eyes met the glass.

The second Heretic, trembling uncontrollably, was bound within the next circle. A Hellstone Talisman, throbbing with a sick green light, was pressed into his palm by a guard's gauntleted hand, the relic's touch burning his flesh as the circle's wards flared to contain the imminent rift.

The noseless man, the chains silencing his screams, struggling futilely, was shoved into the final circle. A Fallen Dagger, the blade crusted with ancient blood, was thrust into his hand, the object itself forcing his fingers to close around its hilt as the runes beneath him throbbed with Holy power.

Angar watched as one by one, the relics consumed their hosts. They'd open small rifts to Hell. Unclosed, and left to fester, most of these rifts would eventually become lower-ranked gateways.

When enough gateways opened in the same area, fraying the veil between the infernal abyss and the temporal realm, Tribute would be forged into an Infernalis, assisting the Lord Hungers cult to grow mighty through constant battle.

Everything about this was extremely illegal, from forcing people to activate unholy relics, to purposefully opening rifts, right on down, but legalities meant little to Hidetada, and Angar was protected under his aegis.

There was a science to the process. If it were botched, Tribute could devolve into a full Hellworld.

Thankfully, Hidetada had sent competent clergy to oversee the task. It'd take years upon years to reach Infernalis status, but his people could whet their teeth on all the gateways along the way.

The Hierarch overseeing the ritual raised a staff pulsing with Holy light, guiding the sacred carnage with rhythmic incantations that drowned out the distant thunder and skyspark explosions.

The second Heretic's transformation was swift, unraveling explosively. His hand blistered instantly under the Hellstone Talisman's touch, his flesh bubbling like Tribute's corrosive rains on exposed skin.

Bones twisted into serrated spurs with loud cracks, his torso bloating into a pulsating sac that split open in a spray of disgusting pus. An unholy roar escaped his collapsing form, now a mound of oozing sores, as the rift tore wide in a burst of sulfurous flame.

A half-dozen hulking beasts erupted forth, their muscled frames studded with bony spines, pounding the ground with each frenzied charge against the circle's shimmering barrier.

The noseless man followed soon after, his agony drawn out in a slow contortion. He thrashed against the chains as the Fallen Dagger's curse seeped in, his arm snapping backward with a sickening pop, flesh peeling slowly to reveal a skeletal frame wrapped in translucent, writhing skin that pulsed like a living membrane.

His jaw unhinged inch by inch, sprouting rows of grinding teeth amid unholy whimpers, his body warping into a hunched, beastly silhouette that vibrated.

Only then did the rift peel open, a sluggish vortex of shadow and sparks, birthing a single towering Hellspawn, an emaciated giant with three vertical maw-slits lined by rotating teeth, and the teeth spit sparks as the monster lunged and smashed its face against the wards.

Chamas Firestarter warped last, almost a full minute after the noseless man, her end a frenzied spectacle of unyielding will clashing with profane force.

When it finally began, a convulsion rippled through her frame like a seismic quake. Skin split in jagged lines, unleashing a writhing mass of black tendrils that coiled and lashed outward, seeking escape.

Her eyes tore away from the mirror, locking on Angar's before melting into glowing pits.

Her screams warped into a banshee's wail, echoing off the canopy as her form stretched into a serpentine abomination, limbs elongating with bone-snapping cracks.

At her heart, a rift erupted in a whirlwind of venomous mist, disgorging a dozen sinewy horrors with fang-filled maws gaping wide, hides glistening with venomous mucus.

They slithered and clawed at the protective wards with frantic fury as the thing that had been Chamas collapsed in a shudder.

Angar's heart burned with fervent conviction. He wished Chamas had repented, for she had been a stalwart woman, a steadfast friend to his mother, her visits to Urdmut a pleasure, a fixture of his youth.

Her loss stung, but her filthy Heresy could not be forgiven. He took solace in her sacrifice, a grim offering with a greater purpose. It'd eventually help forge unyielding champions for the Holy Empire's endless war.

The iron cages of only the redeemable purposefully sat in view of the rifts, the Hellspawn constantly bashing and clawing at the sanctified wards, a spectacle to break the Heretics' resolve. He'd go ask if any others wanted to repent now.

He yearned for his unjust penance to end, as the tally that remained weighed heavily, a chain that could spell his eternal damnation unless fulfilled.

With the Hierarch's chants resounding through the clearing, Angar turned his gaze south.

Duty called him back soon. He had already met Mecia's hundred girls. The first twenty from Tormina awaited him at South Point.

Though the girls believed he met them only to judge their suitability as clergywomen for his cult, chances were that his potential partner for his warrior covenant would come from either Mecia or Tormina.

Tormina would be the more strategic choice, strengthening his bond with that critical fief. But his heart craved a Mecian, of course, as they were his people, superior to all others, and their souls burned with zealous fervor, filling him with great shame.

The covenant demanded unyielding strength and faith, not superficial attractiveness.

But, no matter how he tried to purge them, such shallow desires tore at his heart, and he prayed Tormina's ranks held a girl he found somewhat tolerable to look upon, unlike Mecia's hundred beasts.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.