Archbishop Goodwin's pure white eyes twitched almost imperceptibly.
Through his unique vision, he could sense the white light representing humanity shining within Raynor's soul. It was a light tempered by hardship and pain, yet one that still adhered firmly to a moral baseline. In stark contrast to this spiritual radiance, however, was a vein of crimson light—representing indifference and cold cruelty.
Raynor was not as flawless as a saint, but this was the true, resilient light of humanity that belonged to ordinary men: potent, yet defined by its imperfections.
This duality was completely illogical.
It caused Goodwin to hesitate. By the strict tenets of the Creed, such a complex soul structure and such a "miserable" fate should have been enough to warrant high suspicion of betrayal. In many cases, it would be sufficient to initiate the purification process immediately.
But Goodwin's guiding principle had always been a balanced one: to remain ever-wary of the xenos and the heretic, while granting the lost a chance at redemption. Humans living in the dark void of the Milky Way were inherently expected to carry a certain weight of "errors."
The hall remained buried in a heavy silence. Every eye was fixed on the two men. The surrounding bishops noticed the Archbishop's hesitation and the way he stared at Raynor. They sensed a certain "discordance" in the new Governor, though none could see it as clearly as Goodwin. Seeing that the Archbishop did not immediately condemn the man, they suppressed their doubts and waited.
Finally, Goodwin's pure white eyes softened. He spoke, his voice ancient yet resonant, like the tolling of a great bronze bell.
"Bow your heads in quiet contemplation. Repent for your worldly transgressions and listen to the Emperor's sacred words!"
He turned and gestured for Raynor to ascend the pulpit. "Use faith as your torch and piety as your foundation. The Holy Mass begins now!"
A grand symphony erupted, sounding as if the very gates of the Palace on Terra had swung open. The choir's holy chants echoed through the cathedral, mingling with the peals of bells and the fervent prayers of thousands.
Raynor released Sarah's hand, gesturing for her to take the reserved seat in the front row. Gus, the Butcher, and Dobby were led to the attendants' pews. Raynor then stepped onto the stairs of the pulpit alone.
With each step, the psychic pressure intensified. The hymns and bells were no longer just sounds; they were ripples of faith washing over Raynor's body and soul. Archbishop Goodwin's pupilless eyes remained locked onto him, as if trying to peel back his skin to see the truth beneath.
Raynor felt a flicker of guilt. He thought of the system and his various "heretical" actions. Am I still a pure human? Under the Emperor's scrutiny, will the mask slip?
He forced the distracting thoughts down. With a mask of calm, he reached the center of the pulpit and stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the Archbishop. He turned to face the assembly, and in an instant, a sea of gazes enveloped him.
Goodwin began to preside. Holding his scepter, he proclaimed the Emperor's greatness and the sacred mission of the Imperium in ancient, solemn High Gothic. He recited the legal and spiritual basis of a Planetary Governor's authority—the "Chosen of the Emperor" tasked with ruling a world.
Raynor followed the procedures Gus had drilled into him. He bowed when required, responded with the correct litanies, and performed the Sign of the Aquila with impeccable precision.
Yet, as he recited the oaths of loyalty, he felt a chilling sensation. Something in the dark was watching him. It wasn't Goodwin or anyone in the room. It was an ancient, grand, and terrifying will—a gaze cast from an impossible distance, piercing through the boundary between reality and the Warp to land upon his swearing soul.
The feeling vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Raynor realized his back was suddenly soaked with sweat.
Archbishop Goodwin watched Raynor take the oath, a faint, cryptic smile touching his aged lips. It was a look of anticipation, as if he were watching a fascinating experiment unfold. This made Raynor even more uncomfortable, but he gritted his teeth and finished the recitation.
"I will serve the Emperor faithfully, serve humanity faithfully, and serve Brevis faithfully. With my blood, my soul, and all my glory, I swear to defend this world against the alien, the heretic, and the enemies of Chaos, until eternity. May the Emperor protect!"
The last syllable fell, and a thunderous response shook the hall:
"May the Emperor protect!"
Goodwin nodded in satisfaction. He gestured for two priests to come forward. One held a golden plate of fragrant holy oil; the other, a silver vessel of blessed water. Goodwin personally applied the oil to Raynor's forehead. A cool sensation blossomed, followed immediately by a warmth like a winter sun.
Goodwin observed closely. Raynor's body reacted normally—there was no rejection, no blistering or burning. This confirmed his biological foundation was still human.
Then, Goodwin dipped his scepter in the holy water and gently tapped Raynor's shoulders and chest.
"In the name of the Emperor, I bestow upon you strong shoulders to bear the weight of this realm. I bestow upon you a clear mind to distinguish loyalty from treachery. I bestow upon you a fearless spirit to stand against countless enemies."
Deep within Raynor's soul, the purple aura tied to Sarah flickered, instinctively repelling this foreign force of "order." But under Raynor's conscious will, the alien energy was forced into submission. The white radiance of his core humanity seemed to flare brighter under the blessing.
Surprise flashed in Goodwin's white eyes. The "compliance" of the purple light and the "acceptance" of the human radiance exceeded his expectations. This young man was far more interesting than he had initially thought.
The blessing was complete. Goodwin stepped back, his face regaining its iron solemnity. The atmosphere in the hall reached its fever pitch. Everyone knew what came next: the most crucial step of the inauguration.
Goodwin turned toward the Imperial icon and bowed deeply. Then, with both hands, he lifted an object from a red velvet cushion held by a nearby priest.
The Scepter of Brevis.
It was roughly 1.2 meters long, crafted from white-gold that exuded an air of ancient nobility. Its head was a complex mechanical structure, centered around a deep red gemstone the size of an egg. The staff was engraved with sacred patterns, scriptural fragments, a map of the world, and the crests of every Governor who had come before.
It lay quietly in Goodwin's hands, yet it radiated a heart-stirring, near-physical temptation of absolute power.