This was the core territory of the Ecclesiarchy. Due to its sacred nature, it stood distinctly separated from other spire sectors. Accessible via hive transports and mobile cathedrals, it ranked among the rare spire zones permitting mass civilian entry.
For generations, hive dwellers boasting of "bathing in sunlight" likely gained such experiences during pilgrimages here.
Of course, given its sanctity, most outer PDF forces were barred from the religious precincts. Only Ecclesiarchy-aligned troops, mid-to-high ranking officers, and nobles received passage.
At the tolling hour, all pedestrians and vehicles halted for prayer—save the Sisters of Battle convoy and its escorts.
Amilia spoke beside him:
"Legends say the Emperor's gaze radiates from Terra precisely when bells mark the hour. Prayers are more likely to be heard now. Will you try?"
Zhang Ge raised an eyebrow:
"I don't know if the Emperor watches me, but closing my eyes would mean not watching the road. Unfortunately, I'm driving."
As the words left his mouth, the steering wheel locked. Twisting it yielded only mechanical resistance, yet the vehicle maintained course inexplicably.
What's happening? Should I brake? Where's the damn brake pedal?
As Zhang Ge prepared voice-activated braking, Amilia inquired:
"What's wrong?"
Observing their steady progress, he replied after consideration:
"Remember that Enginseer? After her vehicle inspection, the steering malfunctioned. Residual issue perhaps."
"Maybe the machine-spirit wants to hear your prayer. Try it."
Hear my prayer? Since when do I matter to machine-spirits? Zhang Ge mused self-deprecatingly.
The uncanny timing suggested machine-spirit involvement—perhaps this particular spirit took offense at his irreverence during holy hours. It had seemed pleased during the sacred unguent cleansing ritual.
Fine. What's the harm? The Emperor's just a man anyway.
Closing his eyes briefly, he mouthed silent words before reopening them.
"What did you pray for?"
"Hmm... Smooth progress ahead, I suppose."
Does wishing for glorious death count? Probably.
Testing the wheel, he found it responsive again.
The convoy proceeded uneventfully, eventually entering a cathedral complex—"complex" being the only apt descriptor for this boundless structure. Monolithic outer pillars soared hundreds of meters, rendering passing humans ant-like beneath their statues. Vehicle thoroughfares accommodated dozens of cars abreast.
Inside, sunlight through stained glass painted hundred-meter chromatic epics across the floor. Servo-skull projections flitted through these luminous tapestries. The vaulted space resonated with layered sanctity: chanted hymns, treads of pilgrim-transports bearing thousands, ecstatic laughter and penitent sobs harmonizing beneath the dome.
This sensory onslaught made divine observation feel undeniable.
The Sisters' convoy drew immediate attention. While heretics maligned their reputation, to the faithful they embodied mercy, humility, and selflessness—warrior-saints descending to aid the imperiled.
Such devotion elevated them beyond mortal station, surpassing even cardinals in some hearts.
Crowds surged toward the vehicles, forcing perimeter escorts to halt until front-row faithful organized passageways. Blocked outer vehicles detoured or disgorged passengers joining the throng.
Despite crowd-control efforts, the convoy slowed to a crawl. A Paragon Warsuit approached the light armored vehicle:
"Palatine Amilia, proceed per convent protocols?"
Amilia looked to Zhang Ge, who was busy marveling at the architecture. Noticing her gaze, he blinked:
"What?"
After brief explanations emphasizing potential risks, Zhang Ge responded instantly:
"Proceed. I consent."
At walking pace, helmetless Sisters disembarked where necessary. Servo-skulls gathered overhead like celestial attendants.
The crowd's fervor crescendoed. Children—deemed purer—crossed barriers bearing crude crosses and flower crowns, the latter crafted from recent parade petals.
Offerings arced onto vehicles or were presented directly. Sisters knelt to accept necklaces hung on armor, weapon charms, or occasional cheek-caresses—honored children scampering back starry-eyed.
Even the Celestian's Warsuit participated. Before an expectant girl, its storm bolter barrel delicately lifted a floral circlet onto the helm, partially obscuring the golden fleur-de-lys.
In ten thousand years of darkness, fleeting sparks persist. However briefly they burned, these Sisters kindled hopeful memories for the gathered multitude—one final luminous gift before their eventual conflagration.
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