The sounds of the crew departing the machimotarium were swallowed by the ceaseless hum of the Graviton Flux Reactors, the gold-tinged vapors thinning in the churn of recycled air.

Angar stood rigid, his bare chest still heaving from rage and the Hyperalgesicator's assault, his skin prickling as if branded by invisible flames.

His cybernetic eyes bore into Harc as the older man straightened his silk tunic, meeting Angar's stare with his own oil-dark, unflinching gaze.

"By the Three, you need to rein in the psychopathy," Harc stated loudly, but calmly and measured, slicing through the mechanical grind like a knife. He crossed his arms, the fine frills of his cuffs draping down, his angular face set in a mask of weariness.

Angar blinked, the words not what he anticipated. He'd hoped for insults, some spark to ignite a duel.

His mind had already mapped this simple confrontation. First, the justifying insult, then the challenge issued, as honor demanded.

Hidetada's intervention would, most likely, deny the duel. If not, Harc could dismantle him with ease, but Angar was done swallowing slights.

He scanned Harc, searching for something to mock, a way to instigate, advance the confrontation along.

The man's attire caught his attention, the rich silks and embroidered leathers, refinement fit for a ducal court, always worn aboard the Zephuros. But off-ship, he usually dressed down.

That struck Angar as inverted, perverse. Normal men lounged casually at home, saving finery for the public gaze. What kind of man peacocked in private?

Angar tried forging an insult from it, something biting about vanity or pretense, but the words crumbled in his thoughts, clumsy and foolish. Insults weren't his weapons. He had no mind for them.

Frustration ate at him as he tried crafting some stinging barb, but too much silence was stretching between them, demanding he fill it.

He opened his mouth, stammering out the start of some feeble response, when Hidetada's mechanical voice crackled in his earpiece. "Don't mention Iyita in the open."

The interruption threw Angar further off-kilter. Iyita? Why mention her? His focus was on Harc, on goading the man into spewing words worthy of blood.

Annoyance etched lines into the bronze skin of Harc's face. "Speak plainly, son. What's this about?" he asked, appraising Angar like a malfunctioning machine.

"What's this about?" Angar echoed in a growl, dropping the applicator with a clatter. "I've done nothing to earn your dislike, and you keep insulting me. I'm done tolerating it." His digitigrade feet shifted, scraping the grating, as he squared his shoulders.

Harc exhaled a weary sigh, shaking his head slowly. "I'm over eight hundred years old, and you're sixteen. We've nothing in common, so of course I don't like you. In truth, I dislike most everyone. And most everything."

He paused, his oil-dark eyes locking onto Angar's glare. "It all turns into duty. Just rote acting, playing a role, wearing a mask in front of this group, another for that one."

Angar watched his enemy, how the grays in his neatly trimmed beard caught the glow of the reactor coils. This wasn't going as it was supposed to.

Harc waved a hand dismissively, as if brushing away invisible chains. "Have you observed the manner in which the crewmen interact? The ribbings they exchange, the rites of hazing? For the most part, you're excluded, are you not?"

That was true. The few times he'd sat for gatherings, he'd always been on the periphery, a silent sentinel, hammer in hand, more observer than participant. But he was included sometimes. Just an hour ago, he had received plenty of jabs as he retrieved Fella's letter.

"In a proper chapter," Harc continued, his tone shifting to something almost instructional, "such hazing would've been inflicted upon you without mercy. It's part of evolving into a man, the good-natured jibing, learning how to interact normally, giving and taking insults without turning murderous, as you're viewed."

Angar grunted, shifting his weight, the deck creaking under his bulk. A more likely reason he was largely left out was that he spent little time in the saloon when others occupied it, focusing instead on training and self-improvement, leaving less opportunity to join in on the ribbing.

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And he did his best to behave mannerly, treating all with respect, so maybe they simply didn't wish to include him in their crude antics. As he had no mind for insulting, maybe his lack of replying to good-natured jibes in kind explained it.

He highly doubted anyone saw him as murderous. Except Spirit, whose definitions of 'innocent' and 'murder' were fanatical, and far too broad, so didn't count.

Perhaps Presbyter Prostasia, but she didn't count either. She wasn't a person, just a filthy, unholy Heretic that needed her skull bashed in until there was nothing left but disgusting pulp.

Harc continued. "As you persisted in surviving when you should've perished, and the crew spared you the usual measure of mockery, Ash bade me assume the role."

He straightened, adding a shrug. "Did I invest great zeal and effort? Of course not. Hardly any. But that absurd 'psychic power' outburst proved a gift from the Three, effortless fodder for the task."

Hidetada's hand, always pulling strings.

Harc's expression softened, just a fraction, his demeanor easing. "It may appear trivial, but it holds profound import. Not merely for forging one's character, but for mastering the art of discerning benign barbs from malicious intent, piercing the veils of deception in others, and recognizing when one is truly assailed or ensnared in the subtle machinations of manipulation, being maneuvered."

He paused, letting the words sink in, then added, "As of now, you're unfit for negotiations or intrigue, ill-suited to any task requiring subtlety or finesse. Fine if you have no ambition to sit alongside the shot-callers, but not if you have aspirations beyond the frontlines."

The words hung in the air, right alongside the thinning vapors, a gauntlet thrown, a challenge to Angar's competence.

He stood rigid, absorbing the lesson, his senses picking up the subtle whir of Harc's implants beneath his skin.

But the Paragon was incorrect. Angar had proven his great skill at negotiating on Tribute. All bowed before him. Did he not unify the world under his iron grip? Was that not proof enough that his ways were plenty effective?

Carl Schmitt had written something along the lines of that everything was politics, so everything boiled down to friends and enemies. He liked this simplified view.

One side to protect, the other to slaughter mercilessly.

But it gladdened him to know a reason lay behind Harc's prior malice, an understandable purpose.

And just because Angar was right, didn't mean Harc was fully wrong.

He reflected on the crew's easy camaraderie, their laughter in the saloon or while working, the shared barbs that bonded them like welds in armor.

He and Simo shared a history of battling alongside one another, of bloodshed enough to forge lasting bonds.

He didn't have that with the others, and he did stand apart, his interactions not the same. Even Garioch seemed more comfortable with the Zephuros' crew.

Though doubtful, it was possible others worried they might cause him insult enough to ignite a violent confrontation. Sometimes, he felt others orbited him warily, as one might a primed grenade.

But was that bad? Did he want to be insulted, even good naturedly? They seemed to think it was fun. They'd be better served by improving themselves, becoming more deadly.

He was a Crusader, not a Layman. His purpose wasn't fun. His purpose was Holy War.

But perhaps there was wisdom in it. Hidetada saw enough of a deficiency in Angar to task Harc with correcting it, so he'd give it some further thought, though he was certain his ways were superior.

He met Harc's gaze, the silence broken only by the slosh of liquids in pipes and the reactors' ceaseless grind, then nodded. "Thank you for the explanation. It's appreciated. I still won the wager. You owe me all your gear."

Harc let loose a genuine laugh, the sound filling the machimotarium, his squared chin tilting back. He clapped a hand on Angar's shoulder. "I'll pay the equivalent value in credits."

His eyes filled with amusement as the earlier tension dissolved. "Guess who underwrote large portions of your debts?" he asked, then performed a mock bow. "I'll deduct it from the principal, but your obligations to me mount deep into the tens of millions. With the growing membership of the Lord Hungers, the monthly tithing and tax expenses alone accrue like the sins of Heretics."

Angar winced. He knew that all too well, now that the comcap link with South Point was operational and spitting out reports regularly.

Hedge Knights, ordained Ecclesiastics, Imperial Military, and all that drew stipends directly from the Divine System, had income taxes deducted automatically.

All but Crusaders and ordained Ecclesiastics were bound to tithe ten percent of their income to the Church.

The Lord Hungers had engineered its rank-based pay scale with meticulous cunning to navigate this mandate.

Each rank carried a stipend calculated precisely so that, after the mandatory tithe was extracted and the remainder donated back to the cult, the net cost per non-exempt member settled at exactly one credit per month in tithe, and one per month in income tax, the bare minimum allowable under law.

But even at a mere two credits per adherent each month, with over three million souls swelling the ranks of the Lord Hungers, the aggregate tithe and income tax formed a staggering burden.

It would resolve in time and with Seminary graduation removing the Lay tax. Tribute demanded vast investments to forge order from chaos and erect the foundations of glory.

Within a few years, as stability took hold and Tributeans became self-sufficient, the mining revenues would yield a bountiful surplus. Maybe the exotic delicacies for the wealthy would pan out too, as well as Hidetada's opulent resort.

And when the cult began warring, the credits would flow like a river.

Beyond finances, matters on Tribute progressed with remarkable vigor. Inevitable crises arose, as they always did, but Jon extinguished them with deft precision, proving his mettle as steward.

Thankfully, he'd soon descend upon Abyssalhome, waging Holy War far from such bureaucratic entanglements and fiscal reports.

"Understood," Angar replied.

"Good," Harc said, turning toward the hatch with a nod. "Follow me. We'll retrieve your Tier 3 gear."

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