Chapter Content
When Kian Voss opened his eyes, he was lying naked on the synth-wool cot in his Sanctum. Eight hours had passed since the mob had reduced his previous body to a red smear.
He sat up, smacking his lips. Being beaten to death was a first for him—a novel, if somewhat unpleasant, sensory experience. He spent a few minutes sitting in the dark, processing the memory of the cleavers and the screaming dregs before pushing it aside. In this universe, trauma was just another stat to manage.
He checked his production lines. The distiller had finished a bottle of Rotgut. He swapped the components, fueling it for another run. At the Imperial Shrine, the candle had burned out, and a second bottle of Sanctified Spirits was ready. He stashed the golden liquid carefully and reset the offering.
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