Serious People, Who is Learning Magic at Marvel?

Inside the palace walls.

It was supposed to be solemn and elegant, with sculptures standing in the square gazing at the passing imperial team—as it should be. Now, it is crowded with refugees.

The voices were full of people, the cries of children and the comforting voices of mothers one after another. You don't see many men who either died while covering their wives and children to escape, or were foreclosed on fortifications. The stench was in the air, almost everywhere. The refugees were hungry and dirty, and the air was suffocating, stiff and retching.

But it's also very sad, heartfelt sadness. As long as you see the faces of mothers who are forced to cheer for their children, and the words of their prayers to the Emperor...

An Astarte squeezed through the crowd.

His armor is blue, with gold lining. The Ultramarines' badge of honor glittered on his right shoulder. Some medals clanked on his breastplate. The heavy turbos on his jumping pack made his steps a little heavy, but the warrior kept his demeanor.

He felt the gazes around him, and those eyes full of speculation and doubt seemed to question him: Why didn't you save us from the military disaster? The look in their eyes made the warrior choked up. He wanted to explain to them, but he couldn't.

He couldn't, because they couldn't understand—these people were often illiterate, and probably didn't write their name from birth to death. But they knew how the Emperor should spell, and even recited many of his words. Even if he tried to explain it to them, they probably wouldn't understand. Astarte didn't know what to think about that.

What should I do idea? He asked himself, and could not get an answer. Simply leave it behind. Astarte breathed a sigh of relief after pushing through the crowd. The sour smell was insignificant to him. The breather grille on his helmet helped shield him from those odors, but the gazes of the people around him made it hard to straighten his spine.

Before reaching his company commander, Cato Sicarius' operating room had to cross a grand corridor.

The back of the corridor used to be the museum hall, which was used to record those ancient people with amazing talents in the history of ancient Terra, whose inventions and creations laid the foundation of today's empire. So it is forever remembered that for tens of millions of years, countless pilgrims came here from all over the galaxy to pay homage to them.

As for now, it's a place that is used as a field hospital for temporary indications.

Astarte saw rows of refugees, most of them well-dressed, leaning against the corridor walls. It was just a little messy, but at this time, he was crowding around the machine servants who distributed food and surrounded them. There's a bastard with a pocket full of allotment dehydrated nutrition packs and still begging for more.

His anger comes from the heart—your countrymen are suffering and starving out there. Those are women and children, and you guys are crowded here...like maggots!

He couldn't say anything vulgar, just disgusted. Very disgusting.

Astarte deliberately increased the sound of his footsteps, satisfied to see the scum, cowards, and rubbish run around in fright. He didn't grab them by the collars, let them distribute the food, and he didn't scold them for how lewd their behavior was - he couldn't do that, he had a more important mission.

I can't waste time again.

Walking quickly through the corridor, there are many people lying in the museum hall. There are soldiers of the Astral Army, there are civilians, there are pilots of war mechs, and there are Astartes. The medical nuns presided over this temporary hospital, and they provided medical services to all citizens of the Empire, helping the poor and healing the sick and wounded. Visitors are not rejected.

Astartes always felt that compared to him, they were the real angels.

Angels should know how to save, not like him, who can only kill.

A nun wearing a white hood and mask, with only a pair of agate-colored eyes showing, saw him and hurried over: "Is that the lord of the Ultramarines Second Company?"

"Yes, nun."

"Your company commander is--oh, forget it! The Emperor bless him, please come with me!"

The nun's heavy tone made him a little uneasy. He took off his helmet and followed the nun into the museum hall step by step. Around them came the uninterrupted monotonous sound of medical instruments, and some nuns ran past them anxiously, covered in blood. From time to time came a moan full of pain.

Astarte looked left and right, and the place was full of those who were the most seriously injured. An Astral Army soldier lost half of his body, and the other half was covered with burn marks. His flesh was burned to black coke, and he was writhing on the simple camp bed, leaving bloodstains one after another.

They pass through or are undergoing surgery, or are wailing, or are dying. Arriving in front of a shabby room isolated by white curtains, the nun turned her head, looked up at him, pursed her lips and shook her head: "Sir, you'd better go in and see for yourself."

Hearing this sentence, Astarte's right fist clenched suddenly, but his face did not reveal the slightest. He nodded calmly to the nun, then, holding his helmet, pushed back the curtain and walked in.

His company commander, Cato Sicarius, lay there. He lost a right leg and had a huge cut in his abdomen that exposed his internal organs and ribs. Seeing him coming, Sicarius turned his head. He opened his mouth as if he could not feel the pain, but his voice was shaking.

"Hugh Mills, here you are. How's it going? Is the damn thing dead?"

"It's dead, Captain. After you put your sword in its head, Captain Marius jumps on it, and the Destroyer Squad supports him with a volley. The Captain hits you with his power fist. The sword was hammered into its brain. It died."

"Very good." A smile appeared on Sicarius' pale face. "Then our sacrifice was worth it. What information did you bring me?"

"No information, company commander. I just came to see you."

Sicarius frowned, and his voice suddenly increased: "The war is getting tight...cough! Cough!"

"The war is getting tight. You don't have any information or something that I need to decide. What are you doing here? Cough!"

He coughed, his bare internal organs shivered, blood spattered and dripped on the sheets. But still kept talking.

The medical equipment started beeping non-stop. A nun hurried over. She stared at the medical equipment and made sure there was nothing wrong. After a while, she breathed a sigh of relief.

She said sternly: "Captain Sicarius, how did we tell you?"

Hugh Mills swore that it was the first time he saw a shy expression on his company commander's face. Cato Sicarius, who had never wavered in the face of the Lord of War, stammered a little at this moment: "I-er, nun, this, this is not my problem."

"yes?"

The nun turned her head to look at Xiu Mills, and he immediately stood up straight: "I apologize, nun."

After a sincere apology, they were sternly taught by the nun for five minutes. These doctors who regard curing and saving people as their mission don't care who you are, as long as you cause them trouble, you will be scolded. After she left, Xiu Mills breathed a sigh of relief. He didn't want to get into an argument with a medical nun.

"Come here, Hugh Mills."

Sicarius beckoned to him in a low voice, and Humils did as he was told. He walked over, and his company commander raised a hand weakly over his right arm armor. He tapped lightly: "How is Captain Marius doing?"

"The head of the regiment is fine, we are repairing the outer wall of the palace, and the brothers of the Imperial Fist have taken over our positions."

"You don't have any information?"

"It's not really intelligence, company commander."

Sicarius didn't speak anymore, he turned his head and waved his hand: "Go quickly, brat."

-------------------------------------

Marius sat wearily on a stone that was supposed to be part of a building. As for now, no one cares what it is. Surrounded by apothecaries, they were carrying the gene-seeds of the brothers they had brought back to a transport plane that carried them back to the Glory of Macragge.

A think tank is reporting to him.

"The latest news from the father of genes. He appreciated our results, but also felt that we should not take such risks. At the same time, he issued the latest order to us to go to the middle level of the hive for support."

"Support? Who to support?"

"A squad of battle nuns... and Lord Steve Rogers."

Hearing this sentence, Marius adjusted his sitting position to make himself look more solemn. He nodded for the think tank to continue.

"The father of genes didn't believe the explanation, but I believe it has something to do with the ancient relic power plant there..." The think tank touched his bald head and sighed worriedly. "Up to now, we haven't seen any demon belonging to Nurgle, Captain, I'm very worried."

Marius didn't answer him directly—he was actually thinking about it too.

It's normal that Khorne's demons are the most on the battlefield. The demons of Slaanesh are all huddled in their hives doing their repulsive arts, and it makes sense that there aren't a few of Tzeentch's demons... But why not Nurgle? the devil?

This is totally unreasonable. Although they are not as keen on killing as Khorne's demons, they will not miss any opportunity to spread that so-called blessing to humans...

After thinking about it again and again, Marius could not come to a conclusion. He simply put the question aside for the time being. The Ultramarines Chapter Commander stood up and issued an order to the think tank with a blank expression: "Assemble the warriors... We will go to the hive immediately."

"As ordered, Chapter Master."

The think tank bowed slightly and began to use psionic communication to connect with the brothers present.