Warhammer: In the Name of Nirvana

Chapter 687 The Day of Horus (2/3)

Going clockwise, the first person that caught your eye was of course your father.

Compared to him, the stars in the entire galaxy are like stones in the ruins, so inconspicuous: the demeanor of the Lord of Humanity no longer needs to be described in any language, and your thin sentences are not enough to describe one ten-thousandth of him.

On this sacred day, he is still as usual, wearing the golden armor that he almost never takes off. This armor has accompanied him to kill all over the galaxy and created such an unprecedented hegemony: since the creation of the world, no conquest has ever brought so many victories and rewards to the entire race. Your name will be destined to accompany the Emperor and shine for thousands of years.

But in your heart, there is one thing that is more important than conquering the entire galaxy: you remember clearly: a hundred years ago, on the most important day of your life, when your father walked to the shabby garbage pit of Cthonia and took you out of the worst hell in the galaxy and brought you back to your common country, he was wearing this golden armor, his symbol.

Perhaps outsiders would say that this is the most common dress of the Emperor on weekdays, but in your heart it is special: your eyes linger on the golden double-headed eagle, stay for a moment, then slightly raise your eyes and look at your great gene father in mid-air.

He nodded and smiled at you, just like any father would do to his dearest son: the Emperor's noble face is always so perfect, as if it condenses all the beauty, glory and miracles that this world can create. Just one look, and a whole legion of soldiers will swear allegiance to him for no reason.

You are the same.

Going further up, you saw the golden olive crown that had stirred up countless changes in the entire Great Crusade. It was the most iconic ornament of the Emperor and almost a symbol of the power of the entire empire, but your eyes only touched it slightly and left in boredom.

As time passed, you became more and more aware that the crown that once made you hesitate was just like that: power was not what you wanted from the beginning. Compared with the sadness of the Emperor's departure from the Great Crusade, the joy of controlling thousands of stars was not even a worthy compensation.

A part of your heart will be lost forever with the departure of the Emperor: at least in this regard, you and millions of soldiers outside can empathize.

Yes, you can still conquer the world, you can still conquer the stars, but what is the meaning of these conquests now: if they are not conquered for your gene father.

His eyes drooped.

At the same time, your father also saw your worries. Although you were separated by a whole hall, the Emperor still gave his response faithfully: everyone could see that he stretched out a hand and held it forward, as if it was placed on someone's shoulder.

You may not understand others, but you know that this is the Emperor's silent words to you: in Ullanor, in Goron, and in the thirty years you spent together, he had made such a gesture in front of you countless times.

It was a gesture made by a father to his son who made him proud.

You responded with a smile, and you felt warm in your heart: this little secret that only fathers and sons would know made all the previous worries and heavy thoughts disappear in the blink of an eye. Your mind cleared up again and your eyes looked elsewhere.

There is no time to feel sorry for yourself. This is a good opportunity to carefully observe the blood relatives you want to unite: when each Primarch stands from the perspective of a spectator and witnesses you reach the pinnacle of life, nothing can better explain what everyone is thinking than the look and micro-expression on their faces.

You can take this opportunity to distinguish friends: at least you can pick out those temporary enemies and find ways to soften them in the future.

Guided by this idea, the first one is Morgan: because she is standing on the right side of the Emperor, with her hands raised flat, holding a bright red cushion, on which lies a laurel wreath in the shape of an olive branch, the style is exactly the same as the one worn by the Emperor, but the color is slightly different, slightly darker, and is almost platinum.

That is your laurel wreath.

You didn't look at the laurel wreath, but took the opportunity to glance at Morgan's face: through the few exchanges of words before, you are very clear about Morgan's sharp reaction speed and her perfect face-changing skills: any opportunity to see the true feelings on the face of the Spider Queen is so precious.

Morgan didn't lower her head, so you can clearly see her eyebrows and lips: Sejanus and the others were right, your sister did wear a long dress today, which is very rare. It is warm white and the style is very conservative, revealing only a circle of moonlight around her neck and jade-colored arms under the plush shawl.

The linear gold thread is like a ribbon, tying this dress to Morgan's slender body. Each knot uses exquisite means to show an imperial double-headed eagle, and the place on the chest is the symbol of the entire Dawnbreaker Legion: a silver sun protected by an ancient Celtic round knot.

If I were to describe it in words, it would be like two long snakes entangled together, circling a round sun until their heads and tails could no longer be seen: you are proud of your outstanding ability to express yourself in words.

With a sense of victory, you carefully scanned Morgan's face at this moment: in your past impression, Morgan's face was like the sky in early spring, always giving people a warm feeling after walking out of the severe cold, but it was extremely changeable, and it would be rainy and even cold in late spring if you didn't pay attention.

And now, her expression stayed at the stage of rainy and rainy.

Her eyebrows slid down, her forehead was drooping, and a few strands of hair lazily drooped around her ears. Her smart eyes were too lazy to respond to your prying, and her thin lips didn't want to raise an arc or pretend to be angry, so they lay there without any burden, hanging enough dissatisfaction: Morgan stood so close to your cheerful gene father, forming a set of sharp contrasts.

The main point is a completely voluntary one.

To be honest, you have never seen a more vivid expression of helplessness than this face, which reminds you of the mortal soldiers on the Spirit of Vengeance who had just taken their turn to rest and had to return to their posts due to an emergency: they seemed to have the same expression on their faces.

However, Morgan was different from them. In the Spider Queen's lifeless state, you vaguely saw a kind of calmness, as if she was not surprised at her current situation: this kind of calmness that had been experienced and would not make a fuss about it made you confused.

She seemed to have become accustomed to this kind of voluntary labor: It's really interesting, who can casually dismantle a Primarch like the Emperor?

I really don't understand.

You sighed in your heart, missing an opportunity to figure out Morgan's point of view, but your eyes did not stop: because in the shadow behind the Spider Queen, surrounded by the guards, you seemed to vaguely glimpse the figure of the seal holder, but you were too lazy to look at him carefully, you didn't want to know more about this person.

He always wears a hood: how real is this mortal's external performance?

Of course, deeper in your heart, in the secret rooms that you yourself would not easily open, or even realize exist, there is another real reason: that is, you dare not understand the real Malcador, and you resist doing so from the bottom of your heart.

You need him to be your opponent, and you need Malcador to continue to represent the specific spokesperson of the huge enemy in your mind called [Mortal Bureaucracy].

In your point of view, you have always understood one thing, that is, your gene father is not a person who can be easily bewitched by others: since the Sigillite has been able to gain the trust of the Emperor for a long time, it means that the Emperor must have a reason to trust him. Although you can't think of this reason, it doesn't mean that this reason does not exist, but you have not discovered it or are unwilling to find it.

You are afraid to find it.

You are afraid that the answer to the question will make your anger lose its footing: if Malcador is really innocent, then who can control the Sigillite and exert malice on you Primarchs?

You can't think about it.

The culprit must be Malcador: this is the final conclusion, no need to speculate.

Lowering your head, the flames of anger ignited again in your sea-blue eyes. You threw Malcador's figure to the corner of your eyes, drowning him in the resentment in your heart, and then quickly looked at the other brothers present.

You don't have much time. To outsiders, you just habitually look around, maybe less than a second: but the physiological structure of the gene original determines that you can complete extremely complex observation and thinking work in this short moment.

Rotating clockwise, standing at one o'clock is Jonson: this Caliban lion has taken care of himself spotlessly today. You have to admit that his dress is very tasteful even by the most stringent standards, but more importantly, the barbaric atmosphere that has been lingering around Jonson before has disappeared completely at this time.

You thought that Jonson would retain some of his old habits, such as hiding in a more obscure corner, or using wild symbols to symbolize his feelings for the world of death, but today he did not: the Dark Angels' Primarch stood at the intersection of lights with his chest and head held high like the greatest knight.

Although you never felt this way before: but now, even the Wolf God has to admit this: Jonson now has some real kingly style.

The Warmaster is yours, but no one will think that the Caliban people are losers.

As for his eyes?

You glanced at him and left: Jonson is still Jonson, and all the words you can say to each other have been said, and the contest that can be started has long ended.

The war has been set, and now the lion is completely in the posture of carrying out a mission to participate in your Warmaster ceremony. He nodded, just as a recognition of your ability, congratulations on your promotion: no loss or anger, this is the best mode for you to get along with the Caliban people.

Maybe in the future, you will have the opportunity to fight side by side? You believe that as long as the time and reason are right, Zhuang Sen will not refuse to go to the battlefield with you. You will not be superiors and subordinates, but brothers: you quietly buried this plan deep in your heart.     But no matter what, you know that Zhuang Sen will not change: and neither will you.

Your eyes lingered for a moment on the inky armor, ruby-colored silk, adamantium lion-shaped shoulder pads, snow-white capes, and pure black cloaks, and you sighed that even Jonson could find such an excellent image director in his First Legion, and then you slightly moved to the position next to Jonson.

Guilliman was there.

It was surprising, but he did seem to be willing to stand next to Jonson. There was a subtle distance between the two brothers. They could just reach out and touch each other's shoulders, but there was a sense of a chasm across the sky: Guilliman was still the Macragge man, he just needed to have notes with Ultramar or Macragge written all over his armor.

Just like Lorgar.

You always felt that Guilliman and Lorgar were actually quite similar. In a sense, they were both devout believers, but Lorgar believed in the God-Emperor, who you could barely understand, and no one knew what Guilliman believed in.

Maybe it's pure atheism, or maybe it's his five hundred worlds themselves.

But he must have faith, because his persistence in many things can only be described as religious fanaticism, which is exactly what you fear the most: because you know that Guilliman is different from your other brothers, and he has a most precious quality.

The determination to stick to the end.

No matter what he wants to do, no one can stop him in the end.

This is a good thing, but also a bad thing: the good thing is self-evident, and the bad thing is that he will always go to a dead end, and you think of what happened in the Maelstrom.

You remembered that among the many powerful governors you met, there were senior officials from Badab: that was the core of the confrontation between Guilliman and Malcador, and every move could pry the two powers.

But in your impression, these officials from Badab are not so loyal to Guilliman: although their loyalty to the Lord of Macragge exists, it is far less firm than those of the Five Hundred Worlds, and they also have their own ambitions. If he fights for these people, Guilliman may encounter unexpected troubles.

You held your mouth and decided not to tell him the bad news: the two eyes were full of nodding friendship, but Guilliman's attitude towards you was a little more complicated. You are sure that he has good intentions towards you, but this thin good intention is drowned in the chaotic hearts and grand ambitions of the Macragge people.

You actually hope that Guilliman can be more kind to you.

Emperor: Because you don't want to be an opponent with Guilliman at all. It would be great if either of him and Morgan could become your friend. With their help, the Wolf God will be truly invincible.

You hope they will stand on your side.

Or at least, they should not be enemies at the same time: two rustling quills, one of which has a real friend?

You will have a headache.

A sigh remained in his mouth, because the twins in the shadows followed: if it were not for the different legion emblems on their chests, I am afraid no one could tell the difference between Conrad and Corax, who are too similar brothers, especially when they have the same guardian and dress so similarly in solemn occasions.

If there is any difference, it is that the Midnight Haunter seems to have anticipated your gaze long ago, grinning and looking at you nonchalantly, while Corax seems to be a little slower to realize it. He just glanced at you, nodded, expressed respect, and then quickly looked elsewhere.

These two brothers are information no-man's land for you. You know very little about them, but you are at least sure that Conrad is definitely not the poor guy that people say: in the hands of the Midnight Ghost, there may be a whole set of industrial bases that allow him to do whatever he wants, and at least 100,000 battle-hardened and terrifying warriors.

One of your most trusted advisers, Malohurst, once reminded you that Conrad can be regarded as an appendage of Morgan that can in turn influence Morgan's decision. This view is somewhat disrespectful, but when you see Conrad standing lazily and not caring about anything, you think this conclusion is actually quite correct?

Perhaps, perhaps his most important responsibility is to become a supplementary force for the Dawnbreaker Legion, which is lacking in stamina: if you want to break the defense line of the entire Far East border, you must consider the Eighth Legion, which will do its best. They do not have the disadvantage of the Dawnbreaker's difficulty in replenishing members. If they are allowed to gain a foothold in Great Avalon, it will be almost impossible to completely annihilate them.

Unless they are lured out.

The same is true for the Ultramarines.

As for the Raven Guard...

You smiled at Corax apologetically. Facing this brother, you were always a little bit lacking in confidence: you have been thinking about whether there is a way to compensate Corax and the 19th Legion, but to no avail.

As for his power, it is not worth your attention: Corax's country is isolated in the center of your few supporters, and the Raven Guard Legion has nothing to shake the galaxy except for its notorious reputation in the shadows. Maybe it only takes one decent battle and the 19th Legion will no longer be a threat.

This idea is very dangerous.

You warned yourself and looked at the other brother's face. The corner of your eye was still full of the aftereffects of your previous thoughts, but this person obviously didn't care: Angron's smile gave people an extremely ferocious feeling, but you could feel that the King of Red Sand was just congratulating you on your promotion in a very plain way.

He was in a very bad state.

You heard Morgan mention that it was because of the set of maintenance equipment: although the equipment protecting Angron was far from reaching its service life under the careful maintenance of the World Eaters, the problem was on the other side, that is, the raw materials.

No matter how frantically the 12th Legion pursued the fleet that went out of Comoros, their catch inevitably became less: half a century had passed, and even the Black Aidas, who had long been numb to the passage of time, were keenly aware of what fate their compatriots who encountered the World Eaters would encounter.

And the biggest racial advantage of these damn slave owners is here. As long as they want to hide, almost no one in the real universe can catch them: the elusive Webway Gate has caused the advance team of the World Eaters to fail countless times. You heard that they are trying to establish cooperation with other legions and import the required [raw materials] from other fleets.

But this is just a drop in the bucket: the only benefit is that the number of times the Empire's worlds are disturbed by the Dark Eldar has dropped drastically. They have changed their strategy and will attack collectively on a large scale every time. Not all Imperial fleets have the ability to resist or capture them.

Although Angron's warriors have been looking for alternative raw materials, the effect has long been unsatisfactory: the operation of the maintenance device has begun to stop for a short time. In most cases, the equipment can still protect Angron, but the sudden and severe pain in the long peace, although fleeting, can also make the Primarch [moved].

This is Angron's current situation.

Perhaps, in the next few decades or even longer, Angron's life will be safe: to put it bluntly, even if the maintenance device completely loses its effect, even if it is hard to resist, the Butcher's Nail cannot completely kill Angron in more than ten years.

But if there is no way, his condition will definitely deteriorate.

You remember that you shared this worry in your conversation with Morgan: your sister once told you implicitly that they would find a way to solve this problem once and for all, but before that, they also hope that you can use the power of the Warmaster to help Angron.

What reason do you have to refuse?

Of course you will do this, if it is to help a brother in trouble, and as the Warmaster asks other brothers to capture those damned Dark Eldar as much as possible: I believe no one will refuse your request.

In fact, after witnessing the predicament Angron encountered, you heard that more than a dozen brothers, including Ferrus, Fulgrim, Vulkan, Mortarion and Lorgar, had secretly taught their children to learn how to capture as many Commorran scum alive as possible.

You did so, of course.

You looked at him with concern at last. You didn't want Angron to find out about your worry. For a brother who had lost everything and rose up from the slave owner's gladiator arena, the concern from others like pity might be more uncomfortable than naked contempt: although Angron might know that you brothers actually saw him in this way.

But no one would point it out. The only remaining brotherhood in the blood carefully maintained the last dignity of the gladiator.

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This is a chapter of 10,000 words. I will send out these 6,000 words first. The remaining 4,000 or 5,000 words are still being deleted and revised. You have to wait for a while.