Chapter 125 Soldiers’ Chat Time (Part 2)

When Azak Ahriman arrived on the surface of Inwit, his keen spiritual senses had already smelled some unusual waves.

The etheric perception ability given to him by the Black Crow School made him very sensitive to the psychic tides driven by emotional waves. As he approached his destination, he gradually saw the illusion of two similar huge fortresses standing in confrontation.

The atmosphere ahead was as tense as the insects flying low in the night before a heavy rain, and the omens of danger were like water vapor lurking in the humidity-saturated air, which made Ahriman's heart beat faster.

Fortunately, there seems to be an imperceptible void between the two fortresses, which neutralizes and relieves the pressure of the etheric aura, allowing Ahriman to gradually relax.

When Ahriman opened the curtain of the temporary tent and stood next to two primarchs who were frowning and gritting their teeth, holding the table with one hand, one wanted to pull out the non-existent sword from his waist, and the other wanted to pull out the non-existent hammer from behind. , he silently recalled the peaceful red face of Magnus, the father of genes, and drew the mental strength from the smile that Magnus once showed to be enough to cover up his embarrassment.

Then he respectfully greeted the tense Primarchs: "Azhak Ahriman, the first school of the Sun of Thousand Dusts, reports for duty and pays tribute to the Primarch."

"Come here, Ahriman." A familiar man in black robes spoke, and Ahriman immediately recognized him as the mysterious Friend of the Emperor who had saved his brother, and even the entire Fifteenth Legion.

Morse, he remembered this person's name, and then remembered that Frix had asked him to divine whether this person really existed last time. So seeing him in person again gave Ahriman mixed emotions.

The red-armored warrior saw that neither of the two original bodies had any intention of stopping him, so he summoned up the courage to move forward, and finally stood at the large table where the two original bodies stood facing each other on the left and right, facing Morse face to face.

He noticed that there were only two Primarchs and a craftsman in the camp now, and all the rest of the entourage were missing.

The table was covered with scattered drawings, some related to architectural design and some to regional planning. The painter's brushstrokes are all exactly the same, precise and steady, and the lines are clean and powerful. If it weren't for the seemingly different styles, they could almost be regarded as the work of the same person.

He didn't understand more details. After all, he was not a professional in this field.

"And you can sit down, Perturabo. What's there to be angry about?" Morse continued.

The Primarch of the Iron Warriors glanced at the white-haired Primarch reluctantly, and sat back in the large chair amidst the trivial sounds made by the armor.

"That's Rogal Dorn." Perturabo tilted his head in the direction of the white-haired original body. "This is Azak Ahriman, a warrior from the Fifteenth Legion's Thousand Dust Sun who came here for exchanges."

The way Rogal Dorn looked at Ahriman made the latter feel like he had been thrown into ice water and soaked again. Fortunately, the white-haired original body quickly withdrew his gaze and sat down like Perturabo.

"Is he a just man?" Donne asked.

"He is not your Invite, nor is he my Iron Warrior." Perturabo said coldly, every emphasis highlighting his unfriendliness, "As an independent warrior, his courage and reason I approve as well. I could not find a more just man - since you must think that my warriors will favor me, Rogal Dorn.

"I'm just stating the objective possibility, brother." Dorn sounded no longer calm, "It's a common situation that subordinates under command will tend to defend their superiors. Whether it's my Invites or yours, Warrior, you cannot blindly assume that they are impartial just because you love your heirs.”

Perturabo's burning anger finally infected him, and he was not without a temper. When a large cold wave swept through Inwit a few years ago, the bodies of those speculators who took the opportunity to clamor to overthrow the Dornish family and pursue freedom are still frozen deep in the ice.

Of course, this does not mean that he is going to do anything to the Iron Warriors. Rogal Dorn is just a little angry.

"You know your Inwit, but do you know my warriors? Do you have to accuse them of favoring me?" Perturabo said.

"It's part of common sense, just like I don't need to know the coordinates of your ship to know that the product of one and one there is still one."

When the white-haired giant said this, Ahriman noticed that Morse raised his eyebrows, shook his head quietly, and seemed to say "maze".

Dorn continued, his voice low and solid: "Your heirs who are close to you must be affected by the close relationship between them. This is an undeniable subjective factor. I am not blaming your warriors, we need Face it, Perturabo!"

"So you said in front of me and my heirs that my warriors, my warsmiths, are not qualified to be our judges by nature? You... Rogal Dorn..." The Lord of Iron swallowed one Dirty words.

"I said this wasn't an accusation." Dawn frowned.

"I know you mean no harm, of course I know!" Perturabo slapped the table with a heavy palm. Ahriman clearly saw a fleeting golden rune supporting and repairing the wooden table, so that the table would not be damaged. Collapse, "But you have to insult them?"

The scholar of the Fifteenth Legion began to feel that he should not stand here, a stake in the quarrel between the two Primarchs.

He was supposed to be here wearing a helmet, Ahriman found the humor in the pain, so that he could relax his muscular face through the helmet.

"Does anyone here remember that you invited an innocent warrior to the scene?" Morse let his words float into the unfriendly atmosphere just before Dorn opened his mouth, interrupting the intensified quarrel, "Primarchs, the time for idle chat is over."

Perturabo covered half of his face with one hand, and Dorn calmed down at a speed comparable to the speed of wind and snow cooling down stone.

"Ahriman, look at these drawings."

The Iron Lord spoke in a dull voice, while comparing and taking out several controversial drawings.

Dorn was doing exactly the same thing opposite him. Although they looked nothing alike, their actions were like mirror images.

The two of them worked very quickly and without any communication. Their four arms tacitly did not interfere with each other, and they sorted out the drawings on the table with extremely high efficiency, placing them on the corners without dispute, and placing the rest in categories.

"We can't decide whose idea a certain design should be based on, and we can't convince each other." Perturabo snorted coldly. "And Dorn thinks my own warriors can't give fair advice."

"The drawings here have been classified, and similar drawings have been merged." Dorn has calmed down. "In each stack, we need you to fairly select a drawing and explain why it is better than other designs."

"This warrior immediately conceived the training of the entire town without even looking at the drawings," Morse continued, "I can model it for you to show you."

Ahriman was first surprised that the primarchs almost took out their weapons for this matter, but he soon had no time to doubt the primarchs while mourning for himself.

Each architectural concept projection rotating 360 degrees above the square table is extremely exquisite, and the town planning is easily understandable. It often makes him, a layman, shine.

However, at the same time, he must endure the cold eyes of the two primarchs at the same time, forcing his tight throat to work, and squeeze out a string of simple comments from his mouth that he himself feels unprofessional.

This mental torture was far more painful than any psychic training he had done so far. Ahriman's self-esteem nailed his feet to the ground and insisted on enduring this difficult torture.

Red King, he thought, why are there so many remaining drawings?

When Rogal Dorn and Perturabo inexplicably began to develop in a happy direction later, harmoniously discussing the conceptual model floating in the air, Ahriman really didn't know whether he should feel lucky to have survived the catastrophe because the pressure of the ether in the air disappeared, or feel tired that he might have to stand here as a wooden stake for a longer time.

In any case, Astartes' physical strength is enough for him to stand for a few more hours... or dozens of hours easily.

They shouldn't really chat for dozens of hours at a time.

The prophet suddenly found that the division of the Milky Way star regions in the 30k period might be different from that in the 40k period...

The previous article is not easy to change, so let's just leave it like this (close your eyes)