Chapter 128 Failed Apology

The golden light faded from the wall, and the broken wooden structure of the wall was repaired under the effect of the spell. The color of the white snowy land was once again blocked outside by the sealed waterproof cloth wrapped on the outside. The tent once again fulfilled its role of shielding the cold wind on the surface of Inwit.

The light and heat of the stove returned to the tent, shining on the two primarchs who hid in two corners of the tent and did not want to see each other - mainly because Perturabo unilaterally turned his head away every time he almost saw Dorn.

As for Dorn, the primarch's self-healing ability had not yet had time to heal his injured face. The blood scabs on his brow and cheekbones, adding different colors to his blue half face. He squatted down and silently picked up the drawings scattered all over the ground. The mixed emotions made him unable to keep his mind to sort the drawings, and he could only hold all the messy papers in his large and rough palms.

"...Yes, that's what happened." Morse leaned against the tent support and said to the golden figure floating in the air, "On the first day your two sons met each other, one of them angered his brother, who had not been so angry in the six years of the expedition, and the other punched his brother against the wall, almost blowing off the tent that was nailed quite firmly."

The Emperor's image turned around and faced his two sons.

His glory was as holy as before, and there was a faint and dazzling arc of light floating around him, like a golden thunder descending from the sky, carrying the revelation of judgment and teaching.

Dorn's Adam's apple rolled and became obvious, his eyelashes fluttered the air nervously, and his hands grasped the paper tighter at a loss, and the edge of the paper pressed on his palm.

Perturabo glanced at the Emperor, and then, as if his eyes were burned by the Emperor's golden clothes, he quickly lowered his head and buried his chin in his arms around his chest.

The Emperor took his noble steps solemnly, slowing down his pace until the golden boots floating with lightning and eagle phantoms appeared in front of Dorn. The hesitation hidden in his brilliant light made Morse curl his lips.

"My son," the Emperor said, "raise your head."

Dorn raised his head as the Emperor said, not daring to blink. The wound on his face was more clearly exposed to the Emperor's sight, and the Emperor fell silent for this, even his silence seemed to contain infinite wisdom and prudence.

"Father," Dorn said, his frustration was poorly hidden, not to mention that his swollen cheeks hindered his normal voice. "I am Rogal Dorn, the current patriarch of the Dorn family, the lord of Invit and some surrounding galaxies."

"Rogal Dorn," the Emperor said, "my seventh son, tell me what happened."

Dorn tried his best to focus on the sight given to him by the Emperor, and he was immediately shocked by the stern and noble face of the Lord of Mankind.

This face, framed by a golden laurel wreath and shoulder-length black hair, was cast by tens of thousands of years of broken hopes. Under his majestic brow, there is no doubt that all the miracles and dreams of the entire human race are gathered. The unparalleled authority of the cold storm of Invet and the orange-red fire of the long night's warm stove are unified in him. Anyone who has looked directly at the Emperor cannot resist the desire to offer him eternal loyalty.

However, the kindness and trust contained in those eyes did not comfort Rogal Dorn's heart. Using confession as an opportunity to meet the Emperor for the first time is obviously one of the worst things a Primarch can imagine.

"I mistakenly thought that the craftsman Morse was an alien," Dorn felt a piercing chill coming from the direction of Perturabo when he uttered this word, but Dorn knew that he could not evade the main point in his statement, "and used this to verbally attack Morse and Perturabo. I severely insulted them."

Perturabo let out a suppressed snort.

"Morse is a human, Rogal Dorn," the Emperor said, causing Dorn's breath to miss a beat. Shame seized the white-haired Primarch.

"What made you make a mistake?" the Emperor asked.

"I did not consider Morse's specialness." Dorn answered quickly.

Although he still did not know what this specialness was, the man who could summon the Emperor and talk to the Lord of Mankind as if he were an old friend could never be an enemy of the Empire.

"Before I questioned it, I was limited by my vision and mistakenly believed that my investigation was sufficient to blindly make accusations."

"Apparently this is because someone put some instructions into their genetic spirals when creating the Primarchs, such as hating xenomorphs?" Morse said.

Except for Perturabo who looked at Morse, no one paid attention to him. The Emperor had long been accustomed to ignoring Morse's sarcasm, and Dorn could not talk to him over the Emperor.

Morse grinned at Perturabo, who nodded silently, and his frown finally relaxed a little.

"How will you make up for your mistakes, Rogal Dorn?" the Emperor asked.

"I will apologize to Mors and Perturabo," Dorn did not add words such as hoping to be forgiven. Considering that this was Dorn, his concession at this time was not a technique of showing weakness, but simply did not think he was qualified to forgive the insulted. "And make any compensation within my acceptable range."

"No need to apologize to me." Perturabo's voice was soaked with unrecognizable coldness and anger, "It is not me who has been humiliated for no reason."

Dorn had to turn his face in the direction of Mors.

He rarely faced such a dilemma. The number of times the Primarch made mistakes in judgment was far less than the number of times he made correct accusations, not to mention the seriousness of the false accusations he made under the creed upheld by the human empire.

"I offer my deepest apologies, Craftsman Morse." Dorn's voice was no longer calm. "My accusation was ill-founded and very bad, and it was entirely caused by my misjudgment. I am willing to bear..."

"Pause, dear Rogal Dorn." Morse said softly, "Let's assume a situation. If I were really an alien, what would you choose? Expose my identity like you did an hour ago?"

Dorn's lips moved, and his heart beat more violently, but he couldn't deceive himself.

"Yes, I will." He said. "I'm sorry."

"Stop your apology," Morse stood up straight, and his black robe rolled over the bracket he leaned on. "You should talk to your father first, and I will come to you later. Perturabo?"

Perturabo immediately put down his hands folded on his chest. In fact, it is the most comfortable posture to put both hands on the side of the body when wearing armor.

"I'm here." The Iron Lord said.

"Child, let's go out and talk." Morse said, extending his hand in the direction of Perturabo.

Perturabo nodded quickly to the Emperor, then strode to the door and pulled back the curtains at the entrance to the tent for Morse.

The two of them stepped back into the ice and snow, and Morse patted Perturabo's gauntlet. The next moment, they were on top of a towering snowy mountain in Inwit that no one had ever set foot on or listened to, looking down at the eternal ice of the vast wasteland.