Chapter 148 Black Templar

"I give up," the Iron Lord announced. "Everything aboard the Phalanx will be returned to Rogal Dorn, and my dear brother will take care of it. I have interfered enough with the internal affairs of the Imperial Fists."

"You have killed enough germs." Morse patted Perturabo's arm in a friendly manner.

Perturabo pulled out a chair and sat down. The tabletop that had been cleaned by the strong corrosive gas was now clean except for pits and pits. Some tiny burnt black and green dots marked a small pile of dead lives.

This gas is the best cleaning micro green skin prop he has concocted in recent days. For this reason, Perturabo urgently learned a lot of chemical knowledge, half practice and half inference, and based on practical operation, he came up with a solution that must be preserved in ceramic steel. The gaseous detergent in the compressed tank can not only destroy the green skin's body structure, but it can also corrode most of the organic matter in the world, and even some inorganic matter.

"Dorn can take care of the rest." Perturabo put one hand on the edge of the table, not very energetic.

"Orc spores have been lurking in every tiniest crack on the Phalanx." Morse sat down opposite the Primarch. "Dorn is so lucky."

During this period, Morse returned to Terra once. After checking a whole round of files, he identified some species similar to orcs from a few documents, and then discovered the reproductive ability of this branch that Roger Dorn encountered. Seems to be far beyond their brethren.

Give an orc a bite of bread crumbs, and in twenty-four hours they will eat all the mold on the bread crumbs. If these orc spores are thrown onto an inorganic surface, they will immediately fall into a long and stable dormancy.

Perturabo shook his head and found the calm emphasis in the sentence: "Rogal Dorn mentioned that the orc fleet he was chasing had fled into the subspace, and I don't know when he will return."

"When?" Morse blocked the light in front of him with one hand, closed his eyes, and put down his palm after a few seconds, and the bright golden light in his pupils faded. "Already on the way back."

Perturabo asked in surprise: "It is not in line with Rogal Dorn's character to give up hunting for no reason. Did he encounter an emergency?"

"I don't know." Morse said simply, picking at the small bone fragments hanging on the side of his brown soft leather clothes. "Ask him yourself. I only saw one planet being blown up everywhere by the empire's fleet. Dorn sets sail for home."

In the remote spying at that moment, he saw that the starry sky was burned red by the fire, the mountains collapsed, the oceans boiled, the plasma exploded in low orbit, and the entire planet's atmosphere was sucked into the vacuum after deflagration. Mountain rocks and a small amount of forest trees and Large tracts of green skin on it were burned into crystal amber, permanently sealed into the passing time.

Dorn stood on the deck, his lips moving, silently saying "I am not an alien."

"This is the most efficient way to eliminate the greenskins." Perturabo commented, and his frown disappeared without leaving a trace. "It's a pity that it's not available on the Phalanx."

"Oh, what do you want to do with the fortress where Brother Yi's rug is?"

Perturabo lifted the ceramic jar on the table and put it down again, with a cold tone: "Spray the disinfectant all over his fortress."

"If you can pay the price of scrapping 90% of the Phalanx's precision instruments, I can help you create a sealed space."

"And temporarily expel all his garrison ships Astartes from the Phalanx?"

"And mortal servants."

"There are also prepared aspirants." Petulabot paused, "They seem to be called the expected ones here."

"It's all about the kids who are going to join the Legion," Morse said. "Shall we start execution?"

Perturabo pushed the ceramite jar further away from his hands. "No, Dorn will be back soon."

Morse yawned. "Is the news coming?"

"Here we come," Perturabo said. "He will return to the front deck of the Phalanx within one day. His heirs are required to prepare complete disinfection measures and to reorganize the place in the center of the Phalanx that was once a field that you burned black. , place a stone pillar in the center of the floor, install a copper plate on the top of the stone pillar, etc. "

"Sounds like something an Emperor would do."

"Why?"

"A ceremonial place," Morse accurately pointed out Roger Dorn's idea and snorted softly, "He obviously wants to set up a ceremonial place."

——

Thirteen warriors knelt silently outside the hall, their cleaned bright yellow armors closer to the light source itself in the dim light.

The obsidian-like smooth corridor stretches all the way to the end of the line of sight. The four walls of the corridor are left with black embers from the burning flames. The dark residual shapes like the swaying shadows of candlelight will surround the wall leading to the temple. Warrior, burn silently and eternally.

The clear stone surface reflected the shadows of the warriors. They were the first Imperial Fists to leave their reflections on the black stone surface.

Sigismund clenched his blackened right fist and pressed his knuckles against the surface of the black stone. The darkness seemed to extend from his hand to the ground, closely connecting him to the new temple. While kneeling in silence, his soul and consciousness flowed into the temple along this hand, and he absorbed the iron soul from the cold black stone slab.

Looking deeper along the corridor, at the intersection of the long dark road, a flickering golden light swayed in the distance, connecting the hearts of the thirteen Imperial Fists.

Unlike the hundreds of layered isolation zones on the outside of the mountain formation, in the core of the mountain formation, this corridor does not have any protective gates or iron locks, not even a single guard. However, no one dared to take even one step forward, not out of fear of death, but out of loyalty to the father of genes.

After they returned from the battle, the new order was quickly conveyed to the will of every warrior.

Rogal Dorn established a temple of oath deep in the Phalanx. Sooner or later, every warrior of the Seventh Legion would kneel here, waiting for the summons of the Gene-Father, waiting for the moment to swear an oath to the Glory of the Skyhawk and the Imperial Fists.

The first batch of warriors who received this honor were the thirteen warriors whose fighting style was remembered by the Primarch in the first battle of the Imperial Fists. After that, according to Rogal Dorn's plan, the remaining warriors on the Phalanx will enter this pure black temple in batches to swear an oath. In the future, whenever the Phalanx meets the Imperial Fists, the warriors who have not entered the temple will also come here to swear an oath.

If an unfortunate warrior falls before swearing an oath, a battle brother will remember his name and bring his name here to swear an oath.

Black Temple - this is the name of the Temple of Oath.

Tens of thousands of years after the birth of mankind, the Empire has replaced the old faith with truth. The last church on Terra that worshipped false gods has been burned by the Emperor himself. For most people, the Imperial Truth is the new faith.

However, Sigismund could keenly taste the difference.

Although this was disrespectful, Sigismund could feel that this silent black temple would last longer than any concrete faith. While being guarded by the Imperial Fists, it would guard the thoughts and souls of the Imperial Fists in the most silent and simple way.

Even if the last warrior who was allowed to enter this place died, this eternity would not change.

"My son, stand up." The order of the Gene Father echoed in the depths of the temple.

The first warrior stood up.

The moment he stood up, Rogal Dorn asked: "What name do you come with?"

"Zicero." The warrior answered, and the red gold inlaid on his face flashed and reflected. "I come with the name of my brother Sardar Fleming and me. He died in battle."

"Come forward." The Primarch said. Zicero walked through the corridor and disappeared into the room where the golden light was.

"What name do you come with?"

The second warrior answered: "Rafa Thomas, I come with the names of my brothers Salem and Kaczynski. They died in battle."

"Isaac..."

"Oro..."

The warriors stood up one by one, and the bright yellow armor merged into the golden light one by one.

"Sigismund, I come with the name of my brother Iscus. He is in fearlessness."

Sigismund stood up calmly.

"Sigismund, come forward."

He stepped forward and walked towards the only bright light in the black corridor.

Passing through the corridor, the room at the end showed infinite breadth. Thirteen candlesticks circled a circular base made of black stone. In the center of the base stood a pure white stone column with a brand new copper plate on top.

Nothing was unsealed until a torch was lit in the depths of darkness, illuminating a tall figure.

Rogal Dorn approached the circular base with a torch in hand. The eagle's claws and beak were about to fly on the golden helmet, further strengthening the white-haired Primarch's firm and cold rock posture.

The flames crackled and burned, and the fragmented echoes extended infinitely into the depths of darkness, like a silent wind, sweeping away the unobservable shadows of the void. The outer edge of the flame was reflected on the Primarch's light-colored irises. This cluster of flames shared the brilliance between the Primarch and his offspring, and the oath was conceived at this moment.

Rogal Dorn tilted the torch. The flames flowed into the copper plate and ignited the fuel that had been prepared long ago.

The flames rose, an echo of an eternal burning that kept the howling darkness out of the circle. A tangible force penetrated the hearts of each warrior, and before the light of the fire swept through the darkness, it swept through the warriors themselves first. Something was burned out, hollowed out, replaced, and a new bright thing was forever lit in the void.

"Children," Dorn said, looking around at his first sworn children. "What do you think of fire?"

Sigismund met Dorn's gaze, and there was a latent cold trust in his icy eyes. It took his breath away. The wind and snow of Inwett had washed away his distractions, and the fire, like this black temple, presented a new immortality.

"War is fire," said Rogal Dorn, "bringing endless pain, death and blood. We will be the creators of war, the destroyers of thousands of worlds. We will become fire, because we cannot retreat."

The Primarch raised his hand. At the end of the golden arm guard, he was not gauntleted.

Rogal Dorn clenched his fist and placed it in the center of the fire. The flames directly wrapped around his huge palm, like wrapping around an eternal pure white stone sculpture.

"Purification is fire." The Primarch said, "burning is the price of purity. We burn away the smoke and extinguish the filth. After the fire burns, what remains is the cornerstone of the new era. We will become fire, because we have a heavy responsibility."

The micro-servers hummed, and the first to take off the gauntlet was Sigismund, even though he had not received any orders.

Sigismund stared at the Father of Genes, and there was neither condemnation nor encouragement in his eyes. Dorn looked at him calmly, waiting for him, until he put his palm into the fire, and in the pain of his flesh being burned and peeled off by the flames, he returned the same calm gaze to the Father of Genes.

In that stone-like face, Sigismund's soul was touched and wrapped by an understanding that could not be conveyed in words.

The one who felt the same way was Rogal Dorn. The flame illuminated the gem-like blue eyes of the descendant in front of him, and the burning pain strengthened his eternal determination. At this moment, Dawn knew that she and this child were sharing everything they had.

He thought of a blanket. An old man used a poker to loosen the burning wood in the fireplace. The warm fire light blocked the wind and snow. The energy tower shook out orange light spots in the dark night. The world was quietly spinning slightly. The pulsing firelight became warm.

He asked the old man why Inwit was still hunting using primitive methods, and the old man told him what the inheritance of the will to survive was. He doesn't pretend that he once understood, and he doesn't pretend that he doesn't understand now.

"Survival is fire." Rogal Dorn said, looking along Sigismund's fist, only the hot flames remained in his field of vision. "Warmth, light, vigil, hunting, cooking, forging. Everything begins with fire. We fight, purify, and then we keep humanity alive. We will become fire, because humanity will survive in this distant, cold, dark universe."

More descendants took off their gauntlets in turn, and thirteen fists that were much smaller than the Primarch's hands guarded his hands. The cruel will is transmitted through the flames, and the oath and pain are engraved together.

"For the Emperor," Dorn said. "For Humanity."

"For the Emperor," his heirs swore in unison, "for humanity."

Dorn took his hands out of the fire, and his heirs took out their hands in the same order as they put their hands into the fire, and let them hang naturally at their sides. Blood dripped down their fingers, dripped onto the obsidian surface, and melted into the foundation stone of the temple.

"Goodbye, children." Rogal Dorn said, hearing the warmth of fire in his voice, "Sigismund, you stay."

The blond swordsman did as he was told, walking around the copper plate and approaching him. His burned palms did not tremble in the slightest, calmness overcoming the pain on his nerves.

Dorn stared at him, then asked, "Are you a warrior?"

"Yes," said Sigismund.

"Do you want to fight?"

"In no mood."

"So, why are you here?"

"For the war," he answered. "For purification."

"Not for survival?"

"For those who want to live," Sigismund said calmly. The shadow of fire on the walls of the Black Temple burned eternally behind him.

Rogal Dorn drew his sword. It is not a chain saw sword used to kill enemies on the battlefield, but a steel blade forged from Witte, which is bright silver, simple and cold.

"I need to build my guard."

He placed the sword on the warrior's shoulder.

"Sigismund, you are my first Templar."