Chapter 176 Warriors and Hounds

Frix was one of the first warriors to gather at the space port where the Iron Morning Star was to dock. To be precise, the moment the list was read out, he turned around and headed all the way to the designated location for the vehicle to stay.

He was accompanied by some unsparing battle brothers, such as the only war blacksmith selected in this mission, Bill Perrin. This excellent naval commander was an outlier among the Iron Warriors. Sometimes when looking at the sea of ​​stars, he would show a little melancholy that was different from others. The brothers joked that he must have written a collection of war poems in private. Regardless, he returned to Terra with nothing.

After the transport truck was full, they were sent to the port to wait. What surprised Frix and even all the first batch of arriving warriors was that Perturabo was on the platform of the port, taking off his helmet and holding it in his hands. Alone in the wind whistling high in the sky, I waited for their arrival.

"You are here." Perturabo said, as if he was suddenly awakened from his meditation, and his complex and huge thinking had just returned to the reality of Nuceria from an infinite distance.

Outsiders would definitely think that the stern and sculpted facial lines of the Iron Lord at this time symbolized some kind of coldness before the outbreak. However, the Iron Warrior knew that the Gene Father actually had amazing tolerance and tolerance for his people.

So far, his anger has only been fully demonstrated in battles against enemies, while the wrongdoers among his descendants have been more likely to get fleeting disappointment - even if the cold disappointment is far more hurtful than the angry roar. .

"You are here early. Don't you have anything to bring?" asked Perturabo, allowing the group of armored heirs to gather around him.

Everyone shook their heads. Frix was thinking of Ahriman, who claimed to live in the library and refuse visitors these days. He looked back on his last conversation with his friend and felt that the effect was actually pretty good, so he didn't dwell on it anymore.

Perturabo breathed slowly, the cables above his head reflecting silvery light.

"Don't you need your poetry collection, Bill?" he asked from the warsmith, and his words confirmed the rumors among the warriors.

Frix looked towards his brother nicknamed "The Good Captain" and caught the sound of power armor locking in the air. He could imagine that many of the thirty or so brothers present were secretly laughing in their hearts.

"No need, Father." Bill Perrin said dully. "I……"

"What's wrong?" asked Perturabo. "This is your hobby, are you considering giving it up?"

The war blacksmith was silent for a second.

"No, Father. I just think..." He hesitated, but his trust in Perturabo allowed him to finish the rest of his words while feeling a surge of heat in his ears: "This sounds like a new life. , so I should write a whole new book of poems.”

"That's good," said Perturabo, "or I'll have to ask my other smiths if they reacted inappropriately when you shared your poetry."

"We're brothers," Bill said, his voice amplifying.

"Okay, I will see for you whether Sachin Roy secretly dug out your poetry collection and published it in your market. Bob, what about you? You don't need to say goodbye to your captain?"

"He will definitely give me his carvings," Bob said, speaking particularly candidly as he no longer had to meet the team leader. "But his skills are very poor. I don't want to spend decades in secret missions wearing shoulder pads." There’s an ugly pendant hanging on it.”

There were bursts of laughter from some steel helmets, and a smile also flashed in Perturabo's ice-blue eyes. These warriors who were leaving the expedition team seemed to be in a better mood than he thought, which was why he came here today to wait in advance - he was not sure how the Iron Warriors viewed this secret mission.

"What about you?" The Iron Lord lowered his head and scanned the crowd. Being able to identify the identity of the warrior inside the armor at a glance through the identical armor of the same series may be a universal talent of the Primarch, or it may be Perturabo's personal ability. "Kaidomo Frix? Won't you say goodbye to Azak Ahriman?"

"He's doing research," Fricks said honestly. "When he made up his mind, no one could find him."

"Okay," Perturabo pondered, but still asked a question he was worried about: "Do you think that my decision is too rash, and you have doubts about the unknown mission? Are you really willing? Accept this sudden instruction?"

This caused Fricks' confusion. He did not understand the concern in the words of the genetic father. He could only express his thoughts sincerely: "I do, father."

"Even if you don't know anything about the upcoming mission?"

"We knew we were going to contribute to the resurgence of humanity," Fricks said. "That's all I needed to know."

Perturabo's question remained unanswered. He knew that Frix was not being perfunctory, but this was not enough to answer his worries. Then his warsmith spoke.

"We are warriors, father." Bill said in a soft tone different from most iron warriors. His sensitivity may be the unique talent of this poet-like warrior. "We love you, not only because you are our genetic father." , Lord of the Legion. Our love and obedience come from our same dream. It has nothing to do with the external conditions that fix our mutual position. What we love is you."

——

"How?" Morse said, playing with the little soldiers on the table. "Are you made shy by the children?"

"No." said Perturabo of Terra, tearing off the drawing paper covered with messy sketches, rolling it into a ball and throwing it into the wastebasket, but it fell outside because he didn't throw it accurately. He stretched out his arm to pick up the ball of paper and put it in the wastebasket.

"This is what you want to ask yourself." Morse smiled and said, "You underestimated the determination of your warriors. They are not the vast majority of citizens under your rule. They endure a certain degree of hardship for the rewards they can get for their own efforts. In fact, these warriors don't feel that they are enduring difficulties at all. Their inner driving force is extremely noble and powerful, and the unprecedented glorious feats in human history are themselves pursued by Astartes."

"They go on expeditions for their ideals. For them, the opportunity to pay is a reward in itself."

"They are warriors." Perturabo repeated.

"My Lord of Iron." Morse flipped the switch behind the soldier, "After so many years of fighting, you just saw it?"

The crudely made soldier automatically swung the sword with a somewhat clumsy momentum under the drive of mechanical power. Perturabo let the little soldier walk to his palm, deftly opened its shell, and began to help Morse perfect this overly simple robot. He couldn't stand letting this little soldier with yellow and black shoulder armor continue to fall around.

"I saw it a long time ago." Perturabo said. "When will the war hound arrive in Nuceria?"

"Oh, let you look up over there." Morse said. "The Iron Morning Star has set sail, and you don't continue to blow the wind on the platform. Be careful of being hit by the airdrop pod."

--

"You're here, Kahn." Jager said, with an expression that Kahn had never seen before.

Although this battle-hardened captain used all the self-control that an Astartes could give to maintain his superficial calm, the subtle changes in the direction of his many muscle groups and the chemicals such as adrenaline secreted by his body due to emotional changes still exposed his emotions. He didn't look like he had just met his genetic father, but rather like he had barely escaped from a tight battle.

What was even more incomprehensible was that Kahn did not smell any bloody scent from him that really symbolized the impending crisis.

Kahn pointed to the door, and the captain nodded to him. They all knew that their Primarchs were waiting in this room, the difference was that Jager had just walked out, and Kahn was about to enter.

This was the third hour that the Resolute had been docked in the orbit of Nuceria. After boarding this huge ship, their Primarch seemed to have decided to meet with his legion commanders individually in the triumphal hall built by the war hounds for their Primarch.

This was not a surprising decision, but the entire battleship did fall into silent silence because none of the captains who entered the room - except Jager who came out to watch the door - came out again. The decks and corridors that were usually noisy because of the noise of the Astartes warriors and weapon tests fell into a mysterious silence.

Kahn listened to the voice behind the door. He also caught a strange silence behind this door, like a large battlefield where only flying dust was still moving, and the rain of bullets had subsided. He didn't know what it meant.

If this happened normally, Kahn might have raised his vigilance to the highest level, but facing this ordinary hatch in front of him, he was strangely unable to raise any negative alerts - he couldn't even find a trace of uneasiness in his heart.

Before meeting the original body, Kahn had already placed his emotions on the other party, and even as long as he thought about meeting the father of genes, his blood flow began to speed up.

"Here..." Kahn gestured to the door, and asked Jager with his eyes why he was acting so strangely, and why his eyebrows and facial muscles were still trembling.

"Be ready, Kahn." Jager said, the corner of his mouth twitched, "Accept him."

"He is the core of our bloodline." Kahn said, "He is the one we should follow. He brings us a mission, and all we need is obedience."

Jager turned his face away, his expression was particularly stiff. Kahn noticed that the glittering ornaments on the blue and white formal dress that Jaeger wore today to welcome the Primarch had disappeared, but the lightning emblem was still on his shoulder as a symbol of war merit.

He couldn't think of why, but he didn't think about it any further. Obviously, this was the Primarch's decision.

Kahn finally nodded to Jaeger and knocked on the door.

He still remembered that he heard the news that the Sixth Legion had the honor of finding the Primarch in the training ground. When Perturabo returned to Terra, they were exploring unknown dangers on a wild world. He still remembered how the calm Ninth Legion described the Primarch of the Fourth Legion that they had seen with their own eyes. Every piece of news made him have more expectations for the appearance of his own Primarch.

Ever since they learned on Terra that Angron took the initiative to meet them, Kahn's heart has never been calm. They came without delay, and even temporarily ignored the occasional strange behavior of the astropaths on the ship.

"Come in." He heard a low thunder as if it sounded in his ears, knocking on the blood vessels connected to his heart.

His teeth were clenched with excitement, and he completely ignored the very light laughter that seemed to come from behind Jager.

The door lock unlocked automatically, and in front of him, a deep staircase extended silently. Kahn walked in fearlessly, and the door closed behind him, blocking the light out. Darkness and silence enveloped him.

The steps were long and low, which made Kahn, who had been here more than once, feel strangely strange.

Kahn began to think that Jaeger might have played a little scare trick. He didn't know why this company commander with a weak sense of humor suddenly had such leisure. The dark vision usually closely associated with crisis did not affect Kahn's thinking at all. In fact, he felt an inexplicable warmth. And Kahn trusted his fighting instincts.

Kil, Kunna, Anchiz...his brothers should be here, sharing the same hall with the Primarch, silently for so long. He felt envious.

His steps moved forward steadily, then quickened slightly.

Primarch. he thinks.

He breathed and stepped forward, hoping his gown would stay flat with the movement. He would never wear such restrictive clothing, but like the rest of his brothers, Karn sincerely hoped to make a good first impression on his Primarch.

Suddenly, there seemed to be some movement from the darkness, and then a gust of wind rushed toward him. Kahn reflexively touched his back. Then, he controlled his hand and withdrew his intention to take out the handbag that he was not wearing at the time. Tomahawk action.

When a warm and huge touch overwhelmed him, took him away, messed up his clothes, and made him lose all ability to think and even breathe in an instant, Kahn's body softened uncontrollably and became hot. The sensation shook his nerves and flesh, and the strong emotions pouring out of his heart mixed his thoughts into a mess.

The warmth of the earth and red sand embraced him in the form of arms wrapping around his body, and his arms felt hot. He didn't understand what was happening right now, and the excessive amount of information and emotions took away Kahn's clear consciousness. His hands were so numb that he seemed to have lost touch, his soul was screaming silently, and the urge to cry made the whole world start to spin around his spine. Hot breath rolled over his cheeks and blew directly into his brain. In the triumphal hall, the lighting of the lights and the sudden burst of laughter from the surrounding battle brothers seemed to come across deep water, making it impossible to identify and respond.

After a while, Kahn's brain started to work again, splitting and combining the information that his senses could understand one by one, allowing him to once again understand who he was and where he was.

A face, the primarch's face, lay just before his eyes. So strange, so familiar. He saw the shadows of countless Legion brothers in the Primarch's bronze skin and the lines of his jaw, while the Primarch's golden eyes selflessly contained the true meaning of all words and entities in the world. All the waiting is fulfilled here and all the questions are answered. The past years are given an end. In the arms of the genetic father, Kahn was born for the second time.

"Don't be dazed, child." Angron said, stopping his embrace, still squatting in front of his heir, and covering Kahn's shoulders with his large hands.

His deep voice was gentler than anyone else in the world, as if it had echoed in Kahn's life and soul thousands of times.

"It's not easy to hold you. As long as the light is on, if I take one step forward, you have to take three steps back. I am Angron, what's your name?"

"Captain of the 8th Assault Company, Kahn." Kahn heard himself say, annoyed that his voice was uncontrollably flat, "Father, my life belongs to you."