Chapter 180 The Greeter

Sometimes Morse would reflect on why he did something when it was already done.

Just as he was now temporarily living in the room on the Iron Blood where he had submitted the blueprints - considering the overall size of the Iron Blood, he suspected that the area of ​​land with the same value as this room, in Terra, where every inch of land was extremely expensive, was already a large manor that only the governors of various planets or even the governors of star regions had the authority to purchase. After all, this suite was actually larger than the one he had in the Terra Palace - thinking about what the point was of traveling thousands of miles across half the galaxy to live with Perturabo in a metal residence with worse conditions, doing nothing every day and wasting precious moments.

Then he found a suitable reason for himself: he just manually transported his own body to a place where it might be needed, and then he could return and continue to live in Terra with his gray sky, waterless dry air, rich and pungent Himalayan palace ointments and balms, and all kinds of so-called delicious food that were transported from all over the galaxy and were exquisite but unnatural...

Thinking about it carefully, he almost decided to return to the picturesque Olympia as soon as possible to hunt his Lokos deer among streams and trees.

After hearing that the Iron Morning Star, which transported the Iron Warriors, had dealt with a planet contaminated with a small amount of unknown corruption during the voyage and successfully arrived on Terra, Morse took some effort to pursue the light of the Astronomican in the subspace, all the way from the distant Nuceria orbit back to the Terra Palace, and took the initiative to introduce the engineering goals to these new builders.

"You can regard me as one of the target proposers of this mission," the black-robed craftsman led the group of warriors forward in the spacious palace. "I think most of you know about my existence, right?"

A few seconds later, the first person to answer was Bill Perlan, the most responsible person among these warriors. Perturabo was able to accurately find a good-tempered war blacksmith for the warriors in the draw, which really made Morse wonder if there was some kind of secret behavior of defeating random numbers through human power.

"We know you exist, craftsman Morse," Bill said, "but we know a little about you. Lord Perturabo will not mention you on his own initiative."

"And you dare not ask. It doesn't matter, just know that I am an idle person who mixes in everywhere." Morse said, "Come to my side, I don't like to talk while walking and looking back. Don't use honorifics, I usually only add respectful words when cursing and spitting at others."

The war blacksmith slowed down for a moment, not knowing whether to obey the order of this person who was not his direct superior. Then, he took a step forward and came to Morse's left hand side.

At the speed of Astartes, it doesn't take too long to walk from the edge of the plateau to the core of the palaces.

The overlapping golden roofs stood in the sun, emitting a majestic and mysterious atmosphere. The walls of some buildings were inlaid with strange runes and patterns that were difficult to observe, and the muzzles of energy weapons were lurking in some hidden shadows. Guards in golden armor and red tassels stood on the side of the road, without words or obstruction, silently showing an attitude between protection and supervision. The electric blue arc light on the long spear flashed, and people could almost smell the dangerous smell of various molecules in the air being burned and decomposed.

For this group of Astartes, the core area of ​​the Emperor's palace was a golden area that was almost absolutely unfamiliar. The multi-directional entrance arches and tall stone statues of beasts became the most common decorations in the palace with the structure and proportion that best suited human aesthetics. Countless decorations that were enough to exhaust the planet's financial resources were only to highlight one ten-millionth of the noble and great deeds of the Lord of the Humanity in the Galaxy.

They might be lucky enough to briefly admire the momentary glory of the Human Emperor on the periphery of the palace, but being so close to the splendor and majesty of the palace was enough to make these warriors forget to breathe.

"Do you know what you are going to face?" Morse asked.

"We don't know."

Morse didn't care why the Terra veteran suddenly spoke High Gothic.

They bypassed the main gate and continued to move forward from the side road. The number of guards increased, and the idle personnel completely disappeared from sight. The gradually narrow passage was filled with the echo of thousands of warriors' boots falling on the smooth stone slabs. All this made the Astartes nervous. They felt a great responsibility for the upcoming mission.

Passing through several doors that opened layer by layer, the road extended at a slope deep into the ground, leading to the space under the palace. There was gradually a cold atmosphere unique to grottoes and caves around, the exposed rocks wrinkled at the edges, the luxurious decorations and ornaments were replaced by plain metal, and the sparse sunlight fell through the metal grid and was carved into the shape of a sharp spear tip.

In the distance, Morse saw a familiar figure standing on the side of the golden arch, and the shadow behind him fell on the dozens of meters high armored relief figure holding a lightning spear and an Aegis shield on the arch. He did not move, just watching the arrival of the Astartes, and this was enough to prove many things.

"Then do you know who will greet you?"

"We don't know." The war blacksmith repeated.

"In fact, I don't know either." Morse said, "but I can guess. Good morning, Commander of the Guards."

Constantine Valdor looked at Morse and pulled back the halberd. He was as calm and indifferent as other guards. Nothing could shake him or make him lose this deep momentum of controlling everything, and today was no exception.

"Good morning," said the commander of the guards. His appearance gradually made the Astartes feel uncontrollable shock.

The door opened inward, and the protective runes flashed a momentary and fading edge when they were unlocked.

Behind the door was a long corridor, without any extra road branches, doors or windows. The last door opened as Morse approached, and inside was a wide hall that was as bright as the sun through countless hidden artificial lights. The hum of machinery penetrated people's skin and bones, rumbling and echoing.

Beside the door, a square high table was placed there casually, with a stack of thin papers on it. Behind the table, an old man in a gray robe sat in a high-backed chair, his long silver-white hair fell out of his hood, his eyes were deep and bright, like a sharp blade that could cut through the fog, showing a deep insight.

"Good morning, Prime Minister," said Morse. "Is everyone here today?"

Malcador pushed the stack of papers to the table. "Everything is here. Sign in, craftsman?"

Morse had a quill in his hand, and he casually drew a simple paper airplane on the white paper. The light rolled across the paper, and the pattern he drew was arranged in the upper left corner of the paper, leaving the rest of the white paper blank.

"It can take effect." The craftsman stuffed the quill into the hand of the war blacksmith next to him.

Bill found a way to bend the gauntlet, and pinched the quill with two fingers as hard as he could, and shakily prepared to sign. Malcador sighed in a low voice, and used his psychic power to enlarge the quill to a size that a Space Marine could normally use.

"After you sign, you must not tell us everything you see next." The chancellor reminded him. This was not a requirement, but an objective introduction to this psychic agreement created by several of the most powerful psychics in the world.

"Yes." The warrior said, and could not say more. The close contact with the commander of the imperial guards and the chancellor of the empire at the same time within a minute was a huge psychological shock to him. The sadness brought by being away from the fleet, the primarch and his companions had been diluted in the throbbing heartbeat.

During the trip to this place on the Iron Morning Star, most Iron Warriors discussed that they must be about to be involved in a secret combat mission from which they would never return. It was out of this mentality that Bill hid his poetry collection at the bottom of his cabinet on the ship. He hoped that his brothers could still see him through these words, although he didn't think any particularly close friends would really miss him.

But now, after being greeted by the commander of the imperial guards and the chancellor of the empire in turn, Bill knew that they had seriously underestimated the importance of the secret mission.

After signing, the war blacksmith and Morse walked towards the golden wall hundreds of meters away. More Iron Warriors who had completed their signatures followed them in an orderly manner, like molten iron flowing through pipes into a blast furnace. Countless engines spewed thick smoke around them, and the smoke was sucked away by the huge machines above. As far as the eye could see, thousands of recording and detection drones beeped and cast shadows above the machines. In the center of the core of all machines, a huge seat was wrapped in pipes and cables.

"Do you know who will greet you, Bill?" Morse said, looking up at his helmet. Bill cautiously thought Morse was smiling.

"I don't know." He said again, although this had become a rejection of the truth. He should have learned to reject this cowardice of ignoring reality in the long battle, but this time was different.

"Maybe poets always have to lie, before they are exposed to the truth behind the veil of the world." Morse said, "Don't be nervous, I'm not targeting you. I just like to pull more people into my criticism."

They waited until all the warriors put themselves in the contract, and Malcador walked towards the door with his contract documents.

The hum of electricity became a silence surrounding the Hall of Light. Bill keenly caught more words emerging in his mind during this blank waiting. He pushed them away, not wanting to let too many delicate feelings make him different from his fighting brothers at an inappropriate time.

Morse raised his hand, and the golden light shattered a chain floating from the void, and Malcador's scepter shattered another. In the hall, all the members of the Mechanicus and the mortal servants turned their heads and turned their backs to the golden wall, not daring to look directly at the scene behind the wall. Bill's throat rolled, and some sweat dripped from his palms.

The golden wall opened in front of him, and he realized at this moment that this magnificent relief that was hundreds of meters high was not a decorative wall, but a huge door that was enough to make anyone's heart tremble. He felt awe, and then he found that his body was trembling.

Behind the golden door, a figure stood in the middle of the milky white mist and the infinitely extended road, waiting for the soldiers to meet.

A burning touch penetrated Bill's armor, brushed against his skin, and dissolved all the doubts and fears in his heart.

In front of him stood an extremely glorious image, the greatest king and leader in human history. He could not see everything about the Emperor clearly, but could only sense a pair of black and gold eyes like lightning across the sky, sharp and hot, revealing an unshakable determination and strength. Only the best craftsmen in history could use forged steel to simulate one ten-millionth of the firmness and calmness of this face, because Bill knew that he was ignited by the unparalleled fearlessness and belief conveyed by this face.

His figure was so tall that it transcended all standards and criteria, like the first star of hope rising in the night sky. From his black hair crowned with golden leaves to his majestic chest and noble golden boots, every part of him was radiant and brilliant, exuding a beauty and charm beyond the mundane. In front of such a sacred and majestic being, Bill could not help but feel insignificant and humble. This was the embodiment of perfection, the pinnacle of steel. The desire for beauty that every poet could follow was fully satisfied at this moment. Since humans picked up the first shell from the beach, no king has been more noble and worthy of admiration than him.

He fell to his knees, like any other battle brother, dazed by the Emperor's presence.

Then, tears welled up in his eyes and fell down his face into the bottom of his helmet.

This was not because of the Emperor's gaze. This is because another figure walked out of the mist quickly. He was not as tall and brilliant as the Emperor, but his open arms and familiar serious face brought the Iron Warriors warmth and surprise that went deeper into their hearts. All his worries turned into the breeze. Bill almost dared not imagine how many of his brothers would hesitate for more than one tenth of a second if they knew that this mission was such a unique and supreme opportunity.

"You are here, my Iron Warrior." Perturabo was wearing a robe woven with silver threads, and his steady voice seemed to be able to support the soul of his offspring molten under the golden light of the Emperor. "The next mission, we will complete together."

No matter what the mission is. Bill thought, he will be fearless. He will gladly accept everything he will face, as long as Perturabo leads it personally. He has even forgotten to wonder why his father can be in two places at the same time. Perturabo is here. This is the answer to everything.

"What mission?" Morse said softly, "Perturabo, how about you explain it to them?"

Perturabo paused for a moment and lowered his open arms. With the Emperor's nod, the Iron Lord spoke: "You are here today to build a road that is vital to the entire galaxy. If this road is unblocked, humanity will be reconnected."

"In addition, I hope you will accept what I say next."

The Iron Warriors waited for the order of the Gene Father. They were determined to give everything.

Perturabo said: "First, you need to accept long-term cooperation with a green alien race. They are called orcs."

——

"Give this information to Kada Big Bone... No, to Nardol Connor." Perturabo raised his head from the pile of documents, and only realized that he had reported the wrong name of his subordinate after finishing the first half of the sentence. This is an absolutely incredible thing for the Primarch who is known for his powerful thinking ability.

He gritted his teeth and watched his offspring leave with the confusion he tried his best to hide, knocked on the table angrily, and then shook his hand.

In order to prevent the tabletop from being damaged and no one repairing it when Morse is away, which would affect the Primarch's calm image, this table was specially reinforced, which also caused it to have a bit too strong a reaction force on Perturabo.

Ever since Morse supervised his Iron Warriors to enter the Webway and start the exploration mission, the craftsman seemed to have found a new interest - and to Perturabo's surprise, his interest was actually based on a positive interest in the common sense.

"Sculpture, philosophy, painting, architecture, language, machinery, poetry..." Morse tapped the blackboard, "Yes, poetry is specially pointed out for you, our "good captain" Bill. What do you want to learn in your spare time? Tell me, I can talk about it when I'm free."

Why didn't Morse have such a good temper with him back then!

He shook his head and reluctantly accepted the reasons given by Morse, such as "literary and artistic activities can effectively appease the warriors who are particularly irritable after getting along with the greenskins" - where are those children irritable? Since they knew that their gene father was also in the Webway, their daily work enthusiasm was simply terrifying.

He knew that this was entirely because these youngsters were more obedient than he was back then, which made Mors find a simple and happy sense of accomplishment.

As the Webway Project progressed, he had to deal with a number of documents that almost doubled. At the same time, he had to spend time dealing with many inexplicable little things, such as the document in his hand, which was a report sent from Dorne.

His stubborn brother rarely expressed through letters that he had disagreements with some of the World Eaters - this was not his business! Could he control Angron? Just like last time, he went to Angron for the matter of the arena and persuaded him to stick to his own opinion and stop the trend of gladiatorial combat in the legion. But Angron could accept the advice of his offspring and those brothers and sisters, but not the advice of his real brother.

Perturabo shook his head, suppressed his distracting thoughts, and began to write a new notice.

Even though he had two bodies, he was essentially thinking with the same soul and will. He had to announce that he would "focus more of his energy on more important tasks" to prevent today's occasional confusion from happening again, and at the same time return these miscellaneous matters that had nothing to do with the Iron Warriors themselves to the two Primarchs who were truly responsible for them.