Chapter 184 Beyond the Red Sand

Perturabo decided to talk to Angron.

After the anger caused by the periodic busyness gradually subsided with the passage of time and the smooth progress of the project, the Iron Lord finally put down the file, covered his eyes with one hand, and enjoyed a moment of leisure in the quiet darkness.

Two seconds later, he quickly reopened the file and stared at the short message sent to him by Dorn for another two seconds. In his mind, there were several possible quarrels between Rogal Dorn and the World Eaters, from verbal arguments to whether the templar named Sigismund might directly draw his sword against the cousin of the Legion who offended the Primarch, and shook his head.

He trusted Rogal Dorn's decision. He trusted Angron's affinity. But if the two were swapped, considering that no outsiders were eavesdropping at this time, Perturabo could say freely that they were as bad as Morse's moral standards.

Outside the porthole of the command room, except for a few stars, the universe was pitch black. The Iron Warriors were located halfway between the system where the Imperial Fists fleet was located and Nuceria.

Perturabo had wanted to go directly to join his white-haired brother and finish the unification of that system together. However, if the conflict between the two sides was too acute - they probably had some ways that Perturabo could not guess to make the situation worse at the fastest speed.

Then Angron had to be there, as the Primarch, to personally solve the problem between his legion and another Primarch.

He picked out a black cable from the hair that had grown longer at the back of his head and connected it to the Cogitator. The radio waves were sent to the navigation room, allowing the navigator with the Warp Eye to redefine the course between the real and immaterial universe and head to Nuceria.

——

"Morse," Perturabo of Terra realized that he did not follow the usual etiquette of knocking after he pushed open the craftsman's door. This thought flashed through his mind quickly and was replaced by more urgent matters. "The auspex detected an abnormal subspace energy field in Nuceria. We can contact the orbiting Resolute and the command center on the ground in Desia, but Angron's whereabouts are unknown."

"What about you?" Morse glanced at Perturabo, "It seems that he is still watching in orbit."

"And stop the World Eater who is about to jump directly out of the hatch to the ground." Perturabo said.

This made Morse further confirm that Perturabo himself was not in danger - in fact, he could sense that the Lord of Iron was safe and sound from the spell request address pattern sent from Perturabo's location.

"I really hope that this incident has nothing to do with the attention of some dark powers." Morse murmured, pushing away a novel that was popular in Terra two thousand years ago on the table, raised his head from his desk, took a deep breath, and let the last breath of fresh air in the Terra Palace workshop, which he specifically asked not to be scented, echo meaninglessly in his empty black robe.

The next second, his body collapsed and folded, falling into the seat.

Morse's consciousness and soul fell behind the curtain, chasing the beacon that had been fixed long ago, turning the colorful light projected by the etheric space energy in the senses that can be understood by human thinking patterns, avoiding the dangerous omens and unknown creatures in the ocean, stopping outside Nuceria, and began to examine the situation here at the fastest speed and with the most cautious attitude.

In the unrealistic perspective, Nuceria, with red sand as the background, is being covered by a layer of light blood-red luster.

Morse concentrated his mind, and the energy in the transparent rune body surged, condensing the rune into a long sword and piercing into the deep red light shield. The film slid softly and ductilely along his blade, and under his power, it reluctantly opened to the surroundings, becoming a hole that could be integrated and passed through.

A bloody breath passed in this vast ocean in an instant. Mors recognized the source of that power, and also found that the glance of the dark gods was only a flash. I don’t know whether they chose to give up strangely or retreated for another reason.

He would naturally not rashly track the blood god at this time. No matter where this killing intention went, the Primarch of Nuceria was undoubtedly the first important person who must be rescued.

Mors passed through the atmosphere, followed by rain clouds. Without being controlled, he found himself approaching the surface of the real universe. This proved that the boundary between reality and non-reality was blurred.

The dark clouds turned into bloody rain, and the idea of ​​self-devouring and self-destruction almost formed the core of a hurricane wrapped in blood and fire. However, this place was still one step away from being completely dragged into the warp, as if an anchor fell into the depths of the red sand, barely fixing the last layer of the curtain.

The echo of the wail passed through the vortex of the immaterial universe and penetrated Morse's invisible body. A large number of images fell into his mind in this torrent, half of which were the iron chains binding his body, the flowing acid and the slaughter of the giant beasts, and the other half were the high sky above the red sand, the warm illusion and the peace under the silver moon.

In this hazy vision, he saw an extremely eye-catching red copper star, which was wrapped in layers of dim twisted black ghosts, but it did not change its brightness. Blood flowed from the star to the red sand.

"Angron." He said, falling to the ground. "What's going on?"

The projection of the Primarch looked toward him, and a horrifying remains of flesh and blood became clear to Morse's eyes. His skin was torn, and countless small wounds were connected into large-scale deep scars, as if he had been eaten by a group of wild dogs. It was repeatedly scabbed and torn apart, and his exposed organs and bones were exposed. In the thick air. Blood flowed from the blurred organs and entangled black shadows, soaking into the dark red sand, forming a living ruins. It was a derelict mass composed of broken bodies and endless blood.

If this was not a Primarch, Mors would not mind condemning him immediately.

Then the Primarch spoke.

"Artisan Morse, good evening." He said, his voice clear and quiet, coming out through the damaged vocal cords, echoing at the edge of the etheric ocean.

Angron turned his head towards him, his empty dark eye sockets containing such profound remoteness and tranquility: "They are just hungry, don't disperse them."

Morse's eyelids trembled and he chose to accept the original body's indifference. If a person sincerely regards suffering as a normal thing, he will not insult the other person's heart with unnecessary emotions.

He sent a signal to the real universe, telling Perturabo that they could land here when the auspicious data returned to normal, and those World Eaters who were going crazy with anxiety would also see a "different genetic blood ancestor".

"Fortunately, it's just the dead souls, not a bigger pollution problem - humans are a naturally psychic race, so ghosts are one of the most enduring horror story themes in human history. This is why the old night psykers are everywhere Due to disgust, their souls can cause greater ripples in the subspace. As for the uncontrollable consequences that psykers will cause during their lifetime and after death, everything is unknown..."

Morse spread out a hand, not sure whether the original body's current state could still judge his movements through the flowing runes on his body.

"Psyker?" the Primarch repeated.

"Wizards, warlocks, psychics, mystics, diviners... mainly these people. Have you ever killed them?"

Angron was silent. The ghost's sharp teeth scraped across his finger bones, making a harsh scratching sound.

"I won't comment on anyone you have killed. I got the answer from your reaction."

"In the arena," Angron said, "I strangled a witch to death."

"Okay, is she here?"

A skinny soul with her buzzing collar retreated from Angron, the color faded and disappeared.

"No more," the Primarch said lowly.

Mors glanced at her and sat down among the bones beside Angron, letting the dead soul penetrate his non-existent body.

The rain falling from the sky condenses a very shallow golden red light, like the reflection of a bonfire in the night, burning silently in every drop of rain, dispelling the chill of early autumn and maintaining the temperature in the red sand field.

He exhaled, taking the opportunity to sigh out the tension of coming here, and find his own relaxation and comfort in the rain of bonfire.

"Before you are eaten, I can sit with you for a while." The craftsman said, "By the way, let's talk about what you have been doing in Nuceria recently. What happened tonight that made you come all the way from the sanatorium to fight Selflessly providing free midnight snacks to others like atonement?”

"I have received a letter from Rogal Dorn," Angron said. "My legions are killing without permission. I cannot sleep, and then I stumble upon the fact that my people have reactivated the gladiatorial arena."

He paused. "I already said no once when we were discussing how to adjudicate slave owners. I thought that was enough."

"Perturabo and I evaluated you a year ago," Morse tried to grab a handful of red sand from the ground with one hand. The fine sand slipped from his hand. This touch showed the subspace's influence on this place. The influence is waning as the ghost is freed. "I said you were weak, but Perturabo retorted and said that the best adjective for your natural character is kind."

"You're right...artisan," Angron said.

Likewise, as the influence of the Warp weakens, damage to the physical body is more reflected in the Primarch's actions. His voice was torn apart by the injury, as broken as the grains of red sand. His breathing became labored, and his frail body was about to force this soul into a necessary rest.

But he didn't stop talking.

"I am running away from... my responsibilities," Angron said, his voice lowering. "I let them govern themselves. I listen to their words... the words of my brothers and sisters, the words of my heirs."

"So, what are you going to do?"

"I'm not good at management," he breathed slowly in the moist air after the rain, his body becoming cold. "I...maybe need to study."

"Oh, it doesn't matter. In the past experience, I have accepted the possibility that some primarchs are ignorant of some things," Morse replied. "Ask your two brothers to help you select those who can take on the responsibility of management." The commander of the legion, or the guard, whatever you want to call it, let your subordinates take the headache and get scolded for you, and you can continue to be your good big brother."

Angron smiled lowly.

The influence of the subspace further weakened, and the spectators in the arena fell down in their respective seats. After the souls affected by the dead souls returned to their bodies, the snores symbolizing life floated in the distance.

If Angron chose to break out of the arena, there would definitely be no one alive here.

Morse raised his hand, pushed aside some souls that blocked the way between them, and touched Angron's arm. The scar faded under the golden light, and Angron was closer to sleep. His head gently nodded, and his repaired face showed a deep sleepiness.

"Don't let anyone eat you next time," Morse said, "The essential power that constitutes your soul is not damaged, otherwise I will have to call the Emperor to repair you."

"Okay. I know..." Angron said intermittently, gradually lying down in the red sand, falling into his own undried blood.

He lay on his side, breathing weakly.

"I want to... finish writing that letter to Dorne. Then we will have a... new meeting. I want... Kahn, Kahn can come."

"Finally, I want to say... I want to tell everyone that I am no longer a slave, I am not a slave of the Emperor, I just... obey my ideals."

"Okay." Morse said, his tone was calm, which was almost sincere to him, "Do it."

The Primarch closed his eyes and fell asleep quietly. Morse stood by his side, thought for a moment, and pointed one finger upwards.

A beam of golden light pierced the clouds, then spread rapidly around, expanding into a brilliant golden circle before dissipating, leaving only a thin line of surging runes at the edge of the clouds. Soon, this golden line was replaced by the true light of the sun. The sun fell into the city of Desia.

Outside the city, the sound of the drop pod landing was particularly obvious, and it took only a moment for the World Eaters to rush into the arena. The group of sad hounds knelt beside their blood-stained father, emitting a choking silent cry in their throats, reaching out their hands but not daring to touch their father's body.

Perturabo appeared after the World Eaters, staring at his brother's body, his chest heaving violently. He forced himself to look away and observe the objects around him, and finally, his eyes locked on a flat fallen rock. Morse knew that Perturabo had guessed his location correctly.

The invisible craftsman who had not yet returned to his body stood up from the edge of the fallen rock and walked to Perturabo's side.

+I am by your side. Your brother is fine, he won't die if left alone. If you want him to get better soon, throw him to the apothecaries. +

+Titus is here. +Perturabo answered in the psychic channel.

+Where are the World Eaters' own apothecaries? +

+Several of their best apothecaries are fighting with Rogal Dorn, and are currently in the RA system. Dorn told me that many World Eaters are not on good terms with the Imperial Fists, and have violated the rules. This is why I returned to Nuceria. +

+The Auspex and your brother scared me so much that they kicked down my door on Terra. +Morse said. +Angron said Dorn wrote him a letter, too. What are they doing on the expedition recently? +

+That's the problem. +Perturabo said, conveying a kind of gnashing of teeth in the psychic communication. +I just realized that we can't contact the Imperial Fists either. +