Chapter 202 Monster

As the screen that lights up in the sky gradually dims, the curtains are pulled to both sides by the golden floating chains. The sunlight sweeps through the dark interior and shines again into the VIP guest room that Connaught prepared for the Primarchs. middle. Morse took back the palm wrapped with runes and took a deep breath.

Then he yawned.

"Three hours." The craftsman said, "Three full hours, extending from noun explanation to semantic analysis and root tracing, and then to cultural judgment and the selection, continuation, development and destruction of civilization, followed by a brief discussion of the impact of the Great Expedition on mankind. The impact of civilization and the necessity of imperial truth..."

He yawned a second time.

Perturabo seemed to suddenly wake up from some kind of deep meditation, and sat upright suddenly, and then quickly found the dividing line between relaxation and seriousness: "And the choice and temporary retention of extermination weapons, and the final oath to the ideal. You In fact, you can listen to his speech attentively. His speech is well thought out and carefully polished, and has sufficient breadth and depth of thought. It is a rare example. "

"Oh, I'm not a debater." Morse pulled the armrest and moved himself up a little in his seat. "I'm an unshakable die-hard. My brain automatically picks out every point in Robert's speech. Doctrine or actual evidence that fits or contradicts Guilliman's theory is draining, Lord of Iron."

Perturabo cast a critical look at Morse: "You can't be tired from this level of mental training, Morse. I think your complaint sounds like a hidden secret to your own stubborn mind. show off."

"Oh, I'm too busy." Morse spread his hands and began to pretend to slide down the seat again. "It's hard for you to imagine how many important documents Malcador shared with me in the psychic channel. If I had known about this day, I would have never been able to let Malcador have such a level of trust in me."

"This is impossible." The shocking effect brought about by Dorn's sudden words is often similar to the impression caused by a stone pillar or a stone table next to him that speaks human words. "In the last conversation we had, you complained about the cross-domain instability caused by long-distance psychic communication. The Imperial Prime Minister should not use a communication method that is too low in stability and transmission efficiency to force cooperation on a group Urgent paperwork that can be done by one person. If you need a break, you don't have to look for another reason, Morse."

The craftsman smiled. "Is there a possibility that he can't do it alone...well, not very likely. What did you think of this speech, Rogal Dorn?"

"Robert Guilliman has excellent theoretical foundation and political ability. His careful wording and argument form are worthy of praise, but his views on some issues reveal his naivety in the world view." Rogal Dorn answered objectively .

Compared to Perturabo, who was distracted while listening, deeply immersed in his vast thoughts, and completed an entire Olympian debate in his brain, the white-haired primarch was probably the one who listened most carefully.

As for Angron, he's not here.

Perhaps he finally ran out of patience with Macragge's aristocratic life. After that collective bathing, Karn had picked up the Lord of the Red Sand. His expeditionary fleet is now presumably patrolling the rest of Ultramar.

"I like that word. Innocence," Morse said. "It reflects a strange duality, in which innocence is praised until it causes actual harm, but as soon as anyone's interests are harmed, innocence immediately Called sin itself.”

He yawned for the third time today, stood up, poured himself a glass of wine, added a spoonful of honey, and shook it gently.

"I'm not cursing anything, or making predictions and analysis like a black crow by exploring the etheric ocean. I also believe that that thing will not happen again..."

He paused: "But I don't want to see what happened with the World Eaters happen again."

"Robert is different from Angron. He is undoubtedly a successful manager, accustomed to putting his subordinates under clear control."

Perturabo said Angron's absence gave him a platform to be more candid.

"If you had listened carefully, you would have heard the influence Robert Guilliman exerts on the current generation of Ultramarines. But you are yawning, Morse."

"Actually, I listened." Morse drank slowly, leaning against the wall.

He stayed up all night to repair his taste system, although even he himself didn't know if his taste level at this time was on par with ordinary people.

"Throwing out the new Legion name at the beginning is the most exciting part of the whole speech. It means an active acceptance of responsibility and acceptance of the Thirteenth Legion Space Marines. But three hours is still too long, Luo How long did it take G. Dorn?"

"Yes. I have no intention of disrupting the original project plan."

"That's commendable. Considering here is a man who stayed up from early morning to dusk with his heir, and drew drawings from dusk until early morning."

"Ahem." Perturabo cleared his throat nonchalantly. "Combined with the hours of kneeling before taking the oath in the temple, the total time Rogal Dorn spent on this matter every night far exceeded any record of the meeting between the genetic father and his offspring."

"That was necessary," Dorn said calmly.

Morse smiled, turned around and hooked the handle of the hip flask. The flask was immediately exerted with a force that violated the physical laws of reality and flew smoothly towards the center of the two original bodies sitting opposite each other.

Perturabo and Rogal Dorn exchanged a competitive look—the calm aura of Perturabo was so low that it was almost depressing, while Dorn's cold and immutable features were made more aggressive by contrast.

Then Perturabo picked up the wine bottle floating in the center and poured a glass for Rogal Dorn first, then for himself. "Thank you, Morse," said the Iron Lord.

Morse held out his hand, and the wine bottle flew into his palm automatically, and then was put back on the shelf.

He listened to the movement in the corridor: "It's the Archons."

Perturabo held the wine glass and leaned back gently on the back of the chair. Rogal Dorn did not move, and these things were not enough for him to show a special welcoming gesture or majesty.

About thirty seconds later, there was a knock on the door.

"Two Archons, please come in," said the Iron Lord.

The first person to appear in front of the two Primarchs was the relatively familiar Connor Guilliman, dressed neatly and with a solemn posture. Although his face was no longer young, it only effectively increased his steadiness and the softness behind the marks of time. The passion of this middle-aged man was hidden in the bottom of his eyes, and was revealed to the whole Macragge through all his drastic changes that were not commensurate with his appearance.

"Primarchs," Connor Guilliman said, "please allow me to introduce you to another Archon of Macragge, Galan."

"Please." Perturabo said, taking the time to let his peripheral vision glance at where Morse was just now.

The craftsman disappeared again. Perhaps no one could find him at this diplomatic moment that required posturing.

Archon Galan, the ruler whose portrait was printed on the other side of the Macragge coin, was covered by an expensive purple robe and his slightly fat body, and his tense expression sharpened his suddenly growing fear - the kind of physiological fear that humans could not resist when facing two giants.

The origin of Macragge's dual ruling system is now unknown, but the advantages and disadvantages of this system are becoming more and more obvious as the reform progresses. Robert Guilliman spent half of his time in the Senate persuading, winning over, and dividing Garlan and his noble supporters. Perturabo was once surprised that his brother had not considered erasing the portrait of this troublesome political enemy directly from the coin. In any case, this is not his territory, so Perturabo will not intervene.

"Two Emperor's envoys, I am honored to meet you." Garlan said. This was his first meeting with the Primarchs. Robert was not counted. He had known the blond young man since he was still a child. At that time, Robert Guilliman did not have the deterrent power he has today.

"Okay." Perturabo said, holding the luxurious golden cup in his hand, gently flicked by his thick fingers, like playing with a small toy.

"What's the matter?" Rogal Dorn asked concisely.

Two similar beings, similar bodies, voices vibrating from equally huge chests, like a sculpture stepping down from a pedestal, or a colossus breaking through the walls of a painted hall and striding into the ruins. Cold, pure, flawless, extraordinary to the point of being arbitrary and cruel.

"No," said Garland, his voice sounding extremely dry. "It's just that you two have been here for a month, and as an archon, I feel guilty for coming to greet you today."

Perturabo thought for a long time before speaking. His expression lowered the brightness of the entire room. There was no mercy in his gaze, like a hammer pressing on a thin sheet, exerting a terrifying control.

"Is that what you want to say?" asked the Iron Lord.

"I'm sorry," Garland replied, feeling his body tremble slightly, and he could hardly pull away from Perturabo's gaze.

"You're sorry," the primarch repeated, and suddenly smiled.

Perturabo nodded, and this tiny movement instantly withdrew all the power that was released. He slowly leaned forward and moved his light-colored eyes, which were as cold as snowy mountains, not to Garland, but to Rogal Dorn, another giant as cold as a rock.

A tight and inseparable aura formed between the two giants. In that heavy and stagnant air, only the giants themselves could enjoy the power of free movement, and only the giants were entitled to each other's attention.

Garland realized that Perturabo didn't even look at him again - when the other giant never cast his eyes on him. Their mutual trust reflected only contempt for him in the eyes of the Archon, and he was not even sure if this was intentional.

Perturabo and Rogal Dorn, when they were in the same room, they could easily exclude the presence of any mortal. They were unique. Their existence itself was a combination of dreams and nightmares, a warning and command that could not be replicated.

And they didn't even pretend to be human.

"Okay, we get it," the Primarch said, tilting the golden cup toward Rogal Dorn. The white-haired giant returned the toast to Perturabo with equal tacit understanding, and drank the wine in one gulp.

"Okay," Garlan said, the word made his lips dry and his body vulnerable. He came expecting two new Roboute Guillimans, but he saw two real...

monsters. He panicked and let the word retaliate through his mind, and then quickly threw it away, fearing that the Primarchs would chase after the traces of the word and strangle him. He wanted to stop for a while and take a breath, but he wanted to leave immediately.

He shouldn't be here. Garland thought. He complained about several other nobles who were opposed to Konor's reforms - those people persuaded him to come and find out the details of two relatives of Robert Guilliman. The weight of the struggle for political power and conservative tradition cannot overcome the weight of Jialan himself at the other end of the scale.

"Connaught Consul, when will Robert come?" Perturabo suddenly asked.

Connor spoke smoothly, as if the pressure caused by the two giants in the room didn't exist: "Robert can make it in time for dinner."

"Dorn and I will not continue to attend the dinner, but you can come and invite us to come with you when you take a bath. I hope he is satisfied with the army he took over today."

Perturabo put the empty wine glass back on the table: "I think another of my brothers would like the wine produced by this estate."

"Need us..." Connor asked.

"No. There is no need to fill the Phalanx with alcohol reserves," Perturabo said. "When I meet Robert in the evening, I will ask him if he welcomes more brothers to visit Macragge."

Jialan said nothing. The Giant's performance is obvious enough: he is certainly in the same league as his brother.

Even if Conor Guilliman and his arrogant son want to destroy all Macragge's traditions, tearing the aristocracy and time-tested solid economic system into fragile branches and fragments...

What's the point of fighting against such monsters?

He bowed as Conor bowed, bidding a silent farewell to the two giants, not daring to disturb the brothers who were apparently once again entering an air of independence that only the Primarch could understand. When he stepped out of the room and watched the door close behind him, the coin in his heart had already dropped. Connaught's side was up, and Garland was at least not wiped out.

"Their characters are not difficult to get along with, Garland," Connaugh told him gently, "you don't have to be so afraid."

No, Konor was the chosen one by the Primarch. Jialan thought, but didn't answer.

——

"I feel lucky for Archon Gloria." Morse floated out from the wall and leaned lightly against the wine cabinet. "Because it's you two who are here today."

Dawn looked sideways at him. "It's a good thing Angron isn't here," he said.

"You see clearly, Dawn."

"Of course," said Perturabo, sipping his drink slowly, "my brother is an emperor, after all."