Chapter 211 Battle of Macragge (5)

Perturabo strode back to his office carrying the datapad he had unloaded from the center of Agora Bazaar, the door lock falling behind him. He slammed the dataslate against the iron table as hard as it could bear.

The latest batch of orders have all been issued and they are to return immediately. That's all the command is.

They had no time to go to Sepetus to retrieve the scattered soldiers. Dantioch would remain on Osiris with Rogal Dorn to handle the remaining counter-insurgency duties, while the remaining fleets of Ultramarines and Iron Warriors would be ready to infiltrate the Warp within ten minutes.

The Lord of Iron tapped his fingers on the tabletop that was too low for him, and suddenly shouted into the air: "Morse. You are here."

"I'm here." The man in black robe walked out of the air, his expression as calm and indifferent as ever.

"You know what is going to happen to Macragge," Perturabo said firmly.

"I have no idea."

"Lies!" Perturabo breathed out, and the roar was locked in the office with the sound insulation effect that was designed to be greatly improved. "You can't lie to me, Morse, we understand each other so well!"

"And you are too excited, Perturabo." Morse's tone remained unchanged, "Don't vent your worries in the form of anger. I know what you are worried about. As you said, we understand each other so well. ”

Perturabo stared at him, his chest heaving beneath his steel breastplate. He barely swallowed a breath, and the faint smell of burning fire rolled up his throat with a smell of rust.

Yes, Morse was right. He had already made one mistake, a blind and careless mistake. His ignorance of the situation led to sudden riots in the red sand lands, Angron's sacrifice, and Rogal Dorn's almost death on an unknown battlefield.

It's the same hidden danger that mortals take action, it's the same turmoil in peacetime, and it's the same without any clear evidence in advance. But now he is very likely to make a second mistake. Just thinking about that possibility made his stomach twitch violently, as if hot gravel was rolling in his respiratory tract, causing endless pain.

He didn't dare to imagine all this, his second oversight, his second sin.

"You are afraid that another disaster that can obviously be prevented will break out in front of your eyes, and you can do nothing but regret and cry in the shadow of belated arrival." Morse walked slowly to his side. "You are afraid that Rogal Dorn and Robert Guilliman will be disappointed in you, that you are not fulfilling your duties as brothers."

Perturabo grabbed Morse's shoulder and let go suddenly as if he had been burned. He hunched over, displaying a huddle that seemed unbecoming of an adult Primarch.

"Maybe nothing happened on Macragge. Maybe Robert Guilliman's territory is still secure. After all, you have met Praetor Gloria, and you are sure that he has long since lost the courage to start a rebellion. But you are still uneasy, You know something is lurking in the shadows, waiting. Your subconscious is helping you gather information, and you've picked up on some hidden clues, but not enough."

"What on earth do you know..." Petula Boss dropped the personal pronoun at the end of the sentence. What he read in Morse's words was full of cold cruelty. "Why did you hide it from me?"

Mors walked up to Perturabo and held out his hand. Perturabo grasped the craftsman's hand - so difficult for the Primarch's oversized hand that he could only grasp nearly the entirety of Morse's forearm.

"Feeling better?" Morse asked.

Perturabo made no answer.

"What you fear most is that I unreasonably deceived you, betrayed you, knew everything but said nothing, and watched you jump into the abyss of danger and sin. You are afraid that I will stand by and watch you become irreversible, You're afraid I hope you do it a second time," Morse said, shaking his head, "No, I'm not that crazy, and you can still trust me to calm down. Personal recommendations for you to blame.”

He also dropped the personal pronoun in the sentence.

Perturabo remained motionless, maintaining his silence. Time passes in stillness indoors.

Thirty seconds later, he exhaled the hot air in his chest, let go of the craftsman's hand, stood up straight, and asked a question that went straight to the core: "What are you and Malcador talking about these days?"

——

"Are you ready?" Sigismund asked, waiting for the nine brave men in front of him to first put their gauntlet-covered fingers on the magnetic buckle that fixed the power sword.

The ever-burning candle crackled quietly in the dark sanctuary at the core of the Phalanx. The oath brazier placed in the center was raised and hung in the air by iron chains, with flames burning in the basin.

On the backside of the light, in the shadows that were sometimes briefly illuminated, nine battle brothers wearing bright yellow armor and all wearing helmets stood calmly and cautiously. The weapons were silently held in their hands, and the bolters that had been inspected and removed from the bullets were hung on their waists in a ceremonial manner.

This is a templar selection trial. After the establishment of the Haskar Guard, Sigismund adjusted the admission criteria for the Templars as promised. He no longer limits the number of challengers or demands that they must be defeated. What will be valued is not only the skill of fighting, but also the will of the warrior.

However, even after the standards were relaxed, the Imperial Fists seemed to continue a certain proud habit of challenging him one-on-one. Today's nine-person joint battle request is the first multi-player battle request that Sigismund has received.

He accepted it with pleasure.

"Ready." The warriors answered him, letting the weight of the weapons merge with their arms.

Sigismund nodded, turned around, and pulled out the bladeless oath sword specially used for the trial from the empty round platform behind him. The servo engine on his body made a running sound, announcing the upcoming test.

The long sword gradually broke away from the silver scabbard and fell into the hands of the only Templar.

At this moment, a series of wind-breaking sounds pierced from behind him. Sigismund seemed to have expected it. He suddenly drew his sword and swung the blade. Nine bullets were cut off by him, and the gunpowder and shell residues splashed and scattered.

The violent attack followed the bullets, and Sigismund raised his sword to meet it. The attacker's rhythm was as swift and fast as a venomous snake, changing from all the shadows, and the tip of the sword flashed a cold light that was enough to kill people, forming a secret code with the new round of explosive bombs fired.

Sigismund raised the Sword of the Covenant, and the blade swung back neatly, accurately hooking open a warrior's visor with an oblique thrust. The candlelight changed in brightness, and he saw the unfamiliar face clearly.

The next blow hit the attacker's side hard, causing a fatal stagger. He had no time to consolidate his advantage this time, and immediately withdrew from the nine people's coordinated encirclement, while wrapping the edgeless longsword around his right hand through the chain.

"Continue." Sigismund said.

——

Angron doesn't like Macragge.

No, this is not Macragge's problem, nor does he have any negative views on Robert Guilliman.

Objectively speaking, he actually has a hidden respect for Robert: every reform measure of Guilliman and his son will be sent to Angron's desk at the moment of implementation, and when the next decree approved in the Senate is implemented, the impact data brought by the previous instruction is often being summarized.

He would never deny that when he read about how the citizens of Macragge gained practical benefits from the new policies of Guilliman and his son, he was happy for Robert Guilliman and Macragge, and how he sincerely hoped that more beneficial laws could be born in the high-speed Macragge government through the data scrolling in countless thinkers and the printed documents in this beautiful world covered with rocks but showing more vitality.

And his opinion of Macragge came only from the other faction represented by the Macragge Dual War King system, that is, the old aristocratic faction headed by Archon Garlan.

These people are stubborn and corrupt, protecting the so-called old aristocratic faction and supporting all the dregs in the culture that can maintain their own rule and interests. Angron didn't understand why Robert Guilliman allowed the two parties to take turns in governing in the Senate.

Apart from the bad habits of overthrowing and attacking each other, and the depletion of assets by revoking every order issued by the other faction, he could not see what benefit the coexistence of two factions would bring to the overall politics.

As for democracy, it was an unreasonable joke: dividing the limited public power handed over by the people equally between two opposing parties would only lead to both parties exploiting more power from the people for their own use through all kinds of rhetoric and coercion.

However, Angron knew that Macragge was Roboute Guilliman's home planet no matter what. He could advise, but he could not interfere.

This often made him regretful.

And the reason he left Macragge was different from what most people thought. He did not leave out of disgust - he did not have the time to make overly emotional choices because of his emotions. There were too many things that could be done and too many things that needed to be done.

Angron simply returned to Nuceria with Guilliman's reform practice results, picked out the laws that Nuceria could use, or that could be properly applied after some localized modifications, and tried to implement them on his own planet.

As for why he didn't say the reason clearly... well, it was because he didn't like Macragge.

In any case, Angron was leaving Nuceria again and heading towards Macragge. He still had some practical problems that needed to be discussed with Robert. As one of the founders of the reform theory from a planet with the same cultural origin, he believed that there were some difficulties that Robert could solve, and new experiences could be shared.

At this moment, the Resolute Resolve was hovering outside Macragge's orbit, accepting the routine entry inspection of the local Ultramarines. Of course, regulations need to be followed, and the Primarch's fleet does not have the exemption to enter directly.

The visitor has arrived outside Angron's door. The Lord of Red Sand pressed the button to open the door and allowed the officer to enter.

He saw a sergeant in a red helmet salute him. The warrior's armor was clean and new, and he exuded a confident and steady demeanor, which could easily gain the trust of anyone.

"The entry documents have been sent to you," Angron said, "Do you have any questions, sergeant?"

"Since the communication network is being fully updated recently, the new system is not compatible with the old letter message format." The warrior said, "The fastest way at present is paper materials, sir."

"A fleet has a lot of documents, sergeant. It takes a long time to print all of them as paper materials."

"I'm sorry to cause you unnecessary trouble, sir," the warrior bowed his head and saluted, "but this is our duty."

Angron stared at him and sighed. "Come here."

The warrior approached as he was told. The Lord of Red Sand left his seat, walked around the desk, walked to the warrior, and looked down at him.

The warrior raised his head, his expression covered by the mask. "My Lord?" he asked in confusion.

He reached out and patted the warrior's shoulder, then suddenly exerted force, pressed his head back and slammed it into the wooden table.

"Who are you!" The Primarch growled, breaking the man's hand that was touching the weapon on his waist, "Do you think I can't hear the emotional fluctuations in your heart, pretender?"

——

"What do you want to find me for, warrior?" Robert Guilliman sat sleepily, barely holding up his drowsy spirit, and covered the documents on the table with his palm. "Your name?"

After receiving Perturabo's warning, Robert was completely trapped in a dilemma of wanting to rest but not daring to rest, wanting to be awake but objectively unable to do so. He had to forcibly awaken his tired soul by reading more legion documents. Before confirming Macragge's situation, he knew that he could not get a moment of sleep.

"Iote Kapa, ​​sir." The tall warrior said, "a soldier under Commander Valentus."

Robert remembered Valentus, and the tremor in his voice in the command room. The memory of that scene made him feel an undeniable sadness, and he spoke softly to Kapa: "Well. You are all brave soldiers, my proud descendants. So, what brings you here?"

Kapa stepped forward. "Commander Valentus wishes to know what kind of funeral standards Commander Caspian will receive. He regards him as a close friend, sir."

"Macragge Memorial Gardens, just east of the Avenue of Heroes. The souls of the dead warriors will rest peacefully there. This is the tradition of Macragge, is it acceptable?" Robert said softly, guessing that Valentus Doro might not know what kind of place the memorial garden is.

"Thank you, sir." Kapa saluted respectfully and did not leave.

"Any other questions?" Guilliman asked.

"Yes, sir. I have a personal request." Kapa stepped forward again.

Guilliman's eyelids drooped heavily, and then quickly lifted. The weakness in his soul made him almost unable to move. "Speak." He whispered.

A gunshot.

A bright blood hole appeared in Capa's hand as he was about to raise the grenade launcher. The second bullet hit his thigh, forcing him to fall to the ground on the spot.

Perturabo stepped into Guilliman's office, grabbed Iote Capa from the ground, held him by the neck and looked down at the painful face at close range: "Who are you!"

"I am..." The warrior smiled slyly, and the smile superimposed a unique distortion of a pretender on his painful face, "Alpharius..."

The third gunshot rang out, and no bullet was fired.

Morse put down his hand that had just cast a small vocal spell, walked into the office, and while injecting psychic energy directly into Robert Guilliman, who vowed not to rest, to nourish his soul, he muttered: "Don't listen to his nonsense, Perturabo. Obviously he is not Alpharius himself."