Chapter 213 Battle of Macragge (7)

"Who are you!" Robert Guilliman raised the pretender's chin with the sword in his hand and shouted angrily.

His short sword should be considered a great sword for an Astartes' size. The pressure of the blade drew blood from the pretender's skin, and coupled with the wounds from the previous gunshot wound, the bloody smell spread quickly, amplifying its own presence in the Primarch's senses.

Guilliman could smell the special odor caused by the many genetic surgeries in the Pretender's blood, which not only confirmed his identity as a Space Marine, but also brought him a deeper anger.

He put away his dagger and supported his still exhausted body, "Why did you choose to betray? Who gave you the instructions!"

"I am Alpharius." The pretender repeated this sentence, as if this sentence had explained all the mysteries, or perhaps he did not know any more secrets.

Guilliman quickly realized that the term here did not refer to a person's name, but to a concept or an organization. His eyes slid across Perturabo's face, and then settled on the craftsman Morse beside him.

There is no doubt that Morse's words and actions have proven that he knows something about "Alpharis".

"I only know Alpharius himself, Robert Guilliman." Mors noticed his gaze and said coldly, "A snake in the dark, a dagger in the shadows, an actor outside the theater. My recognition of him Not much is known, but perhaps his most famous achievement was sneaking into the palace of Terra, killing a Custodian, seizing his weapons, and fighting against the Custodian leader Constantine Valdor."

"Is he still alive?" Perturabo's eyebrows furrowed further. According to his understanding of the empire, there was almost no possibility of a person who killed the Imperial Guard and was not hunted to death by the group of watchmen.

"Yes, because the Emperor still needs Alpharius to work for him." Morse replied, "The Emperor and Malcador hope that he will become the invisible spear and hidden weapon of the Empire, and complete the most secret tasks in the Great Crusade. "

"But he invaded the palace of Terra and killed the Emperor's Praetorian Guards." Robert Guilliman said unimaginably. "The Emperor is so tolerant that he can accept such sinful loyalty?"

Morse walked around Robert's desk and clasped his fingers on the face of the kneeling and bound Space Marine. Runes emerged from under the black cloth: "He was forgiven not by anyone's forgiveness, Primarch. He was forgiven. Forgive because he is your brother."

Perturabo stared closely at the warrior who called himself Alpharius: "Our brother? We...have another brother?"

Morse let go, letting the unconscious Space Marine fall to the ground. "This warrior has only seen the real Alpharius once. I must criticize his current secret network of spies for being too covert in the balanced tree contact mechanism. As long as one upper-level node is usurped, the orders received by the entire branch cannot be falsified. Also Yes, you have a brother."

"Did you read his memory?" Robert asked, with a rather bad expression on his face, "So..."

"Iote Capa never existed," Morse said, "but the loyalty of the warriors who died for you need not be questioned."

"Who deceived these subordinates of Alpharius? If my brother had the discernment of a mortal, he would not order the assassination by a single soldier."

Perturabo said, quickly inferring part of the truth, while the other part of the reasoning holes caused by missing clues knocked on his nerves, forcing him to review all the details that he might have missed over and over again at high speed. He must order himself to stop digging every millisecond into futile attempts at secrets that do not exist.

"He almost succeeded." Robert Guilliman said softly. "Perhaps their assassination has already been successful... How long do we have before we can return to Macragge!"

——

Macragge waited in silence.

This means that the flames of war have burned out, and dust shaped by fire and smoke is falling from the sky, suffocating the ruins reduced to wreckage.

The streets were empty, and the smoke and dust after the war made the roads as dark as evening in the afternoon. The trees on the roadside fell down, and their roots were pulled out of the soil, hanging with the hanging transmission cables. The steel bars of the houses were tied to the building materials and were peeled off from the walls. The shattered doors and windows left deep, dark, square holes in the walls of the residents. Sparse artillery fire occasionally exploded in a remote corner of the city, and golden-white fireballs briefly lit up between the houses, bringing a dull explosion.

These lands were taken back by the Macragge government half a month ago, waiting for future redistribution. What is needed now is reconstruction.

The armor and corpses left behind by the troops loyal to Gloriosa, Libanus, and Palatinas and Conor's troops were spread along the side of the avenue. After Guilliman recognized the signs of the Guards, he felt that he was being torn away from reality by an extremely strong sense of unreality.

He allowed half of himself to pay attention to the armored vehicles driving down the street, even though there were no more panicked pedestrians blocking the road; the other half was immersed in multiple pains and complex thoughts.

In theory, in books, and in debates, he had seen too many ugly rebellions over money, power, and status. But he didn't really understand why humans, as an intelligent race, would be beguiled by these barbaric, superficial and meaningless terms, so much so that they would rather give up those truly noble, wise and profound concepts.

When his housekeeper Sarasha taught him some meditation prayers, Robert Guilliman didn't think he needed to use them. Now he began to recite those ancient words silently, trying to let the worries that troubled him leave a mind that urgently needed reason.

But where is Connor Guilliman? Where is Talasa Udon?

He closed his eyes.

Connor was a diligent ruler who spent too much time in front of his ancient thinker, buried in data and decrees. In his remaining time, too many hours were spent wandering in the corridors of the inner court, looking at the war kings of all generations and reflecting on his heart.

"Go to the Council Chamber." Guilliman said.

"Hurry." Perturabo whispered, "Before death occurs."

Although there was nothing unusual on the face of the Iron Lord, Robert felt a pressure that transcended time falling on his brother. His pair of icy light-colored eyes seemed to reflect another dying city.

Near the Council Chamber, they entered the narrow walkway and left the vehicle. Guilliman named several Ultramarines to follow, and Perturabo took no one except Morse.

The labyrinth garden outside the Council Chamber has now collapsed into a dilapidated ruin, and the blood from the corpses filled the fountain. Extinguished ashes fell on the marble floor, and billowing black smoke covered the cross-sectional wounds that broke the limbs of mortals. The dried blood was like rust, but it was stained on the surface of the stone tablet.

Guilliman stopped beside the broken corpse, his eyes passed through the reflection in the pool and stopped at the wound of the dead - there was a moment he noticed that his reflection was not wearing a crown, and Perturabo's cable was rarely entangled with his hair, and they were scattered together.

"I believe the one you are looking for is still alive," Perturabo said, his voice as tough as iron. "Not every leader will die in the rebellion."

"No, look at these bodies." Guilliman said softly, "the way these Garlan soldiers died."

Perturabo gritted his teeth, as if he was shaking off some old shadows. "Sorry. Hatchet, chain... The World Eaters have been here!"

"Here, and he is heading to the Council Chamber," Mors said, runes looming in the corners of his dark robes. This is the first time he has spoken today. His voice has become strange, with a strange hoarseness, which comes from the damage to his throat. He did not explain this.

"Let's go," Guilliman said.

They never encountered any living enemies, and the World Eaters killed all the enemies that blocked their way. The closer they got to the Council Chamber, the more bodies appeared on the ground. The blood solidified into a filthy red carpet on the steps. Broken bones, after being roughly crushed, were squeezed into a pool of debris together with torn leather armor and broken and twisted gun barrels. The damage caused by the force field of bolt shells and power weapons was easily recognizable.

The violence of the World Eaters has never disappeared, they just know how to control themselves. When anger is infused into their actions, all the characteristics of the war hounds will return to their every swing.

Angron has been here, earlier than them. Guilliman was happy at first because a primarch returned to Macragge in time before them. But another possibility quickly entered his mind: Maybe Angron was not fast enough.

They walked up the steps. The hall outside the Council Chamber was much cleaner than outside. There were no dead, few bloodstains, and some burn marks on the white walls where long carpets and murals were once hung. The dim light and the empty silence sealed this place together.

The Astartes' boots left footprints, and their movements became clearer.

They arrived here a few hours ago, without fighting, and then they left, as if there was no value in staying here, everything that should have happened had already happened, and all the disasters had reached the end of death.

Guilliman shook his head, and the panic and anger that surged from his soul were quickly suppressed: "Father's room is upstairs."

Perturabo said nothing, and took a few steps up the stairs with Guilliman.

The long and dark corridor shortened under their footsteps. The closer they got to Konor's room, the more charcoal was burned around. The carbonized dust at extremely high temperatures was raised in the airflow caused by their running, turning the corridor into a pipe filled with black ash. Behind the ashes, you can vaguely recognize the bookshelves that are as high as the ceiling, the ancient paintings surrounded by plaster statues of angels, and the collapsed statues. The remaining heat of the ashes cooled in the darkness.

The footprints of the World Eaters accompanied them forward, leaving bloody guidance.

The surroundings were strangely quiet, quiet enough for Robouti Guilliman to hear the sound of blood flowing in his temples.

The total amount of ashes on the ground was far more than the dust left by the damaged books and collections. People, a word jumped into his mind. Many people died in this long-extinguished fire, burning so thoroughly that there was no smell left except for the incombustible impurities.

What kind of fire can burn everything to the point where nothing remains?

Connor Guilliman's door was closed at the end of the dark corridor. There was no sound of continuous fighting or the crackling sound of burning air, but the traces left by the burning fire were deeper than the dark lighting environment. It spread from the inside to the outside along the closed door, announcing a silent ending.

He suddenly thought of many years ago, when he was five years old, Konor and he were away from the city-state and politics, hunting under the beautiful Crown Mountain. That day, Konor accidentally fell, covered the wound on his arm that was accidentally cut, told him that mortals would die one day, and then smiled at him. Macragge is still standing, Konor said. As long as it is still there, you will not be alone.

He suddenly felt so small. Small, failed, unforgivable. A part of him was breaking, destroyed by the swelling anger and deep pain.

Robert Guilliman put his hand on the door handle, and he didn't know what he could expect before pushing it open. The coldness of the iron penetrated deep into his skin. He touched it and knew that the mechanical structure inside the door lock had been damaged.

"Go." Perturabo said softly. Even in the dark, with the vision of the Primarch, he could still see his expressionless face, and his eyes flashed with difficult to discern emotions. "Nothing can be worse than you predict."

Robert Guilliman turned the handle and felt a stinging pain in his eyes when he opened them.

Then, he found that the front of his boots was lit by a ray of light that suddenly overflowed from the open door, bright, clean, warm and familiar. It was the electric light that Connor would turn on when he was working, with a slightly warm yellow color, which helped him find the sobriety of the day in the all-night government affairs.

His heartbeat immediately quickened.

The door was opened, and bright light generously poured out from the door, like a waterfall, instantly immersing Robert Guilliman in the warm light of daylight. The magnificent office of the Archon was clean as new, with shining ivory and gold furnishings placed safely in their original places. The large glass on the oak bookshelf reflected the white papers, scrolls and a retro large square meditator on the desk. All kinds of huge brown wooden furniture that were built to accommodate the size of the Primarch were still there, lit by the smooth transparent paint, adding a patchwork of vitality to this miraculously bright room.

Connor Guilliman stood behind the table, neatly dressed, with almost no scratches on his exquisite armor, tired but intact.

His stern expression relaxed the moment he saw Robert. The Archon lowered his hands and raised the carbine pointed at the door, walked around some things and walked to Robert.

"Garland has rebelled." He said, without mentioning the unpleasant content in the semantics, his voice was so kind that Robert suspected that he had fallen into another overly beautiful fantasy, a perfect fairy tale told to children.

Robert swayed a little, knelt on one knee in front of his adoptive father, looked directly into the eyes of the mortal who was no longer young but still clear, the rising anger hidden in his heart was instantly extinguished, but the sob in his throat could not dissipate for a long time.

He looked around helplessly and finally found some clues of the remnants of the battle.

A statue in the room was moved from the east side to the west side, covering a small piece of burnt carpet. The arm of the wooden statue was once broken, and it was simply fixed with glue. There were too few documents on the table, and the small bucket for garbage was full of burnt paper and broken glass.

This could not be the result of Connor taking care of it alone, someone helped him.

"Robert," Connor hugged his adopted son and held his hand, "you are here."

"But..." Robert asked blankly, and suddenly felt something touching his leg. He turned around and saw something beyond his imagination.

A small chess piece, carved into a white tower, should have been the same as any ordinary chess piece on the table, but now it has two slender white hands out of thin air, holding a small freshly washed rag, trying to move Guilliman's legs away from the path it was wiping the floor.

He immediately stood up from the ground and made way for the small chess piece. The tower bowed to him vividly, diligently wiping the dust and blood on the ground.

A black chess soldier tried hard to jump onto the armrest of Connor's chair, and with the help of the toughness of the cloth on the armrest, it jumped onto the table and slowly moved into the open chess box.

Perhaps it had finally completed its duty, it put down the miniature gun, lay down consciously, and stopped moving, and the extremely light golden light on its body quietly dissipated.

It was like a silent horn, or a summons bell that ended the magic. On the bookshelf, carpet, behind the flower pot, on the chandelier... Thirty black and white chess pieces suddenly appeared from various inconspicuous corners of Connor's office, jumping and looking for the right path, running back to the box where they should be, straightening their flexible and delicate little bodies, and turning back to the appearance of normal crafts.

The white tower, whose mission was delayed by Guilliman, quickly completed the final cleaning work, turning around with a small rag. Guilliman let it run into his palm and helped it back to the box.

"They are..." Guilliman swallowed.

"Soldiers, towers, priests, riders, stewards, kings." Connor said, looking at Morse.

Morse covered his mouth and coughed twice, pinched his throat, and his voice returned to normal. "Is this cheating?" he asked.

"I don't think so, sir." Connor bowed his head to thank him.

Robert Guilliman immediately understood the source of the flames. He had seen that kind of fire once. Mors had used that nameless golden-blue fire to burn the orc wreck that blocked their progress in the warp channel to ashes.

He simply couldn't find the words to thank him, so he could only send Mors a most sincere look with deep gratitude. Then, another important thing suddenly hit him.

"Where is Lady Euden?" Robert asked, his heart rising again.

"She was not with me when the rebellion broke out." Connor's expression darkened.

"Your brother Angron has been here, and he should be looking for her now. But you have to be careful, Robert." His eyes swept over the remaining ashes in the wastebasket. "Those who attacked me... may not all be human."