Chapter 220 Open the Door Every Day

During the Great Crusade, the World Eaters were one of the most respected and beloved Astartes Legions. This was not only because of their widespread loyalty to the Emperor and their dedication to their ideals, but also because they were the only Space Marine Legion to fully disclose to the people of the Empire almost all of its internal affairs and anecdotes that did not involve Imperial secrets.

To quote the famous statement of the World Eaters Primarch Angron himself, "There is nothing we must do without the knowledge of those we protect."

The story of Angron's origin was recorded by the Narrator Society, with the permission of the Primarch and compiled by the Emperor's Memoirist Aman Laroni, and adapted into many versions of drama, literary works and even educational picture books, and released on many planets across the vast territory of the Imperium.

Today, even the most remote frontier planets in the Misty Sector know the cruel deeds of the oppressors in the shadows of human history and the unyielding battle of the gladiator Angron in the red sand field. ——"Angron: Bloodsand Soul"

"Perturabo. What's up?"

Rogal Dorn put down his hand reaching for the bell at the door and calmly called out the name of the brother who invited him to the workshop. After he finished this process, he suddenly realized that a similar incident had just happened yesterday.

But today, the chaos in the workshop forced him to carefully find every stable foothold to cross the messy ruins and move to Perturabo's side - the latter was sitting in a safe corner that had not been affected by the destructive battle storm, watching the fierce melee here without stopping, while completing his daily duties.

"Stop them?" Dorn asked.

"They destroyed half of my exhibits, Dorn." Perturabo said, suppressing a deep emotion in his words, "What if I want them to destroy the remaining half?"

Dorn looked at Perturabo for two seconds and began to choose the right tools.

He picked up the iron base of the creative sculpture at his feet, confirmed that the power supplied by the fluorescent cable on the sculpture was moderate, and then stepped over the broken wood, broken pottery and flying paper scraps, and whipped the two Primarchs who were threatening each other's necks, lungs and arteries in a twisted posture.

Based on some judgments made by Rogal Dorn himself, the target he chose to attack was not Roboute Guilliman, who was in the upper hand in this fight, but the guy who was trapped between his elbow and a solid iron stool leg.

Compared with Dorn's small attack that had almost no harm to a Primarch, what really stopped the Primarchs in the battle was Roboute Guilliman's gradually returning rationality. He used all the strength he had cultivated over more than ten years of healthy living to throw away another exhausted Primarch, lowered his eyebrows, and roared with anger: "I warned you not to show up in Macragge!"

"I am Alpharius--" The Primarch, whose brow was bleeding, coughed out a mouthful of saliva mixed with blood with difficulty, which made Perturabo clench his teeth even more in silence.

"I know you are Alpharius! Get out of my Macragge!"

"No!" Alpharius grabbed a long bar that was long enough to support his weight and pulled his upper body up to sit up. He then found that it was the metal bar of the floor-standing chandelier in the workshop. "My name is Alpharius..."

"Each of you is Alpharius!"

"...but his name is not!" Alpharius finally shouted the second half of his sentence, and the cold smile that always lingered on his calm face disappeared, leaving only pure urgency, "We are just code-named Alpharius!"

"It seems that the warning I gave at the time was not clear enough! All individuals with the code name of Alpharius are not allowed to appear in Ultramar! Otherwise, you will be subject to the highest level of wanted orders issued by the Macragge Council!"

"I didn't do anything to Macragge, Robert Guilliman--"

"You are all Alpharius!" Guilliman's voice drowned out Alpharius's defense.

Dorn stood there, thinking.

"I am not here to fight, brother," Alpharius said, "I am here to help! I know the Alpha Legion, and the number of people returning to Terra is far from what it should be. I must take every one of them away personally!"

"Then, Alpharius." Perturabo stood up and pulled out another unconscious Alpharius who looked almost the same as Alpharius from behind his seat.

The two Alpharius were almost the same in height, shape, and appearance, like a group of artificial models with masks, with only subtle differences in muscle direction and bone structure. And to some extent, these subtle but clear enough differences and differences have made Alpharius even more confusing.

Perturabo threw the warrior he had knocked unconscious to Alpharius: "How many more Alpharius have you brought, brother?"

"Only the necessary subordinates. The Alpha Legion has not yet been publicly established, and my power..."

Robert Guilliman swung his fist from top to bottom, knocking Alpharius - the one who was awake - down again, causing a dull thud. The Primarch struggled to look at Dorn for help. It turned out that the only one who was willing to give Alpharius a little help was Rogal Dorn of the Seventh Legion.

The two Primarchs looked at each other, and then Rogal Dorn stepped forward, raised his hand accurately, and blocked Guilliman's second punch with his right arm.

Guilliman looked at Dorn with a hint of surprise in his eyes.

"Thanks..." Alpharius squeezed out a gasp from his trembling lips.

Before he finished speaking, Rogal Dorn stepped forward and leaned down, punching out. Alpharius dodged to avoid it, but Dorn quickly moved his center of gravity to pursue the second punch. This attack did not fail. Alpharius covered his chest and weakly tasted the rich taste of blood in his mouth while breathing violently.

"What is this!" Alpharius' voice finally showed anger, "Did I attack your home planet, Rogal Dorn!"

"The Phalanx," Dorn said briefly, moving his wrists. His fists, as smooth as pale stone statues, were stained with the blood of the Primarchs fighting with their bare hands, "Sigismund."

Alpharius glared at Rogal Dorn, giving up on explaining that the Shlothians were really not Alpharius.

Under the orders of Malcador, he and several genetic descendants followed Leman Russ's fleet into Macragge, with the purpose of getting in touch with Perturabo, assisting in hunting down the remaining aliens that might be left, and making up for the loss of Omega in the original body. The rift in the relationship that was created between them, and the bringing back of Omegon's subordinates who were still scattered.

Compared with the several complex and long combat missions he had completed silently over the decades, this mission should not have been a problem. But Robert Guilliman's rage beyond reason caught him off guard, and after Perturabo's large battlefield sandbox was overturned by the two men's fight, the Iron Lord's gaze made Alpharius feel a sudden feeling. Unfamiliar pressure.

To protect everything the Empire has and will have, Alpharius will not shy away from any action. But whether this included being pinned in a corner by three complete and powerful Primarchs and taking turns physically attacking him, Alpharius was not sure.

In other words, he was at least sure that this was not necessary.

"Stop, brother!" said Alpharius, "this is Perturabo's workshop!"

For a moment, several Primarchs simultaneously turned their attention to the workshop master in the corner. Robert Guilliman's eyes flashed with unexplainable guilt and guilt, while Rogal Dorn's expression remained controlled as usual. And within the cold scope, there was no trace of the fact that he had just punched a brother before.

"You have finally remembered," Perturabo said coldly. "Pack up my workshop, take away all the debris and wreckage you have caused, and clear the ground, Robert Guilliman, Alpharius. This is A workshop, not a construction site!”

"Okay, brother. I'm sorry." Guilliman glanced at Alpharius and said to both men at the same time.

Without saying a word, Alpharius picked up the unconscious Agent Alpharius from the ground.

"Perturabo," Dorn asked, "what brings me here?"

"It's okay now." Perturabo waved his hand, "But you can come over and look at this Olympia sector expansion plan for me. I'm not sure whether the expansion speed of Olympia's sphere of influence is appropriate. In return, you have Is there anything you need to do?"

"Strengthen the identity verification system for power armor to prevent more theft." Roger Dorn said.

"This is indeed a security issue that we generally ignore. The appearance of disguised Space Marines in the Brotherhood is an unimagined precaution point." Perturabo nodded slightly, the anger hidden in his expression finally gradually calmed down under the deliberate control of the original body. calm.

He slowly sighed out the turbid air gathering in his chest, comforting himself that his creations were properly placed in the many display cabinets or collection rooms in the Iron Blood, and there was no irreparable loss today.

"Alfaris," Perturabo said, "No matter why you are here or what your intentions are, I just want to confirm one thing. Are we all serving the great vision of the Emperor of Mankind?"

"Of course," Alpharius responded, blood running down his ghostly cheek. "The Empire will win."

"Then I apologize for today's battle."

"I apologize for what the Alpha Legion did on Macragge, brothers," Alpharius replied.

"Good. The rags are hanging on the rack over there in the sink. Go ahead."

——

"Perturabo. What's the matter?"

Rogal Dorn put down his hand reaching for the bell at the door and called out calmly.

"You can change your opening remarks next time, Dorn." Perturabo, who was standing against the wall at the door, pulled Dorn into the workshop. "Keep your voice down, someone is angry."

Dorn nodded and quietly closed the sliding door of the workshop for Perturabo. After the last fighting incident, the interior of the workshop took on a new look - half of the site was cleared into a training room with nothing but soft mats on the ground, and the remaining part was reorganized into a regular art space.

At this moment, Robert Guilliman was sitting awkwardly cross-legged in the middle of the black cushions, his eyes tightly closed, his face full of frustration and despair. This emotion is extremely rare in the Lord of the Ultramarines, but it is especially vivid and real now.

"I don't understand, brother!" Another voice came from the electronic screen in the workshop, and the pessimism contained in it was even more pessimistic than Robert Guilliman's. "Are you really incapable of sensing even the lowest state of mind, or are you Are you really so resistant to the existence of psychic energy? You said that you want to improve your understanding of psychic means and your ability to prevent them, but do you really listen to my explanation and practice with me? Is it better for you to enter meditation and perceive yourself? Is it still difficult for the whole legion, Guilliman!"

Guilliman frowned, sweat almost falling from his forehead: "I can't understand all of this, Magnus. This is so contrary to the current systematic scientific theory that I can't find any link that is accurate enough to locate the problem. ”

"Throne, Guilliman! Before starting any theory, you must first have a basic empirical understanding of this! You cannot use limited technology to analyze content beyond the scope of theory!"

"But I really can't feel the burning and numb rich feeling you mentioned, and the lightness of the ground falling downwards... Am I not in a battleship?"

"Emperor!" Magnus sounded like he was drowning in the vacuum of space. "Guilliman!"

"Ahem." Perturabo coughed slightly, attracting Magnus' attention.

The latter's momentum suddenly decreased, and his sadness increased sharply: "Perturabo, can you let someone else teach Guilliman? Mors should be by your side?"

"No, he's not here," said Perturabo. "He had business to do with the twentieth Primarch. I think that was the man's intention in coming to Macragge."

He paused. "Do you wish to continue teaching, Magnus?"

Magnus's silence was long and solemn.

"Perhaps today we will—" Guilliman opened his eyes and asked tentatively.

"No, go on!" Magnus refused to back down, "I believe in your potential, Robert, and I believe even more in my teaching ability. Let's learn from the beginning, okay?"

"Well..." Rogal Dorn asked quietly, "Why are you calling me, Perturabo?"

"Let's go out and talk," Perturabo replied quietly.

The soundproof iron door opens and closes. Perturabo opened the data pad and showed Rogal Dorn several of his reports and reports. The first one was from Magnus. Interestingly, the letter was sent only three minutes ago.

"He also took the time to send a letter." Perturabo received the letter from Magnus and found that the content was about "whether it is necessary to establish a psyker management unit within the legion to facilitate the completion of control over uncontrollable factors." Strict supervision, and the advancement of related problems when the Primarch cannot handle psychic events on his own."

"I believe that except for a very small number of humans and Primarchs, almost all humans have the potential of psychic energy from birth. We cannot erase the existence of psychic energy. The only way is to strictly control it, and when we have to, Use this unfortunate gift with caution," Magnus wrote. "For the sake of humanity, we should consider these things."

"The Emperor should be asked about this," Rogal Dorn said.

"That will be my answer to Magnus," Perturabo replied. "Let's look at other things first."

"The territory where the Ultramarines have taken over includes some interesting forging worlds with very rich technical resources. Before the arrival of the Mechanicus, we may be able to make some additional use of them."

"Yes, I don't want to talk to the Adeptus Mechanicus about everything. I'm really fed up with them. Working with these arrogant and weird people who believe in heretical gods and have conservative selfishness in their mechanical heads. I really don't understand what the Emperor is going to do. Only then can we manage the entire galaxy smoothly!”

"For the Empire." Dorn nodded.

——

"Perturabo. Here I come."

Donne stood at the door of the workshop, changing his daily lines.

He found that he had almost developed the habit of coming to the iron-blooded workshop on the ground floor every two days, and every time the unchanging iron door slid open in front of him, the new character status and the internal environment of the workshop would change. It comes with the subsequent advancement of the implicit expedition process and a new round of conquests by the Imperial fleet.

Arguments, collaborations, debates, thinking, great souls collide and blend here; truth, paradox, interpretation, analysis, surrounding each new event, the original body never stops conveying every instruction and instruction beyond ordinary imagination. Decision-making; classics, administration, industry, welfare, human societies that have become dilapidated in the storm of the old night are reborn here. The magnificent and majestic reflection of the entire radiant Milky Way is concentrated in this small workshop, changing with each passing day.

"Orbital fortresses and defensive fortresses can be built."

Rogal Dorn saw how focused he was on examining the defenses of habitable planets.

"This hive city is simply crumbling. Look at these chaotic aerial ropeways and the messy residential construction. The whole place must be re-planned!"

Perturabo slapped the scanned drawing on the table in annoyance.

"Beware of hidden psychic powers in local religions and ritual cultures, brothers."

At the end of his daily teaching session with Guilliman, Magnus tiredly made his point.

"Change the ruler, brother. We can't let this beast continue to rule this planet."

Angron snorted coldly.

"No need to spy on me, I won't have agents here."

Alpharius appears occasionally.

"Also, we must not let the locals think that after they join the empire, their lives will not be as good as before."

Robert Guilliman spread his hands sincerely, and the morning dew still seemed to have lingered on the green leaves.

"That's what the Great Crusade is about, isn't it?"

Rogal Dorn blinked slowly, listening to the echoes intertwined with his breath in his memory, withdrawing from the silhouette fragments of time, waiting for what he would gain today.