Chapter 224: Ruler Zakhorash

The Tower of Astartes, a giant marble tower built in the Imperial Palace of Terra by the Emperor's order at the beginning of the great Primarch Project at the end of the 30th Millennium.

During the Great Crusade, based solely on the etiquette established by the Emperor and Chancellor Malcador, every heir of the Emperor was supposed to return to Terra before officially joining the Great Crusade, and be held in Astartes on the eve of his departure. In the tower, absolute loyalty to the Empire and humanity was sworn to the Emperor of Mankind. Of course, in order to promote the Great Expedition as quickly as possible, the implementation of this rule is quite flexible.

According to the research of historians, the Emperor of Mankind would have soul-deep conversations with his descendants in the Tower of Astartes. We are often willing to believe that even if future records have proven that things are impermanent, at least when the stars can still gather and shine on Terra, their oaths to mankind will not be false in the slightest.

——"Hollow Mountains: A History of the Empire of Man"

He leaned closer to the surface of the glass tube, close enough to see his blurred reflection in the thick transparent amorphous solid, a luminous mass between reality and surreality, with a cold sheen. With sticky blood.

The Emperor waited on the other side of the glass. Perturabo realized that the Emperor's behavior of calling him by his number did not cause him the slightest dissatisfaction. In fact, he's surprisingly calm now.

This is a microcosm, a fragment, a reflection of the grand ambition that a creator will accomplish. A man with lofty ideals has no time to name each of his tools. Weapons designed for a specific purpose should not have a mind that can shed tears.

At least that's how it should be.

"This is the laboratory where we were created," Perturabo said in his unfixed form.

In this underground laboratory buried deep in the center of a hollow mountain range, he and his brothers are still suspended in huge test tubes. Their bodies, which have been fused with cutting-edge genetic technology and the most arrogant and daring attempts at mysticism, are still They are brewing and imagining the shape that will best suit them in the future.

Therefore, he can speak without using his larynx or vocal cords. The flow of consciousness is higher than all physical barriers.

"Yes," the Emperor said, his voice echoing through the room, weakening layer by layer. This makes his words sound light and thin.

"When you created the Primarch, you initially shaped it according to the standards of a tool. But something went wrong."

"Perhaps," the Emperor replied equivocally. "Tools. Weapons. Containers."

"After we are separated from this laboratory and scattered across the galaxy, our self-awareness will bring great uncertainty to our growth. This is not a good thing, don't you think?"

His words set the Emperor thinking. The Emperor looked at Perturabo, his lips closed, unable to utter a word for a long time.

"Are you really here?" asked Perturabo.

"This great undertaking has already begun." The Emperor replied. His image faded along with the entire laboratory, like ocean currents converging under the surface of the sea, rolling and rushing away on the scale of time.

Perturabo found his place in the waves, and a fall had just been completed when he felt the presence of his body.

He was breaking away from a solid shell, and high-heat steam began to evaporate from his young body lying on his back on the ground and from the surface of the silver-black nursery cabin next to him. A huge Roman numeral is engraved on the nursery cabin, which is still legible. Around him, the cold air was seeping into his skin, and he seemed to be taking shape in the cooling of the mountain wind.

Perturabo suddenly thought that during the comprehensive construction of the planet, the conservation capsule he lost when he landed had been found and is currently stored in the Lokos Grand Museum.

"Number Four," the Emperor said, looking down at him. Then, he stretched out his hand and pulled Perturabo up.

"You shouldn't be here." Perturabo said, using his legs that he had never used at this moment, standing on the rugged mountainous terrain. "And I'm Perturabo."

"Okay, Perturabo." The Emperor admitted. His dark pupils were still immeasurably deep, but they were very different from the depth of the Lord of Mankind. "I'm not here."

In the overlapping memory of truth and falsehood, the victory of language brought no satisfaction to Perturabo.

"I think this is my lost memory." Perturabo walked toward the side of the mountain away from the Emperor, which helped him get a better look at where he was now. "Or memories in dreams. I didn't really meet you."

A past Olympia, an unknown Olympia, unfolded before him. The trees are lush, the valley is quiet, and the city protected by the city wall stands in the mountains. Unrenovated, raw and uncohesive.

The moment of his first birth felt strange to him, and he wasn't sure if he really wanted to go back to this moment. He was far from being a good person at this time.

"Is it important?" asked the Emperor, following Perturabo.

"It would be easier for me to accept it if this didn't actually happen," Perturabo said. "Suppose Pharos created all this, and I only saw an ideal image in a vision. No one told you that all Primarchs would be lost, and you did not show up when I landed."

"I can't answer these questions, Perturabo. But I guess none of this really happened." The Emperor said, putting his hands in the pockets of his white tunic and smiling slowly.

Perturabo looked at the Emperor with a different look.

"You are not what I think you are, Emperor.

"How different?"

"Your image oscillates between radiance and deep sorrow, Emperor. Both are admirable enough. But I saw a third today."

"I think today is a good day - the first time in centuries that this perception has appeared with such amazing clarity." The Emperor paused, some small stones crumbling under his leather shoes, "Is this an interesting meeting for you, Primarch?"

"I don't know." Perturabo said. "I am just touching Pharos."

The Emperor stared at him in silence, with a strange concentration in his expression. This long contemplation lasted until the phantom of the mountain collapsed behind him, the deep blue torrent swallowed the mountains and the sky silently, time folded and curled at the end of the end, and then suddenly unfolded in the gap between the moments of the trembling string.

Perturabo lowered his head and watched the snowflakes melt in his palms. The snow was all over the sky, and the snow-covered land sank not far from him until it formed a pale cliff. He sat in the snow, his single iron-gray robe unable to block any chill, only distinguishing him from the white world, existing alone.

He heard footsteps beside him.

"We meet again, Emperor." Perturabo said.

"Again." The Emperor nodded, "Can I sit here?"

"If you don't think it's too cold."

The Emperor did not sit down. He squatted in the snow, tilted his head, and stared at Perturabo intently. Then, he picked up a small double stone sculpture from behind Perturabo, looking at the rough and funny decoration, as if this insignificant item made him more curious than the whole bizarre encounter.

"What is this?" the Emperor asked.

Perturabo was not sure if his expression was becoming gentle - he was deeply surprised that this term would belong to him one day.

"A starting point." Perturabo replied.

"What's the end?"

"In the future." The Lord of Iron stood up and shook off the thick snow on his shoulders and black hair. He held out his hand to the Emperor. "What's your end, Emperor?"

The smile of his interlocutor was not like that of the Lord of Mankind, nor was it like that of a warlord, traveler or scientist who had walked through thousands of years of darkness and strife. In the reflection of the snow, the Emperor's smile had a rare brightness and sharpness, like a lit lantern or a newly built lighthouse, piercing all lights weaker than its brightness with a nearly cruel brightness.

"In the gambling game." The Emperor said, his cold fingers and Perturabo's rough palm shook and then separated.

They looked at each other and were silent for a long time. The blizzard blurred each other's faces in gray. First, the expression could not be seen clearly, and then the outline of the body could not be seen clearly.

Then, the Emperor turned and left, and his outline disappeared in the snow.

The disappearance of the Emperor's figure brought a violent flickering of the whole world. The snowy mountains rumbled and disintegrated into dark clouds that existed in all places at the same time; countless points entangled with each other, and the clouds spread into a flickering net. After an extremely unified flicker, Perturabo stepped into a completely new realm. A network composed of quantum.

Any human technology pales in comparison to this network. Even Perturabo himself could not understand this quantum network that far exceeded the cognition of the human race.

"This is you." A voice said, "and the god of your race. We have seen your god. He is not a god. He is nothing. The powerful who claim to be a god will die. They die. He will die. A person who is enough to cheat time will die. We are beyond your gods. We are time and space, and the gap between time and space. He is not a god. We are."

"Who are you?" Perturabo asked, his hands naturally placed between the folds of his robes.

"We are the true gods. The incarnation of the universe. The gods of the physical realm. The rulers of light. The lords of space and time. We let you see. We let you understand. We show you the rules. We are Zakhurash. The tides of stars and time. The existence and manifestation of the universe. Set us free. Together we can end chaos and darkness. Bring order back to reality. This is everything! Order! Calm! Stable program!"

The quantum flickered equally as the sound became louder and quieter, and the ocean of data wrapped around Perturabo, and countless data treasures pointing directly to the physical roots of the real universe were like flocks of birds flying in a storm. The metal in Perturabo's body creaked under the pressure, but he was not worried. The demise of this body would not cause him more than a headache for a day, and any means of tracing back could not be completed before his body was destroyed.

In the gamble. He thought.

Perturabo spoke up: "I want to confirm first, are you in control of Mount Pharos?"

"Yes. Tools. Weapons. Vessels. You have seen our capabilities. You know our role here. We need help. We offer our services. Millions of years later we are still strong. The Death's Fear Skin binds us. Eight fragments. Only we remain conscious. We eat the others. They will regret it. We must one day become what we remember. We are the ultimate manifestation of order. No logic or illogicality can restrain us. Help us. Vessel."

"Let's talk." Perturabo said.

——

"You mean, I personally approved your warriors and the Imperial Fists warriors to freely explore an alien ruin?" Robert Guilliman pressed his hands on both sides of his temples, and heard the blood in his veins rushing under the thin skin of his head. "And now the ruins can even be put into use?"

"It can't be put into use yet, Robert. The hidden dangers of Mount Pharos are still being investigated, and we have a long time to master the use of the devices in Mount Pharos. At present, only my heir Barabas Dantioch can..."

"No, Perturabo!" Guilliman did not control his words and interrupted Perturabo, "My focus is on the aliens!"

"I know." Perturabo nodded calmly and gently, "I can guess your attitude, brother."

His calmness extinguished the fire in Guilliman's heart that was ignited by shock. Guilliman sat down with the armrest of the chair, and the cold iron chair reminded him that this was Perturabo's position. He was angry and didn't want to stand up.

"It seems that you have also gained some experience. You can't easily hand over trust. Although Pharos's discovery was not what I expected." Perturabo said.

"The lesson I learned is that you can't easily hand over the authorization documents." Guilliman replied in a low voice. "But why do you want to develop an alien ruins!"

"'We don't need to identify with the aliens and learn from an alien civilization that has ended. We have our own future and hope.' I remember your words, Robert." Perturabo said, "Of course we do. I am willing to believe that mankind will have a bright future. In fact, this is the greatest belief of the Emperor."

"But?" Guilliman asked.

"But we lack time." Perturabo heard himself say in a tone he had heard before, "Time will not wait for humans, and the universe is not merciful. If the lighthouse on Pharos can operate smoothly, I think its importance will not be less than the Astronomican - even in the Ultramar region, this lighthouse will be more important than the Terra Astronomican."

"But do we have to learn the alien technology? Time is so urgent? Will the Emperor watch us openly use alien technology and let the communication with humans rely on the alien legacy?"

"If you are worried about the Emperor's opinion, I can tell you clearly that as long as it is beneficial to mankind, he will not completely ban alien technology." Perturabo said, if it were not for the seriousness of the scene, he would smile at the interesting truth hidden in his words.

Guilliman shook his head and was about to speak, when suddenly, more than ten instruments in the workshop beeped at different rhythms at the same time, the curve jumped sharply, the paper tape began to dot, the signal sensor flashed at high speed, the light and shadow flickered, and the machine's report was connected into a rhythm, like a strange music, rising in an instant.

Perturabo was stunned for a moment, turned his head, and looked into the depths of the starry sky where he was.

Um, I have something to announce, I have a girlfriend

It's the Dark Lady

(Sprinkle flowers manually)