Chapter 322 Bal

In rare cases, Morse would also hope that those individuals with prophetic gifts could successfully exert their abilities and bring some effective help to his actions.

The "Cliff" torpedo boat drifted in the space outside Baal Saturn, unable to find a landing point, and the only passenger in the torpedo boat found it difficult to touch the ground. This was one of these situations.

The drop capsule equipped with this ship unfortunately crashed into a corner of the planet wrapped in orange and yellow fog on the first day of its last visit to Baalus.

The culprit who caused the damage to the drop capsule was now riding his dozens of miles long Emperor Fantasy, a luxurious giant ship, with a fleet of golden ships, heading towards Terra, the glorious capital of the Human Empire.

In short, it was not until Morse leisurely crossed the subspace with his iron-gray boat and saw the outline of Baal that he remembered his landing problem.

If Conrad Curze could have foreseen the world they were in now, Morse would have asked him to drive a poison boat or something to pick him up.

With such a short distance, Morse did not intend to squeeze his body into the subspace and reach the ground through the etheric realm. After locking onto an uninhabited surface desert area, he opened the hatch, used a layer of runes as a protective measure to block the burning, and jumped towards the surface of Baal's second satellite.

During the landing process, Morse found that there were some ships in the air with lightning runes painted all over the body, sharp horns at the front, and skull bat wings embroidered on the blood-red curved sails swam around.

This scene made him feel a little strange, like midnight far away in the sky, suddenly breaking into the bright sun of Baal.

He fell into the sand and spent five minutes pinching himself an extra windproof cloak with a scarf, and looking for the direction of human gathering by sensing the emotional projection cast by the thought cluster in the high-level vision.

Considering the process of finding a path in the subspace, groping for the specific location of Baal based on general memory rather than maps, and the time and space disorder unique to the non-material realm, it is difficult to say whether Konrad Curze arrived here a few months ago or a few days ago.

In any case, if Curze encountered troubles that he could not deal with in Baal, Perturabo would know. Moreover, the current ether environment around the planet is stable, which made Morse feel relieved, knowing that he no longer needed to guard against the erosion of the real universe by the destructive power in the ancient darkness during this vacation.

Morse bent down and picked up the crystal gravel. The high-intensity abnormal radiation on the surface of Baal not only caused irreversible changes to the genes of the locals, but also left a few transparent salt-like crystals in the endless yellow sand.

He let the yellow sand pass through his fingers, and in this quiet process, he absorbed the collective memory that belongs to the yellow sand land of Baal.

There are no words. There are no history books. He heard the fighting, the waving of swords, and the falling of blood. The warriors of the tribe shouted sacred slogans, and their bodies decayed in the unprotected radiation environment. This is an old and desolate planet. People believe in pure blood and live devoutly in the harassment of mutants created by radioactive substances.

Under the sand layer here, the blood of mutants is deposited. In the bloody battle between pure blood and mutants that once broke out, the pure blood humans with relatively pure genes finally won a comprehensive victory.

Among them, the great angel Sanguinius played an indispensable role. His eyes looking into the future reflected the pure victory of the Baal people, and his anger in the battle was unstoppable.

The effective memory of the yellow sand stayed at the moment when it was picked up by Sanguinius's wings and fell in the shaking of snow-white feathers.

This is a flawless story. Not every Primarch can conquer their home planet smoothly and be treated with the highest respect by the locals, and Sanguinius did it particularly impeccably.

Morse shook his palm and walked forward in the yellow sand.

He wanted to go directly to Konrad Curze, to ask him whether his brotherhood with Sanguinius was progressing, whether he had been blown out of the door by the kind angel in the vision, and to tell Konrad that it was fortunate that he did not choose to go to Barbarus first, otherwise he would spend half of his time in the bath every day bound by his mysophobia.

But the Emperor's usual tricks gave him some interesting enlightenment, such as a person does not have to use his original appearance to meet a person he hopes to meet.

——

"He, the pure one, wished no harm upon us. He roared, first a white flash, then a blood-red thing, death on his side. His eyes burned, a bright arc of violence, a destructive sandstorm. We were caught in the deadly beauty of his dance. Then, the mutants were no more. Only silence. And he stood before us, dripping blood, as still as a pile of stone."

Sanguinius shook his head gently and returned the tablet to the tribal elder beside him.

During this action, he remained in a sitting position, with his wings spread wide to the sides so that mortals could preen his feathers and dangle gold jewelry, silver chains and intricately carved jade pendants from his wings.

He never asked them to do this for him, but the people of Baal considered preening the feathers of angels one of their most cherished honors. Not even Sanguinius himself had the right to take this sacred devotion away from the people of Baal.

"Conrad taught you the method of recording history, not because I hope you will use it to record my every move, Elder Nellie." The angel lowered his eyes slightly and advised helplessly, "Why don't you write Baal's own history? What about the story? You are already so respectable."

"Since the Midnight Angel taught us how to write history, the tribe has understood that the way to write down your stories is not limited to the songs we sing at night. Please allow us to love you, Sanguinius."

The elder raised his head, his squinted eyes filled with the noble face of an angel, like a snow-white stone statue. She holds the pureblooded Sanguinius in the highest esteem as anyone else.

"Oh..." Sanguinius sighed slightly, "Don't let Conrad hear your name. He really doesn't like to be called the Midnight Angel."

He made a tendency to fold his wings and stand up, giving the mortals time to react and retreat to both sides.

Above the tribe, at the end of the sky, there were a few tiny black dots. It was the fleet of Konrad Curze, the Bloodlord from Midnight's chosen residence in Baal.

Curze once told him clearly that whenever another Baal man raised his hands in worship to him, he would replace the raw materials needed for blood wine brewing with some fresher local substance.

After that, Curze insisted on living high in the sky beyond the reach of the Baal people.

If Sanguinius wanted to meet him, he could either wave on the ground and wait for a small boat to come down to pick him up, or he could rise up with the wind and fly high.

In recent days, Coates is working with him to complete a grand project, which is to compare and integrate the fragments of words the two people received in the foreshadowed future, and write a complete file for future needs.

This is a unique task that only the two of them can accomplish among the Primarchs. Curze did not want to openly mention this matter to any other brothers, so as not to cause unnecessary trouble - he seemed to have a deep understanding of the harm that the prophecy could cause.

"Lord Sanguinius," the elder said, "we have recently heard that a new Inspired One appeared at the fair between the tribes, telling..."

"...in front of us, blood is dripping, as quiet as a stone."

Sanguinius blinked, habitually showing a respectable smile, and returned from the foreboding glimpse to the touchable reality of the moment.

He shook his head gently, kept his wings stretched, and returned the slip to the tribal elder beside him.

"Conrad taught you how to record history..."