Family Gathering, The Last Supper.

"Thirteenth Brother, you know me well. We're best friends. I even went to your house to play video games before."

"So you picked your closest friend as your target, right? Nineteenth Brother, you're usually so shy and reserved, but I never expected you to be just like everyone else, talking badly about me behind my back."

Guilliman looked displeased, because the room was packed with people, from the seemingly foolish Zhuang Sen to the seemingly honest Corvus Corax, and even the traitorous Koz. Every single one of them said he Ambition.

"Dude, are you guys crazy? There are 21 of us brothers and sisters, and of all people you're criticizing, you're picking on me."

Where am I Ambition? In every war, we Ultramarines contribute the most, and the Ultramar 500 Worlds is a major contributor to the Empire's tax revenue.

I'm just running my own Pocket Imperium, keeping a few reserve conscripts, and not getting involved in the empire's mess.

The Council of Terra says I'm like that, the Space Marine say I'm like that, and now even you say I'm Ambition —it's outrageous!

Corvus Corax thought to himself, "What can I do? I can't exactly say I hesitated back then, can I? If I did, this wouldn't be something that two cartons of milk could solve."

Glancing at the Great Angel who was showing off his fruit, and their eyes meeting, Corvus Corax was certain that Sanguinius's excuse was also Guilliman.

"I was just joking!"

Kolax, who was pouring out his grievances, quickly Corvus Corax Guilliman, who, unlike the others, wasn't as thick-skinned. He changed the subject and asked in a low voice:

"Hey bro, who were you talking about when you came here?"

"I... I definitely can't say it's about myself. Don't ask, don't ask."

"It's me!"

A head with slightly thinning hair squeezed out of the crowd, holding a plate of freshly baked muffins. It was none other than our great Warmaster, who was facing a hair loss crisis.

He used to be arrogant and determined to get the Warmaster Position, but after 30 years Warmaster, he now just wants to get rid of this damned position.

Since becoming Warmaster, Horus has been incredibly busy, working at least 18 hours a day. That might not sound like much, considering he's Primarch, but the problem is that he has to handle government affairs during those 18 hours.

Even with the assistance of the Divine Seal Network, Horus still had to process at least two tons of government documents every day. The Worldbreaker that had accompanied him on the battlefield and brought him endless glory was now covered in dust.

Along with his hair, which was also disappearing, Horus was forced to use hair growth products frantically to treat it, but the hair was falling out even faster.

The more I longed for it before, the more I hate it now. The other brothers are having a blast, while I'm locked up in Holy Terra as a government Servitor.

It's like opening your eyes to find millions of mouths waiting for you, shouting "Warmaster, Warmaster, give us some food!"

Several more Imperial Navy have crashed, Xenos have invaded Imperial territory, some worlds have suddenly revolted and need to be suppressed, and the Department of Administration's tax revenue has been collected for 10,000 years...

Even if the toilet in the Imperial Palace got clogged, the Adeptus Custodes would come and report it to him.

Horus was so angry he wanted to kill someone, but he had to hold back. Sometimes he wondered, "Who am I? Where am I? What is the meaning of my life?"

Horus couldn't understand these three philosophical questions about life, but he knew that if Atlas quit, he would be driven mad in less than six months.

Other Primarchs share the same idea; even though Second Brother used their Gene-Seed, he still paid the usage fee!

As the saying goes, it's easy to go from frugality to extravagance, but difficult to go from extravagance to frugality. With Atlas providing logistical support, even during wartime, one can still enjoy a cup of hot tea.

Weapons and ammunition are plentiful, and even quality assurance services are provided. There are no middlemen taking a cut, and war spoils can be recovered on the spot.

The previous expedition left them so poor they were practically begging for supplies, and they had to wait for those incompetent Department of the Munitorum to provide them. Now, with direct heavy firepower coverage, even Ogryn knows which option to choose.

"Brother, please forgive us this time. We just made some small mistakes that everyone makes."

"Yes, yes, there's only one sun in my heart, and that's you, Second Brother. If you're still not satisfied, then we'll..."

"Just what?"

After surveying the area, Luojia, under Guilliman's glare that threatened to kill him if he dared to say anything against her, resolutely chose Vulkan, who was eating a muffin.

"Let's give Vulkan a beating. After all, what respectable person keeps a diary?"

"That's right, that's right."

Seeing everyone in chaos, Mordred didn't say much. In fact, he had figured it out that there was nothing perfect in this world after that night on the grassland.

He cannot impose his own standards on everyone. If all Primarchs were as intelligent, studious, open-minded, and well-rounded as him, with all-around development in morality, intelligence, physical fitness, aesthetics, and labor, what would be the point?

Koz is paranoid, Guilliman is impulsive, Russ is cunning, Zhuang Sen is arrogant, Perturabo is stubborn, Vulkan indecisive, Ferrus is clueless, and Mortarion is unhappy...

Everyone has their flaws, but just as everyone has their strengths. After all, even Dog-men have different coat patterns; people change.

They've all come to smooth things over, so what can I do? Of course, I choose to forgive them. I can't just hold a grudge, can I?

Thinking of this, Mordred subconsciously glanced at the man. Their eyes met, and Mordred shamefully shrank back, quickly banging her fist on the table before Dorn could speak.

"Stop arguing, I'm not some fragile little kid. Although your reactions that day really upset me, what's done is done. After all, you guys brought me two boxes of milk."

I'm only letting you in because of these two boxes of milk; otherwise, I wouldn't even let you in the door, let alone invite you in for dinner.

Put Vulkan down quickly, lest he damage my mahogany furniture.

Since things have come to this, let's eat first.

Following Mordred's footsteps, a huge dining table comes into view, with specially customized tall chairs that allow each Primarch to sit comfortably.

Seeing that Mordred wasn't pursuing the matter too much, the Primarchs relaxed and enjoyed the pre-dinner dessert prepared by the Dog-men chef.

Taking this opportunity, Mordred, while eating and chatting, also explained to everyone why he needed the Blood Reservoir:

"Don't look at me like that. I was forced into this situation. If Atlas's Gene-Seed had even a tenth of yours in terms of compatibility, I wouldn't have had to choose this method."

This is just like "Zhuang Sen, your robe-wearing little man," "The Sanguinius's Black Thirst," "Fenris Has No Wolves," "The Perfect City Does Not Exist," "Angron's Dreadlocks," and "Guilliman's Hidden 250,000..."

"No, no, stop talking. Second Brother, we believe you, okay? I believe you absolutely did not steal our legion's Gene-Seed; you created it yourself."

Looking at Guilliman, who was making a firm declaration of his resolve, Mordred wanted to say that he hadn't stolen any other legions' seeds, but he had only stolen the Ultramarines '. However, given the atmosphere, he absolutely couldn't admit it.

"That's right, Guilliman, you really are very understanding."

I can assure you that as long as the Blood Reservoir remain in my hands, all our legions will have insurance, and even if a legion is destroyed, it can rise again.

After Second Brother, I've been an old military doctor in the empire for so many years, I still have some medical ethics.

Even if you're blown to pieces, as long as there's a sliver of debris left, your Second Brother can sew you back together."

"Haha, brother, you're really joking. The Great Crusade Expedition is going strong, and we'll achieve total victory soon. Who can kill us then?"

For a moment, the entire banquet was filled with a joyful atmosphere, except for Mordred, Dorn, Magnus, and Horus, whose eyes darted around as they secretly observed their other brothers.

Who could it be?

Mordred didn't know, but he knew he had done his best, and even if Great Heresy was truly unavoidable, he was confident he could suppress it all.

He couldn't understand the gibberish; only strength was the key to victory, and no one could let what lay before him slip away.

Just as the atmosphere was getting lively, Mordred was planning to take his buddies to experience Atlas's unique Elven Inn after the dinner, the doorbell rang again.

Everyone stopped talking and looked at the still empty seat. Finally, Mordred stood up:

"Wait a moment, I'll get you some oranges."

On the other side, looking at the sign in front of the castle gate that said "Yellow Skins or Xenos Allowed," the Emperor really wanted to smash this strange Pink Castle to pieces, but in the end he held back.

He then took out an onion, broke it into pieces, and smeared it fiercely on his eye sockets, even slapping himself twice.

"Don't worry, my friend, I know everything. Now, just watch my amazing performance!"