Are You Kidding Me

Although he constantly mocked the Emperor's parenting skills, Mordred's own level was not much higher; it was a classic case of the pot calling the kettle black.

Mordred believed that the most important part of educating a child was leading by example—teaching whatever one was best at, a mindless form of replication. So, what was Master Mordred best at?

The answer, of course, was swindling, heretical technology, Blasphemous Experiment, and biochemical research. What else could he possibly teach?

Every morning, Fulgrim would be woken up by the Canids butler, drag his exhausted body to follow Mordred as he inspected the territory, and then randomly pick a restaurant for breakfast, with him footing the bill, naturally.

Next came the mandatory daily scientific research. Mordred had assigned the third brother the role of a lab assistant, where he was studied by him and the Arch-Magos every morning.

Once the fulfilling research time concluded, it was time for Mordred's favorite part: lunch. As always, they would randomly pick a restaurant and gorge themselves to stimulate the local economy. Naturally, Fulgrim paid for the meal.

After eating his fill, one must aid digestion. Guided by the core philosophy of holistic development, Fulgrim would receive martial arts instruction from his good Brother. This was the darkest time of his day.

On the Green Grassland, a dragon the size of a Stormbird soared wantonly in the sky. Its sharp eyes scanned back and forth, fixed on the flock of domesticated chickens migrating below. Given the slightest opportunity, it would surely dive down to hunt these succulent morsels.

But just as the dragon locked onto its target, maneuvered through the air to dodge the anti-aircraft fire of the Canids herdsmen, and prepared to feast, a sudden, thunderous roar exploded in its ears. Terrified, it climbed urgently, not daring to covet the delicious prey any longer, for it recognized that voice: it was The Great Devourer!

"Tom!! Fulgrim, get up! Are you really going to stay down just because I chopped off one leg? You still have another one."

"Show some spirit, don't lose face! Do you want to stand by helplessly on the battlefield in the future, watching your own progeny die before you while you can do nothing?"

"Summon your courage and attack me! Now!"

Fulgrim wanted to curse. What the hell did he mean by "just" losing a leg? Did he expect him to hop around?

Yet, this naturally wicked Second Brother Mordred was right. He didn't want to disappoint anyone anymore; he wanted to win!

He lunged with his sword, the brilliant light of the blade sealing off every path, while his left hand quietly gripped his pistol, ready to fire behind him at any moment.

The slender blade clashed with the heavy Great Cleaver, sending out a shower of sparks. Even though his Stats were far inferior, the Phoenix believed he would never lose in technique to this despicable knight who called himself righteous.

But trash-talking during combat was a bad habit of Mordred's; how could he let his Little Brother focus?

"Too slow, too slow! Fulgrim, your sword is truly too slow. Faster! Faster!"

"If you get beaten by me again, you'll have to wear a little dress again, Kiya."

"Ah!!"

Stung by the words, Fulgrim's blood finally rushed to his head. At the thought of this Bastard tricking him into wearing a dress to go out and swindle people, he wanted to drag this scumbag out and have him executed by cannon fire.

"You want fast, is that it? I'll show you what real speed is."

Driven by fury, the Phoenix launched a continuous, fierce assault, each strike faster than the last, managing to suppress Mordred's Ashen Herald despite having only one leg.

However, Master Mordred was no roadside weed. As the last heir of House Wayne, he had been raised by Old Thomas, who had hacked at him with a sword every single day.

Mordred thrust the Ashen Herald forward, using the broad blade to parry every attack, borrowing force to strike back with a simple, unadorned New Year Greeting Sword Technique.

The immense force struck, and Fulgrim had to use every ounce of his strength to block it, unaware that this was exactly what Master Mordred had anticipated.

The emerald Grassland Illusion flickered, and Mordred vanished instantly, unleashing the signature move of his Knight of Serenity persona—right against the muzzle of Fulgrim's gun.

"Didn't expect that, did you? I was already guarding against this trick! I, Fulgrim, will never fall for the same trap twice. Take this... Ah, my eyes!"

Dust filled the air as a handful of lime interrupted the young Primarch's victory declaration, giving him a direct lesson in the treachery of men.

But Mordred would never lower his guard just because the third brother was pretty. Knowing the importance of the Finishing Blow, he took his Great Cleaver—no, his greatsword that resembled a Great Cleaver—and slashed down.

"Lightning, Cyclone Slash!"

"Squelch!" A spray of blood erupted, followed by a fresh leg that fell to the ground, twitching involuntarily, perfectly balancing the Phoenix's symmetry.

Yet it didn't end there. Mordred wasn't just beating up a child to vent; he was truly teaching his brother.

He slammed a first-aid kit designed specifically for a Primarch onto his chest, and Mordred's urging reached Fulgrim's ears once more:

"Get up and bandage yourself. As a Primarch, a bit of lime won't keep you blind for long. If you were an ordinary person, you'd have bled to death by now. Open your eyes, quickly."

Though it was agonizing, Fulgrim Opened Eyes and began to bandage himself with a proficiency that was heartbreaking to behold.

"I lost again."

"No kidding. If a small fry like you actually met me on the battlefield, you wouldn't even know how you died. While your leg hasn't grown back yet, you'd better start thinking about what dress you're wearing tonight, Little Princess."

Hearing this title, Fulgrim's mood sank further. He shouldn't have made a bet with this Bastard. It had been nearly a month, and he hadn't won against Mordred a single time.

As the terms of the bet, every time he lost, he had to put on a dress and become the Imperium's Snow White, accompanying this perverted, wicked Second Brother to go out and swindle people.

As for what benefit Fulgrim would get if he won? The answer was absolutely none.

In Mordred's own words: "I've already taught you how to make a fortune; you still want benefits? Keep dreaming."

As the bolts on the splint were tightened, Fulgrim finally finished his self-aid and collapsed backward like a dying fish, beginning his rare moment of rest for the day.

"Second Brother, are you sure this training method is actually reliable? I feel like you're just doing this to hit me on purpose."

"How could that be? I'm doing this for your own good. No one else has the fortune of being personally guided by me." The giant sitting beside Fulgrim continued:

"Back when I was trained by Old Thomas, it wasn't normal if I didn't lose an arm or a leg every day, but I persisted. Do you know why?"

"Why? Because you're a masochist?"

A slap descended from the air, causing the sky in Fulgrim's vision to rise by half a foot.

"Bullshit! Because I wanted to become stronger. If you don't become strong, you can't survive."

"You might think Serenity is a pretty nice planet right now, but that's only because I gave it a thorough cleaning. Before, it was crawling with monsters; there were even Godzilla in the ocean. You couldn't step outside without the risk of being killed by a mushroom."

"To say nothing of the rest, an Ogryn is in no way inferior to a Space Marine in terms of raw strength. Even if an average Dog-men is slightly weaker than a Space Marine, the gap is negligible, and they possess Psychic Power to boot."

"Even so, it took the Atlas Clan I established a full twelve years to unify the planet. We lost eighty thousand soldiers in the Ogryn and Dog-men mixed regiments, and that was just the Green Grassland. The Twisted Jungle, a death forest comparable to Catachan, hasn't even been cleared yet."

"Forget it, why am I even telling you this? Get up quickly. Have you decided which dress you're wearing tonight?"

"Second Brother, can I not wear one?"

Mordred let out a cold sneer, hauled this weakling up from the ground, and reached out to pat that exceptionally handsome face:

"You aren't joking, are you, my dear Snow White."