You Must Be Joking

Although Mordred had always mocked the Emperor's child-rearing skills, his own abilities weren't much better. He was a perfect example of the pot calling the kettle black.

Mordred believed that the most important part of educating children was leading by example: teach whatever you were good at, with absolutely no thought involved—just copy and paste. So what was Master Mordred best at?

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

Every morning, Fulgrim was awakened in his room by the Dog-men butler. He then dragged his exhausted body along behind Mordred to inspect the territory, after which they randomly picked a restaurant for breakfast—and Fulgrim paid the bill himself.

Next came the daily mandatory scientific research studies. Mordred arranged for the Third Brother to work as a laboratory assistant, so every morning he was studied by Mordred and the Arch-Magos.

Once the fulfilling research period ended, it was time for Mordred's favorite meal of the day: lunch. They would still randomly choose a restaurant and gorge themselves to stimulate the local economy. Naturally, Fulgrim still paid for the food.

After eating and drinking his fill, he naturally had to work it off. In accordance with the core principle of developing morality, intellect, physical fitness, aesthetics, and labor in a well-rounded manner, Fulgrim would receive martial arts instruction from his good big brother. This was also the darkest time of his day.

Across Green Grassland, a giant dragon as large as a Stormbird soared freely through the sky. Its sharp eyes searched back and forth, watching the herds of domesticated chickens migrating below. The moment an opportunity presented itself, it would dive down and hunt those delicious chunks of meat.

But just as the dragon locked onto its target, dodged the anti-aircraft fire from the Dog-men herders with aerial maneuvers, and prepared to feast, a sudden furious roar exploded beside its ears. Startled, it hurriedly climbed higher and no longer dared entertain thoughts of hunting that delicious prey. It recognized that voice—it was The Great Devourer!

"Tom!! Fulgrim, get up! You can't stand just because I chopped off one of your legs? You still have another leg."

"Cheer up and don't disgrace yourself. Do you want to end up on the battlefield one day, watching helplessly as your offspring die in front of you while you can do nothing?

"Attack me with courage! Hurry!"

Fulgrim really wanted to curse. What the hell do you mean, I only lost one leg? Do you expect me to hop around?

But Second Brother Mordred, evil by nature, wasn't wrong. Fulgrim didn't want to disappoint anyone again. He wanted to win!

He thrust his sword straight forward, its dazzling radiance sealing off every path, while his left hand quietly gripped a pistol, ready to fire behind him at any moment.

The slender blade clashed with the thick greatsword, scattering fine sparks. Even though his stats were far inferior, Phoenix believed he would never lose to this self-proclaimed righteous knight in technique.

But talking trash during battle was one of Mordred's good habits. How could he let his little brother concentrate?

"Too slow, too slow! Fulgrim, your sword is far too slow! Faster! Faster!

"If I beat you again, you'll have to wear a little skirt again, Kiya."

"Ah!!"

Provoked by those words, Fulgrim finally saw red. Whenever he thought of that bastard tricking him into wearing a little skirt and wandering around swindling people, he wanted nothing more than to drag the wretch out and execute him by cannon fire.

"You want speed, right? Then I'll show you what true speed is."

Driven by rage, Phoenix launched a series of fierce attacks, each sword stroke faster than the last. Despite having only one leg, he actually suppressed Mordred's Ashen Herald.

But Master Mordred was no ordinary roadside nobody. As the last heir of House Wayne, he had grown up under the repeated blows of Old Thomas's sword.

Ashen Herald thrust forward, blocking every attack with its broad blade. Borrowing the force of the strikes, he returned it with a simple, unadorned New Year Greeting Sword Technique.

A tremendous force came crashing down. Fulgrim had no choice but to use all his strength to block it, unaware that this too was within Master Mordred's expectations.

A vision of emerald Green Grassland flickered. Mordred vanished in an instant and unleashed his signature move as the Knight of Serenity—straight into the muzzle of Fulgrim's gun.

"Didn't see that coming, did you? I was prepared for this move! I, Fulgrim, will never fall for the same trick twice! Take this... Ah, my eyes!"

Dust filled the air. A handful of lime interrupted the young primarch's declaration of victory, directly teaching him how treacherous people could be.

But Mordred would never lower his guard just because the Third Brother was handsome. Fully aware of the importance of a Finishing Blow, he came at him with a Great Cleaver—no, with a greatsword shaped like a Great Cleaver.

"Lightning, Cyclone Slash!"

"Pfft~" A spray of blood burst forth, followed by a still-living thigh that fell to the ground and twitched involuntarily, perfectly balancing Phoenix from side to side.

But it still wasn't over. Mordred wasn't beating a child to vent his anger—he was genuinely teaching his brother.

A first-aid kit specially designed for primarchs slammed into Fulgrim's chest. Mordred's urging sounded in his ear again:

"Get up and bandage yourself. As a primarch, a little lime can't blind you for long. If you were an ordinary person, you'd have bled to death already. Open your eyes."

Although it was extremely painful, Fulgrim still Opened Eyes and began bandaging himself with a technique so practiced it was heartbreaking to watch.

"I lost again."

"Obviously. If a little Kiya like you really met me on the battlefield, you wouldn't even know how you died. While your leg hasn't grown back yet, hurry up and think about which skirt you'll wear tonight, Little Princess."

Hearing that title, Fulgrim's mood sank again. He should never have bet against that bastard. It had been nearly a month, and he hadn't beaten Mordred even once.

According to the terms of the bet, every time he lost, he had to put on a skirt and become the Empire's Snow White, then go out swindling people with his perversely entertaining Second Brother.

As for what benefit Fulgrim got from winning, the answer was none at all.

According to Mordred's exact words: "I've already taught you how to make money. You still want a reward? Dream on."

Once the bolts on the splint had been tightened, Fulgrim finally finished his self-treatment. Like a salted fish on the verge of exhaustion, he flopped backward and began his rare rest period of the day.

"Second Brother, are you sure this training method is really reliable? Why do I feel like you're just beating me on purpose?"

"How could that be? I'm doing this for your own good. None of the others have the good fortune to receive my personal instruction." The giant sitting beside Fulgrim continued, "Back when Old Thomas trained me, it wasn't normal for me to finish a day without losing an arm or a leg. But I still persevered. Do you know why?"

"Why? Are you a masochist?"

A huge slap descended from the air, making the sky in Fulgrim's eyes rise by half a foot.

"Bullshit! Because I wanted to grow stronger. Without strength, I couldn't survive."

"You may think Serenity is a pretty good planet now, but that's because I thoroughly cleared it out. Before that, the place was full of monsters. There was even Godzilla in the sea, and you could be beaten to death by mushrooms just by stepping outside carelessly.

"Never mind the rest. Ogryn aren't inferior to Space Marines in strength at all. Ordinary Dog-men may have slightly worse stats than Space Marines, but not by much—and they can use Psychic Power too.

"Even so, it took the Atlas Clan I established a full twelve years to unify the planet. Eighty thousand mixed Ogryn and Dog-men troops died. And that was only Green Grassland. The death forest of the Twisted Jungle, comparable to Catachan, hasn't been cleared at all."

"Forget it. Why am I telling you all this? Get up, hurry. Have you decided which skirt you'll wear tonight?"

"Second Brother, can I not wear one?"

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

"You must be joking, my dear Snow White."