Want to Die? It's Not That Easy!

"No, no, I don't agree! I don't want to sit on Golden Toilet!"

When Gabriel the yellow robe over Mordred's shoulders, Mordred was initially stunned. After 0.1 nanoseconds Mordred felt overjoyed, after all, wearing a yellow robe was every boy's dream.

But after another 0.1 nanoseconds, Mordred regretted it, because he suddenly felt a chill run down his spine and, in a daze, saw a corpse smiling at him.

For most people, becoming the King of Terra might seem awesome, but it's not like that at all.

Back in the day, during the Great Crusade, the Empire was a powder keg ready to explode at any moment, but on the surface it was still relatively human-like. No matter how bad or abstract it was, at least it was pleasing to the eye.

If you asked Mordred to don the imperial robes back then, he might hesitate, but not now. The Empire is a cesspool now, and a cesspool that's been submerged for a full 10,000 years.

No, that's not an accurate description; it's not nearly as clean as it seems.

And in this cesspool, the most foul and indescribable thing is the Holy Terra. Heaven knows what kind of bizarre and horrific things Terra has done in the past ten thousand years?

Putting everything else aside, less than six hours after returning to Terra, Mordred had already seen countless skulls and vengeful spirits.

More abstractly, this Holy Terra, which could be considered a mass grave even in the Warp, contains a large number of Daemon within its resentment.

Human vengeful spirits are one thing, but a fifth of the collective resentment of Holy Terra consists of Daemon. Who knows why this happened?

Even a political creature like Guilliman became withdrawn and played single-player games by himself after returning to Terra. Mordred must be out of his mind to take over this mess.

"No, that's not right! I'm not the King of Terra, I'm just a chicken farmer! I don't have Rebellious son like you!"

"Father, what nonsense are you talking about? Look how alike we are, we're practically identical."

"Picture?"

Mordred then had time to observe his surroundings, and he saw Mord, the Black Templars, who looked more like Orks than a human; Gabriel, the Blood Ravens Gabriel, who was only a little over two meters tall; Angell, the Iron Hands, Mechanicus than Mechanicus and had very little flesh on his body; Moloch, the Minotaur was nearly 4 meters tall and a head taller than himself.

"No, I tolerated the first three, but who are you, you big dummy? You're not my offspring at all!"

For a Primarch, with the Gene-Seed as a medium, it is easy to distinguish whether the person in front of them is their own offspring, unless they encounter a freak like Atlas.

The problem is that Mordred is the most cunning of all. Others might mistake Atlas, but he would never mistake him. Even someone as skinny as Angell, who could barely make a stir-fry, could tell them apart.

But as the saying goes, "I'm afraid my brothers will suffer, and I'm also afraid my brothers will drive Land Rovers." The four of us have already raised an army in rebellion. My good brother has won back his own Big Daddy, so he can't leave me out.

The Minotaur Chapter has survived this long without being killed because they bully the weak and fear the strong, and they have flexible bottom lines. Before, there was nothing we could do, but now I want to be your son:

"Father, I truly am your son. Don't let my height fool you; it's just because I'm well-nourished. I've only just turned 18 this year."

"18 years old! Are you kidding me? With your stubble and muscular face, I'd believe you if you said you were 1800. Zhuang Sen is a young man compared to you."

In his desperate attempt to curry favor with Atlas, Moloch was utterly shameless, insisting on being Atlas no matter how Mordred refused him.

The other three, who had flattered Mordred to the point of making a fool of themselves, refused to give up and clung to him tightly. Even the Astartes who had been slacking off earlier joined in, calling him "Daddy" repeatedly.

As for how many of these 15,000 Space Marine were Atlas, even Mordred couldn't tell for a moment. The scene was in complete chaos, with even an Adeptus Custodes mixed in.

"The Adeptus Custodes? No, that wise look, that familiar scent... Rambo, is that you?"

"Boss!"

No sooner had the words left his mouth than a golden figure flew out from the crowd, snatching a private room as his "leg accessory." He immediately removed his helmet, revealing his signature large black dog head.

With his dutiful sons and grandsons gathered together, Mordred smiled with relief, then immediately reached out and pressed his hand on Rambo's head, pulling his soul out of Trajan's body.

Perhaps without Rambo driving, Trajan finally reverted to his true colors, and upon meeting his gaze, his old face suddenly felt incredibly awkward:

"Your Highness, I am truly not your son!"

"-"

"Stop arguing, all of you. I understand now. You're all on your own terms, so who's the enemy?"

The Lion King's Roared drew everyone's attention. He hated these kinds of spies within spies the most, and it was a good thing they weren't his own offspring, or he would have been a disgrace.

Seeing that someone had finally spoken to them, the four little trinkets immediately shook off their Good Father and pounced on the Lion King's leg. Whether their father lived or died was not important; what mattered was that the credit belonged to them.

"Your Highness, to be honest, all the High Lord councilors have been tied up and are being held in the Department of Administration. It's all thanks to us. Aren't you cold? We even have a robe here!"

At this moment, Zhuang Sen, who had been deeply moved by filial piety, realized that there wasn't a single normal person in his sight, making him feel so out of place that he even suspected that this world might be a fabrication, with an invisible hand silently manipulating everything.

But none of that matters. What matters is that the High Lord councilors have all been captured, and the rest is simple.

The three Primarchs stepped forward first: the Lion King was majestic and imposing, Guilliman was shrewd and composed, Mordred was incredibly stylish, with a black dog's head floating on her shoulder.

As for the people behind them, they were a mixed bag, a motley crew acting as a kind of atmosphere-building group.

He kicked open the door and, seeing the nine councilors beaten to their knees and bound in the hall, Mordred leaped over them.

"Hey, who's this? Why the long face? I love your expressions. Weren't you all so arrogant? Why aren't you jumping around anymore?"

Jumping was out of the question, and even moving around was impossible. These nine councilors were bound hand and foot with chains, looking like people, but in reality, they were a piece of cake. With such a huge contribution right in front of them, no one would let them escape easily.

As for why there are nine councilors, it's because the Forge Lord is too large, a complete behemoth unit, and he can't escape even if you ignore him.

"Traitors and traitors, I knew you were no good, you're all monsters! Now that you've won, kill us!"

"Kill you? You must be joking."

Grabbing the senator's head, whose name he didn't even recognize, Mordred squatted down and said, word by word:

"Do you all consider yourselves Fealty? Selflessly dedicated to the Empire? Believing Fealty is everything? Bullshit!"

"Come on, you can fool others, but don't fool yourself. It is your obsession with power that has turned an already inefficient empire into a cesspool."

Every one of you is a sinner. You don't want to die, but you know that something far more terrifying than death awaits you.

Let me tell you what will happen next: your family, everything about you, and anyone or anything connected to you will be investigated.

But please rest assured, Atlas is a professional, and countless people will soon be coming to accompany you.

Your names will be infamous for eternity, etched forever on the Pillar of Shame. Death is not your final destination; eternal torment awaits you.

Want to die? It's not that simple. I have plenty of ways and means!

"No, no, you can't do this! I need to see His Majesty!"

"Your His Majesty? You can't wait until you're about to die to call for Your His Majesty. The Yellow Skins can't save you, I'm telling you!"

"Pay attention, don't lose points."

Azmodai, quickly escort these gentlemen away and serve them well, making them feel right at home.

Azmodai beamed when his name was called. He loved doing this kind of thing and immediately said, "Second Uncle, don't worry. I'll not only make them feel at home, but I'll also make them feel like they're coming home."

Meanwhile, as Azmodai was interrogating the nine-headed Vermin, pondering how to dismantle and disassemble the Forge Lord,...

The raiding squad, composed of Atlas, Dark Angels, Ultramarines, also began its operation, carrying out a comprehensive Great Purge from top to Hive City.

Ten thousand years later, the imperial officials recalled those days when they were ruled by fear, and this time no one could save them.