Perturabo's Startle

If you ask whether it feels good to be a god who holds the sun and moon in his hands and plucks the stars, a being without equal in this world, 99% of people would say yes.

But it depends on where you are. In a proper world, it would be great, but here, it is a bottomless pit—a pit within a pit.

Take the Four Merchants as an example. Don't let their rampant behavior in the Warp fool you, or the way they act as if they are the supreme masters of all; they have absolutely no freedom to speak of. They have become conceptual Natural Phenomenon, destined to be swept along by the tides of emotion and thought for all eternity.

It is just like asking Slaanesh to engage in pure, unwavering devotion, Khorne to teach and nurture while discussing world peace, the fatty Nurgle to prioritize hygiene and sacrifice himself generously, or Tzeentch to stagnate and give up on his schemes. Is that possible?

As if!

Pouring a glass of his favorite orange juice, Mordred placed the cup in the center and said to the Atlas, who were gathering around in increasing numbers:

"Do you see? If this were a Warp Entity birthed by faith—what you call a god—this is what it would be."

The group understood. They were not brainless Ghouls; they could grasp such a metaphor at a glance. Not only could they understand it, but they could also draw inferences from it.

"In other words, Father, you mean that someone built up by faith will turn into an uncontrollable Warp Entity?"

Mordred Nodded, but then shook his head, explaining: "In our world, everything has spirituality. Even the most common Lasgun, if it is old enough, can develop a Machine Spirit with similar effects, not just living things."

To illustrate more vividly, Mordred poured out half the orange juice and poured half a glass of red wine into it, sharing the mixture with the group to taste.

"You feel it, right? Just as I said, with the circulation of chaotic faith, even if this entity were incredibly pure at the start, it would become chaotic and wretched over time. It loses the sweetness of the orange juice and the fragrance of the red wine, becoming something impossible to swallow."

This conclusion was hard for the group to accept, because Atlas immediately thought of one person: the Golden Giant who led them out of Terra to conquer the sea of stars.

Mordred's years of suggestive education had taken effect, subtly dispelling the enchantment of the Second Legion and wiping away the filter of the Emperor as a flawless being in the soldiers' hearts. (Emperor: Know why I can tolerate the Second Son now?)

"Then is there no solution, or will we also turn into those chaotic entities?"

The one asking was Frix. This spiritual Atlas had been completely assimilated, but he did not want to find that his Primarch had become a twisted freak when he finally recovered him.

"Of course there is, and there is more than one way.

First is the scale. Take that glass of orange juice; a Warp Entity is not immutable. As long as the dosage isn't too high, if you add less red wine, the flavor basically won't change.

In fact, small-scale faith bonuses can even allow you, with a Combat Power of 100, to deal 1,000 damage. This is why I always emphasize the importance of maintaining one's aura.

The other way is purification. The Machine Spirit and the World Soul are examples of this. Oh, right, I forgot to mention—Goff, take note.

The Catachan at our doorstep is alive; the entire planet has Self-Awareness. When you go there in the future, kill a few beasts as an offering; who knows, it might be useful.

As for you, Great Nephew, you had better prepare yourself. Uncle has a form of precognition, and my Younger Brother—your father—is not easy to get along with."

"Then, Your Highness, what kind of person is my father?"

After a moment's pause, Mordred recalled the various bizarre behaviors of Perturabo. Even he felt the man was too twisted; he was practically a Mortarion.

If you are kind to him, he suspects you want to use him; if you are not, he craves affection. And this twisted man is a Primarch—a vicious, twisted, tsundere, landmine-type giant with terrifying Destructive Power.

Looking at Frix's expectant eyes, Mordred was momentarily speechless and could only reply:

"Your father is a good man with world-shaking wisdom, but he doesn't know how to communicate. He is also very impulsive and competitive, making it easy for him to do things he will regret for the rest of his life."

This evaluation was the most tactful way Mordred could think of. The Fourth Legion was indeed useful; give them an order, and they would gladly head to the most brutal battlefield. They were also honest and steady people.

Mordred truly did not want to see such good seedlings head toward that tragic future. While The Boss had yet to return, he would pull them back as much as he could.

"Frix, you are of the Fourth Legion. You will return to your Primarch sooner or later, but remember: do not be deceived by the Primarch. You must have your own ideas."

"My own ideas?" The Canned One was a bit confused, thinking, Would my own Primarch harm me?

Knowing this reaction would come, Mordred wondered if the seeds of the Fourth Legion were laced with aphrodisiacs. Counting the equally gravity-obsessed War Hounds, these two legions were truly something else. How were all his own descendants a bunch of problem children?

"That's right. You must have your own ideas." Perhaps thinking of something interesting, Mordred's expression turned slightly gloomy:

"Good Great Nephew, think about it. What if your father is left wandering, never receives proper guidance, and ends up a savage like Roboute Guilliman? You must shoulder the responsibility of a descendant!"

The name of Roboute Guilliman was known to all. Every legion knew the Space Wolves were a military police force, and that Primarch, who was Like a Savage, was the Emperor's executioner hanging over everyone's head.

At the thought of his future father being a butcher like Roboute Guilliman, Frix felt a chill. It wasn't that he had a bias against the Wolf King; the point was that he had actually worked with the Space Wolves, and he had truly seen the Wolf King!

Those bloodthirsty fanatics were covered in fur and animal bones; "slovenly" didn't even begin to describe them. They were completely uncivilized beasts. Every time they acted, they would look at everyone with a scrutinizing gaze, as if everyone were a potential enemy—including their allies.

The father in Frix's heart should be someone like His Highness Mordred: not only possessing astonishing Combat Power and handsome grace, but also being witty, humorous, and nepotistic. Even if he had the minor hobby of keeping aliens, that didn't matter!

"No, my father must never become Roboute Guilliman. He cannot be that kind of person."

Mordred hadn't expected Roboute Guilliman to have such high lethality, so he decided to add more fuel to the fire.

"So, good Great Nephew, when you meet your Primarch, you must help my Younger Brother become a Primarch useful to the Imperium. As for how to do it, you can exchange experiences with my descendants.

Especially, you must hold fast to your own heart and not be soft-hearted. This is a long and arduous task. You must unite all your brothers and let the entire legion help you, understand? Take this book."

Frix took the book his good Uncle handed him with a firm expression. The title, Training Methods Even an Ogryn Can Count to 100, made him nod repeatedly. It was simply full of gold content!

Having inadvertently dug a hole for his good brother, Mordred was very pleased and continued his magical little lecture:

"So, In summary, Kialan, you creating a cult for me is just harming me. I don't want my soul to be blasted into a brain-dead state by incense."

The Eldar Girl nodded as if she understood, but still asked:

"Then what if there is no soul at all?"

"Isn't that a waste of breath? If you don't have a soul, how could you become a fool? How could you not have a sou... wait."

Mordred seemed to have suddenly Realized something, and the words of the Emperor and the Arch-Magos from before echoed in his mind:

[You were picked up by me... Your Highness, the Second Legion is full of Soul-Thinner... dregs of the Outsider Wanderer... your high-dimensional traits... don't gorge yourself to death in the future, I want to drink soup!!!!]

Watching Mordred suddenly fall into deep thought, Kialan thought she had done something wrong again, but before she could drop to her knees in a flash, everyone saw their Primarch's mouth corners curling upward wildly, his whole body swaying as he stood there grinning like an idiot.

He shook his head and swayed from side to side, giggling foolishly, and even his appearance began to shift back and forth, eventually turning into a short Corgi.

"Fifty-one episodes in, so my cheat has been here all along, it's been here the whole time! Tzeentch, I am a god, I am invincible!"

Frix withdrew his previous fantasies; it was better if his father didn't end up like His Highness Mordred. Actually, being like this was fine too—at least he wasn't a dog.

Even if it was Russ!