Four-Primarch Meeting (III)

"You've said everything I wanted to say, Rogal. I was hoping to introduce Mortarion to Karyl myself." Curze smiled slightly frivolously.

Should I apologize for this?

Dorn countered with a rare display of humor. However, given his usual demeanor, the remark became a rather subtle joke, extremely difficult to understand, with only a select few able to grasp its humor.

Curze laughed, and Karyl laughed too, but Mortarion didn't.

The Lord of Death was stunned, scrutinizing Rogal Dorn for a moment as if he were seeing him for the first time. The respirator hissed hoarsely, and a gas with an incense-scented aroma sprayed out from both ends.

"No need for an apology, but I demand another joke from you," the Night Lords said with a chuckle.

He can switch between being sarcastic and funny whenever he wants. This trait is rare; some people mistake sarcasm for humor, while others are more straightforward, treating both equally and despising them both.

Dorn shook his head and put his hands behind his back. "Why would you think I was joking?"

"Here you go again. Well, because that line really does sound funny—and most importantly, it doesn't sound like something Rogal Dorn would say."

"So, in your eyes, how should Rogal Dorn express himself?" Dorn asked inquiringly.

He wasn't using a sarcastic question; he was genuinely trying to gauge Konrad Curze Curze's opinion on the matter. Neither he nor the Night Lords found anything wrong with their exchange; they knew each other well enough to understand each other's styles.

However, if these words were heard by others...

"That's enough, you two."

Mortarion suddenly spoke, his voice hoarse. The respirator had clearly altered his voice, making him sound as if he were wearing a breathing grille, his tone as somber as a dark cloud.

"I don't think there's anything to argue about. It's just a name and a few words of introduction. I don't need anyone to do this for me."

Konrad Curze Curze raised an eyebrow, Dorn gave him a barely perceptible nod. The two of them chose to remain silent for the moment—while the Lord of Death had already turned his gaze to Karyl.

After scrutinizing and gazing at him for a while, he raised his hand, pulled down his hood, and even reached down to remove the respirator. The Primarch's exposed face was thin, with deep-set eyes, high cheekbones, sunken cheeks, and pale skin, looking almost lifeless.

For an ordinary person, this face would be terrifying, but Mortarion is Primarch, and this sickly appearance only makes him more memorable.

"I am Mortarion, from Barbarus," he said, gripping his respirator.

Freed from the constraints of the still-fragrant machine, his voice no longer sounded somber, but rather quiet.

"I've heard your name many times, Karyl Lohars. My brothers seem to love talking about you; at any large gathering, they always have a topic reserved for you."

"It sounds like I've become a trendy topic," Karyl chuckled, unable to resist making a small joke—which surprised Curze to find didn't seem so bad after all.

"Anyway, it's a pleasure to meet you, Mortarion. Although it may seem redundant, I'll say it again—my name is Karyl Lohars, from Nostramo."

"Konrad Curze talks about you often." Mortarion raised his left hand and placed it on Curze's shoulder. "Although it's mostly complaints."

"Hey!" Curze turned and glared at him. "I don't recall ever complaining about anything."

"Perhaps." Mortarion looked at him strangely and nodded noncommittally. "Since you say no, then no."

"It never existed!"

"Hmm," Mortarion responded with another muffled nasal sound. He then looked at Karyl, as if wanting to say something. After several seconds of silence, he finally spoke again, "What do you think of psionic powers?"

"A dangerous force."

Mortarion nodded repeatedly, clearly agreeing. A flicker of emotion finally appeared on his face, no longer completely lifeless or calm. Then, he began to speak rapidly.

"Yes, I agree, but it's not just about danger. It also possesses a meaning we can't yet comprehend, like a metaphor often used in literature. Ordinary people can't understand it; only those who stare at the words again and again can grasp their meaning. But if you do understand it, you're not far from going insane."

"What is he saying?" Curze turned to look at Dorn. "Why can't I understand High Gothic all of a sudden?"

"This is the first time I've ever seen you say so much in one go, brother."

Dorn ignored the Night Lords's somewhat sarcastic joke and instead expressed his surprise to Mortarion. At the same time, he astutely offered a conjecture.

Are you seeking support? For Magnus's sake?

The Lord of Death narrowed his eyes, remained silent for a while, and then answered this rather pointed question.

"Normally I don't harbor ill will towards others, but Magnus is different; his arrogance surpasses all our expectations. He oversteps his bounds; he's negotiating with a tiger, making deals with forces he simply cannot comprehend. And when I brought this up with him, he proudly declared to me that there's nothing he can't understand."

He looked at his two brothers, then at Karyl.

"Psionic power itself may not bring disaster, but his attitude will. His blind faith, arrogance, and condescension will inevitably lead to some consequences. This is not a matter of probability, but an inevitable event; sooner or later, it will happen."

Rogal Dorn slowly frowned—he wasn't one to gossip behind people's backs, and Mortarion's behavior carried a less-than-pleasant undertone, but the Lord of Death never understood such things.

He was a recluse, not good with words, and sometimes even refused to communicate. It was a miracle that he could say so much today, Dorn didn't want to dampen his enthusiasm, but he also didn't want to completely agree with Mortarion's views.

So he slowly began to speak.

"Magnus may be arrogant, but he's a scholar, brother," Dorn said seriously. "That means he's also very rational. Scholars usually have a strong curiosity about things they don't understand, and you don't need to blame him for that."

"Blame?" Mortarion scoffed. "I have no right to blame him."

Dorn shook his head. "Russ has asked Father many times to impose some restrictions on Magnus, but Father has never agreed. Doesn't that say something?"

Mortarion simply looked away, refusing to comment on Dorn's words. He glanced at Konrad Curze Curze, who seemed lost in thought, and then turned back to Karyl.

"So, what do you think, Karyl Lohars?" the Lord of Death asked, a hint of unease in his voice. "Konrad Curze often mentions your wariness of psychic powers."

"I'd love to echo your point, but I'm afraid I don't know much about Magnus, Mortarion."

Karyl raised his hand in a calming gesture; he had already realized something from Dorn's attitude.

"I've only seen him once from afar, and my knowledge of him is limited to his name and the few things you've said. That's not enough for me to make any judgment about him, but if you just want an assessment of his psychic abilities, I do have something to say."

"Please!" Mortarion looked at him intently.

"As I said, psionic energy is dangerous, and both it and its users need to be strictly regulated. But ultimately, it's just a power, like Boltgun and Chainsword. Whether it brings disaster depends on the user's own will. Just as the poison gas in the hands of the Xenos can cause immense panic, in our hands it can also be an effective tactic."

Mortarion frowned, but quickly relaxed.

"I understand." He nodded. "At least you still agree that psionic powers are dangerous, and that's enough—as for Magnus... humph."

He snorted coldly and said his final words in a declarative tone, "You'll find out who he is, Karyl Lohars."

He then turned and left.

The Night Lords sighed, watched his retreating figure, and shook his head.

"We all have flaws, Rogal. I'm a paranoid, you're a different kind of paranoid, and so is Mortarion. But he wasn't born this way; Barbarus made him this way."

"What are you talking about?" Dorn asked. "Analyzing the influence of the environment on people?"

"No, I meant—" Konrad Curze Curze turned and grinned at him. "—He took seven more steps before turning back, and within forty-nine steps he would be beside Russ, and then he would give that Fenris barbarian a good thrashing."

"Stubborn Rock" gave a noncommittal look; he knew what Curze was implying.

Mortarion's obsession with numerology was no secret; he firmly believed in it, and Magnus once argued with him about it. The Crimson King practically stood on his chair and roared at the Lord of Death, Dorn still remembers what he said.

"You accuse me of being lost in knowledge, but how much better are you yourself? You even demand that your guards always stay within seven by seven paces of you!"

"In short," Dorn began slowly, shaking his head at one of the people standing nearby, "You're right about at least one thing: we all have our flaws. Just like you, Jaghatai, you're always too silent."

"Hmm," the man called Jaghatai murmured, narrowing his eyes. "Silence is golden, Rogal."

Yes, there is a code.

If all goes well, I'll probably update one chapter around noon every day, and another chapter in the afternoon.