120 Terra (IV, 8k)

"Proceed. 💋♩ 💣👍" Rogal Dorn said. "Put the Third Fleet into the Pluto space region. No, reduce the fleet size to half, and then begin the simulation."

As he finished speaking, the complex tactical star map began to operate spontaneously. Light flashed, green and red dots collided, and the sound effects of explosions were fleeting. But sound cannot travel in a vacuum, and this small error added a touch of absurdity to the simulation.

It was a mistake that Dorn deliberately left out; occasionally, he would immerse himself in such tactical simulations, needing something to remind himself of what was real.

In fact, anyone who is engrossed in long and solitary work should need this reminder: solitude makes one wise, but loneliness is a great enemy.

Is the stubborn rock lonely?

No one knows the answer. His eyes, beneath his short, gray hair, are always so cold and unfeeling. Who can find the answer they seek in a pair of polished stones?

For example, at this moment, he watched as the simulated enemy devoured Pluto's fleet without firing a single shot, yet he remained unmoved and then began issuing orders again.

"Restore fleet numbers, deploy the Third Fleet to the edge of the Pluto space region, and restart the simulation."

The tactical star map was immediately executed. Half a minute later, accompanied by another explosion, the red color indicating simulation failure reappeared on the star map.

The reflected Radiance flickered on his face until Dorn reached out and stopped it. He silently turned off the star chart, returned to his desk, and began working on the day's tasks.

Terra has a massive bureaucracy, which, while bloated, is by no means incompetent. A document requires the approval of ten officials to take effect; this system is certainly inefficient, but given enough numbers, it can still function smoothly.

If we ignore the excessive number of departments, they could even be called "efficient"—a truly ironic but unfortunate situation.

This bureaucratic system is the result of the efforts of countless talented and ambitious people. The Imperium's current communication methods are not sufficient to establish a truly efficient bureaucratic system, so it can only choose this deliberately backward approach.

Dorn spent two hours processing the documents, the fireplace burning steadily behind him, and the howling wind outside the window still raging.

Eleven days have passed since Fulgrim returned to Terra. The return of the phoenix seems like a harbinger, completely triggering Terra's "winter" weather cycle. Blizzards have begun to fall in many parts of the world, ruthlessly.

Even though many regions have independent climate systems, they have still been hit by snow disasters. After all, snowfall is one thing, but it may not actually fall, while strong winds are a global disaster.

When these two are combined, they create a dangerous combination that is difficult to stop.

Opinions have been expressed from all sectors of society regarding this matter. The Mechanicum believes that this situation can be changed through technological means, and the pilgrims have chosen to prostrate themselves with even greater devotion, hoping that the gods will change their minds.

Dorn found this statement extremely ironic.

He sighed, ending his day's document corrections. Partly because the work was indeed finished, and partly because he heard hurried footsteps in the hallway outside, and heard several people trying to dissuade him.

"Lord Magnus, our lord is still working; you cannot simply barge in."

"Damn it, Al, I need to see him!" Magnus whispered in the corridor. "I have important business to report to him. Don't stop me, go back to your own business!"

Dorn stood up, walked to the door, and pushed it open. He glanced at his crimson-clad brother and began to speak to his temporary butler Al.

"Go and rest. Al Magnus is not one to speak without reason."

At least not now, he thought.

The butler bowed respectfully, but also with concern, and then turned and left.

What followed unfolded naturally. Dorn led Magnus into his study, closed the door, poured him a cup of tea from Macragge, and then asked him what had brought him there.

"It's important, brother," the Crimson King replied solemnly.

He wore a long white robe, but incongruously sported a pair of strange sunglasses. He wasn't wearing his usual signature headdress, and his attire was remarkably simple compared to his past appearance.

"What is it?" Dorn asked briefly.

There was a cup of tea beside him, but he didn't drink it. His fingers were interlaced, and his hands were resting steadily on the table. Magnus, on the other hand, held the Primarch- sized teacup with both hands, appearing very solemn.

"Regarding my Legion," he replied. "I think you haven't forgotten the little privilege my father gave me: I can make a routine call once a week. With the help of the Astropathic Court Psyker, I've been able to communicate with my Legion across the galaxy. This has been going very smoothly until today."

"If there were any real problems, the Psyker of the Astropathic Court would have immediately noticed something was wrong and reported it to Malcador," Dorn calmly pointed out the error in his words.

"They are not merely your helpers, those who assist you with communications. To a certain extent, they are also your guardians, Magnus. Any disturbance will be reported directly to Malcador, and then to your father."

A wry smile appeared on the Crimson King's face. In the past, he would have been Thunder 'Dorn words. After all, it sounded tantamount to an insult. 👣🔥 🐍♡

But things are different now. Since Nikaea —no, since losing his sight and psychic powers— Magnus has finally found peace.

It was a rather bizarre thing, but that was the truth. He lost two treasures, but gained much more in the process.

For example, his "curse," namely, his insatiable thirst for knowledge.

Magnus remains one of the most learned scholars in the Milky Way, and his thirst for knowledge is still strong. However, he can now go for days without reading a book, focusing solely on relearning psionic skills.

At the same time, he showed great tolerance for Malcador's undisguised surveillance. He allowed the Psyker of the Astropathic Court to approach him, monitor him, and even chat with them occasionally.

"You're right, that is indeed a regulatory measure against me—or rather, one of the regulatory measures," Magnus sighed. "But here's the problem: they didn't come today."

Dorn raised an eyebrow in surprise.

Although Magnus was blind, he gained a new way of observing the world. He was just as keenly aware of Dorn's facial expression, and the wry smile that still lingered on his face returned.

"At first, I wondered if I had been stripped of this small privilege. If it really was my father's order, I could understand," he said softly. "But I sent an inquiry to Astropathic Court through the Servitor, and they replied that tomorrow is today."

Dorn paused for a moment, then offered a conjecture. "The date is wrong?"

"Yes." Magnus nodded. "They think tomorrow is the scheduled time for the call—but is that possible, Rogal? I mean, the entire Astropathic Court."

"Take your time," Dorn said. He stood up, walked to a Cogitator in his study, and began using the remote communication.

The headquarters of Astropathic Court is located somewhere in the Imperial Palace, in a desolate and uninhabited area in the Himalaya Mountains. They were granted permission to establish a secret area here, which on the surface is just an abandoned ruin with many black towers, but the real secret lies underground.

Psyker practice their skills underground, contributing to the Imperium of Man. Of course, being allowed to learn and use this knowledge within Imperium that openly opposes psionicism comes at a price.

Psyker never see a ray of sunlight and are forbidden from gathering and talking; they must remain silent at all times. If you find this acceptable, then take a look at their "protectors," a special army called the Black Sentinels.

They are a trained, professional anti-psychic army, the jailers of the Psyker, and also executioners. The Emperor makes no secret of this, and strangely, no one within the Psyker raises any objections.

Minutes later, Dorn's question was answered quickly, and with a response that was exactly the same as Magnus's.

"Tomorrow is the scheduled time." Wanshi frowned and repeated the sentence.

Magnus had somehow appeared behind him, holding a teacup in both hands, his expression one of deep concern.

"Now you see, brother." The Crimson King shook his head. "Their claim—with all due respect, in the Warp, no, psionic..."

He began to sigh repeatedly.

"I shouldn't have said that, Rogal, but now I finally understand why Father was so resistant to Warp and psionic powers."

Dorn glanced at him, continuing to send letters to the Astropathic Court while saying, "It seems your path of studying psionic energy has brought you many things I don't understand."

Magnus nodded heavily.

A few minutes later, Astropathic Court sent another reply, which was much longer than the previous one.

The person in charge, who could not reveal their name, recounted the dates in a sincere tone and attached a record of every psionic communication Magnus made under the supervision of the Star Court from the 31st to the 31st.

Dorn frowned and began to carefully peruse the document. His conclusions did not solve the mystery; instead, they made the whole matter seem even more perplexing.

Because the Astropathic Court is not wrong, every record is meticulously and accurately documented, completely transparent, and traceable. Judging from Magnus's last communication, his next "breakout" is indeed tomorrow.

However, is it possible that a Primarch misremembered the time?

"How are you, brother?" the blind man asked.

"Astropathic Court has enclosed your call logs with this letter," Dorn said. "The data is accurate, therefore they are correct. Tomorrow is the scheduled call time."

Magnus remained silent for a long time, then suddenly took off his sunglasses, revealing his eye, which had turned completely white. Although he was blind, he still stared intently at Rogal Dorn.

Is this really true?

"Unless the Astropathic Court's data is incorrect," Dorn said calmly. "But as you know, they submit everything to Malcador after each call. Only with the Sigillites can this data be archived."

Magnus pursed his lips. "So?"

"In my opinion, there are only two possibilities. One is that they did have a problem with data storage, but they modified the data in an attempt to cover up the evidence. It's not difficult to confirm this; I will send the letter to Malcador, and he will know the truth with just one glance."

"So, what about the second one?"

"Your memory is faulty. 💥👺 🎉👻" Dorn said. "And this is something that would be impossible for a Primarch, Magnus. So, I must ask you to come with me to find the Sigillites, no matter what."

The Crimson King nodded silently and put on the sunglasses. He didn't object, but his expression showed even more worry.

Dorn glanced at him and patted him on the shoulder reassuringly.

"Don't overthink it. It might just be a minor data error. The Cogitator within the Imperium don't even have specific model classifications, whether advanced or outdated. Until the results are truly clear, you can relax. Wrongful convictions due to outdated equipment are not uncommon in Terra."

"I appreciate your comfort, Rogal, it flatters me, but," Magnus clenched his fists, "The situation of my legion can hardly be delayed any longer."

Dorn's hand, which had been reaching for the cloak, froze in mid-air. He turned his head expressionlessly and glanced at his brother.

The latter's pleading expression ultimately allowed him to continue the conversation. He posed a question, and Magnus, like a drowning man grasping at a straw, responded instantly.

What's going on?

"My legion is dying!" Magnus said hoarsely. "Ahzek Ahriman reported this to me, Malcador also knew about it in the last communication; you can ask him. We had agreed to meet this week—"

"--Don't rush," Dorn interrupted him. "Take your time, Magnus. First, tell me what exactly happened to your legion?"

"It's a curse, Rogal," Magnus replied gravely. "I believe you haven't forgotten how obscure my legions were in the early days of the Great Crusade. We joined the Great Crusade quite late, but there's a reason for that."

He paused, a flash of shame crossing his face.

"There's something wrong with my Gene-seed," he said. "Most of the reserves can't survive the modification surgery, and even if they do, they'll lose control in a battle where psionic energy is used. Their bodies will undergo a change they can't control at all; in other words..."

He took a deep breath and forced himself to continue the conversation.

For Magnus, this level of honesty was nothing short of miraculous. Dorn could sense the pure heart beneath his uneasy exterior, which was why he was willing to slow down and listen to Magnus's words.

"They will turn into monsters," the Crimson King said gravely. "Flesh and blood lose their original form; in just a few minutes, a Legion warrior can be transformed into a monster by his own power. For this, I ventured into the Warp and found a solution, which I believe you have heard of to some extent."

He pointed to his completely closed eye.

"Magnus— " Dorn shook his head. "We don't have much time for you to reflect on the past. You mean, your legions have been afflicted by that curse again?"

"Yes."

How serious is it?

"It's very serious," Magnus said with difficulty. "Most Legion warriors haven't used psionic powers since the Council of Nikaea, strictly adhering to the prohibition, but the curse is still spreading."

"Last week, when Ahzek Ahriman reported to me, more than half of the Legion's soldiers had had to be executed. Worse still, this curse has even spread to my homeland."

The name flashed through Prospero Dorn's mind.

This is Magnus's home planet, located at the very edge of the Ultima Segmentum, so close to the Sol System that it has caused countless scholars to debate whether Prospero should be included in the Sol System on maps.

It is also one of the few planets in the galaxy inhabited by Psyker, and all its inhabitants possess, to varying degrees, psionic power and knowledge.

"Rogal?"

"I'm thinking," Dorn replied, frowning. "Listen, Magnus, I mean no offense. If the curse has truly spread to your homeland, perhaps you should consider whether your descendants are lying to you."

Magnus gritted his teeth and took several deep breaths before continuing.

"Yes, I have considered that possibility. In the past, any mutations in flesh and blood have occurred during the use of psionic energy, and I have questioned Ahzek Ahriman about why this curse would rise from the dead and even spread in Prospero if they hadn't violated the prohibition. But he swore to me with his honor and his life that they truly adhered strictly to the prohibition."

But this is only one opinion, Magnus.

Looking at the Crimson King's almost tearful face, Dorn ultimately didn't say those words. He shook his head and began to put on his cloak.

"I'm going to find Malcador," he said. "And you, brother, if what you're saying is true, you need to go directly to Father."

Magnus sighed heavily, but then relaxed his shoulders as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

--

Some things often come one after another, giving people no chance to catch their breath.

For example, artillery bombardment goes on in waves, continuing until the enemy is completely wiped out. Similarly, in a battle between two armies, tactics and strategies are intricately linked.

For example, within just half a month, two Primarch returned to Terra in succession.

For those in charge of the reception, the whole affair was both an honor and a nightmare. The bureaucrats on Terra were notified even as the massive fleet of the Iron Hands was still passing through the Elysian Gate on Uranus.

Preparations began immediately, but the process was fraught with twists and turns. Within just three days, six bureaucrats died suddenly on the job.

If the deaths hadn't occurred at different times, the joke about a new bureaucrat dying every two days would probably have quickly started circulating among the workers.

But what truly devastated the bureaucratic system happened today—for some reason, the massive fleet arrived near Terra a full forty-five hours ahead of schedule.

The flagship of the Iron Hands Legion, the Fist of Iron, was rushing towards Terra's near-Earth orbit without stopping, facing the Phalanx and the Emperor's Dream, which were anchored in the distance, across the sea.

And now— the Departmento Munitorum officials, moving their less-than-proportioned military bodies with unprecedented speed, began striding through their offices.

Besides tiring their arms and shortening the lifespan of Servitor parts, the heavy documents are also used by them to beat each other. More than one person has started using them to fight each other because of arguments.

Interestingly, despite both sides suffering fractures and bleeding after the fight, they would insist on finishing what they were doing before going to see a doctor.

And so, this huge, bloated department orchestrated an extremely grand welcoming ceremony in just seven and a half hours—the return of the Emperor's Children was supposed to be kept low-key and not publicized, but surely this time it would be alright?

Ferrus Manus and his invincible steel fleet have finally returned to Terra!

The recent severe natural disasters and rumors circulating among the Rogue Trader have made Terra somewhat unstable. At this critical juncture, announcing the return of a Primarch to calm the people's hearts is practically an easy political achievement to offer.

However, right there at Lion's Gate Spaceport, as the Fist of Iron was docked and its boarding deck slowly opened, the overweight-looking senior official standing in the crowd and the photographer he had specially hired discovered something unexpected.

The deck was only occupied by a group of veteran Morlock Terminators clad in imposing armor; Iron Hands himself was nowhere to be seen.

After questioning, the official received the answer from the Lord Commander, Amadeus DuCaine.

The smiling Stormwalker told him in his characteristic humor that their Primarch had gone straight to the Imperial Palace in a shuttle thirty minutes earlier.

"But you can take a picture with me," DuCaine a laugh. "What do you think?"

The reaction of the officials was predictable. But Ferrus Manus didn't care at all, focusing solely on leading his bodyguard Gabriel Santo toward a secluded residence within the Imperial Palace.

Iron Hands and his guards walked together, their presence terrifying. More than one servant turned pale and trembled upon seeing them.

Gabriel Santo was already terrifying enough; he was the company commander of the Iron Hands, always leading from the front in battle, for which he suffered enormous injuries. One of his eyes, half his face, one arm, and both legs were replaced with mechanical parts.

Years of war had naturally imbued him with a terrifying aura of killing intent; however, compared to Ferrus Manus beside him, he was surprisingly kind and approachable—and indeed he was.

He would even reach out to gesture to his servants that they need not worry, while Iron Hands himself would stride forward with a stern face. Finally, after passing through a Garden of Nurgle, they arrived at their destination.

Ferrus Manus raised his head, glanced at the rising purple-gold banner, and his expression, far from improving, grew even more somber. Gabriel Santo looked at his Primarch, then suddenly spoke, his voice extremely deep. "Primarch."

"I understand." Ferrus raised his famous arm, using his right hand to stop Santo from continuing.

"I'm skeptical, my lord," Santo sighed. "You've never been able to maintain true rationality when it comes to matters concerning Lord Fulgrim."

"Like you and DuCaine?" Ferrus retorted, miraculously remaining rational without getting angry.

"He and I are not close friends, my lord," Santo said. "The esteemed Lord Commander sees me as a greenhorn, and even now, in this state, he still won't let me off the hook with his words. I, on the other hand, think he's an old fogey."

"Wait for me here."

Ferrus glanced at him and said this. He couldn't help but feel slightly relieved by his company commander's honesty, which would be good for the conversation he was about to have.

Gabriel Santo was always indispensable; he could complete all the tasks Ferrus assigned him, question Ferrus's decisions, and even confront him directly—a privilege stemming from his exceptional abilities.

There may be many people in the legion who can observe Iron Hands's emotions with keen insight, but very few dare to point them out in time like him. Coupled with his excellent command skills, in Ferrus's mind, he is a perfect company commander.

"Once again, I object to your decision," Santo told his Primarch firmly. "I will accompany you the entire time, as we agreed on on the shuttle, Primarch."

Ferrus growled impatiently, which was a direct answer. They then entered the camp and were met with a familiar yet utterly unfamiliar person.

He was shirtless, holding two training knives, practicing in the air. His distinctive handsome face and soldier's braid revealed his true identity.

Both Ferrus Manus and Gabriel Santo knew who this person was.

"Ah, sir." Akurduana sheathed his sword and bowed slightly. "You arrived earlier than the time given in the letter from the Departmento Munitorum."

"Akurduana," Ferrus called him softly.

"Yes, I am, sir."

What happened to those scars of yours?

Akurduana raised his hands, looked at them, and smiled nonchalantly, "It's just a way of remembering, nothing to worry about."

Gabriel Santo stood silently to the side, not uttering a word.

"In remembrance?" Ferrus pressed immediately, realizing his mistake as soon as the words left his mouth. A flash of anger crossed his face, but it vanished in an instant. Santo glanced at his Primarch without flinching and gently shook his head. Even the slightest movement, he was confident his Primarch would sense it.

"Yes, in memory," Akurduana said.

He continued to examine his hands, the hundreds of names densely etched across his arms glowing with each breath. This was clearly not normal, but Ferrus did not question it.

He simply walked solemnly to Akurduana and began to observe him carefully. The Emperor's Children remained quietly in place, allowing the Iron Hands to examine him—a few seconds later, Ferrus Manus raised his Hand of Destruction and placed it on Akurduana's shoulders.

"This is a blood feud," he said slowly.

"Yes," Akurduana said. "So we need to remember—but you didn't come all this way just to chat with me, did you?"

He smiled and turned to the side, pointing a path for Iron Hands: "Please, sir. He's waiting inside, but I need to remind you of something first."

Ferrus Manus halted, his gaze sweeping across Akurduana's eyes like lightning. It wasn't his intention, but merely an instinctive reaction. He was a born conqueror, maintaining this air of authority at all times.

"What is it?" he asked.

"He's a little different than before, that's it, sir, please be careful," Akurduana said softly.

Ferrus Manus responded with a nasal sound, then strode forward toward the interior of the training hall.

Gabriel Santo watched his Primarch's retreating figure, surprisingly not following after him to keep his promise to "accompany him the whole way." He sized up Akurduana and slowly shook his head.

"What have you all been through?" he asked.

"Hell," Akurduana replied with a nonchalant laugh. "The real hell, my dear Gabriel."

Santo was not satisfied with the answer he received. He even fell into a deeper silence.

He and Akurduana were old acquaintances; their friendship could be traced back to the early days of the Great Crusade. They knew each other very well, and now, Santo was a little unsure.

He saw through Akurduana, and even felt a sense of alienation from him. This feeling irritated him, as if he were facing DuCaine had openly refuted his opinions in a tactical meeting.

After a while, he finally asked a question, "Is Solomon still alive?"

Akurduana knew who he was referring to—Solomon Demeter, the sergeant of the Emperor's Children, who was the first among the Emperor's Children to befriend Santo.

"He's dead." Akurduana raised his left hand, pointing to a name on his wrist for Santo to see. "Two Horus dogs tore him apart, but he didn't let those two bastards get away with it either."

"I saw him rip one of them open, and the remaining one tried to kill him, but he held him back. He paid the price of being smashed to pieces—"

He flipped his wrist again, pointing to another name. " --Kaldur created the space for glorious sacrifice. If it weren't for their sacrifice, that heavily guarded hangar would never have been taken so easily by us."

Gabriel Santo opened his mouth, but was speechless. He had so much to say, but he couldn't utter a single word. Akurduana glanced at him and suddenly burst into laughter.

"Alright, alright, great Gabriel Santo," he chuckled, shaking his head. "Don't make that face, that's enough. By the way, wanna make a bet?"

"What kind of bet?"

Akurduana proudly tossed him a boning knife.

"What do you say?" The chief swordsman leaped nimbly, brandishing his blade on the smooth floor of the training hall. "There are two armored Servitor in the armor-piercing room changing into their training armor. How about we have another match?"

Gabriel Santo accepted the duel invitation with an air of nonchalance. He turned and walked toward the direction Akurduana had pointed to with his knife.

He had his back to him, and only at this moment did his hidden anger finally show on his face. Coincidentally, when he turned around, the smile on Akurduana's face vanished instantly.

He brandished his knife, warming up, but his eyes darted to the names in his hand, beginning his fortieth-millionth recitation. This number would keep increasing; sooner or later, it would become a number that would crush his nerves.

But Akurduana didn't care.

Finally finished writing! 15,000 words achieved! Time for breakfast!