Chapter 211 The Battle of Macragge (5)
Perturabo strode back to the office carrying the data tablet unloaded from the center of Agora Market, and the door lock fell behind him. He slammed the dataslate against the iron table as hard as it could bear.
The latest batch of orders have been issued, and we must return immediately. That's all the command is.
They did not have time to go to Sepetus to pick up the scattered soldiers. Dantioch would remain on Osiris with Rogal Dorn to handle the remaining counter-insurgency duties, while the remaining fleets of Ultramarines and Iron Warriors would be ready to infiltrate the Warp within ten minutes.
The Lord of Iron tapped his fingers on the tabletop that was too low for him, and suddenly shouted into the air: "Morse. You are here."
"I'm here." The man in black robe walked out of the air, his expression as calm and indifferent as ever.
"You know what is going to happen to Macragge," Perturabo said firmly.
“I don’t know.”
“Lie!” Perturabo breathed out, and the roar was locked in the office with the sound insulation effect that was designed to increase, “You can’t lie to me. "Morse, we understand each other so well!"
"And you are too excited, Perturabo" Morse's tone remained unchanged, "Don't vent your worries in the form of anger. . I know what you're worried about. As you said, we understand each other so well."
Perturabo stared at him, his chest heaving beneath his steel breastplate. He reluctantly swallowed a breath, and the faint smell of burning fire rolled up his throat with a smell of rust.
Yes, Morse was right. He had already made one mistake, a blind and careless mistake. His ignorance of the situation led to sudden riots in the red sand lands, Angron's sacrifice, and Rogal Dorn's almost death on an unknown battlefield.
It is also the hidden danger of mortal action, the same turbulence in peacetime, and the same lack of any clear evidence in advance, but now he is very likely to make a second mistake. Just thinking about that possibility made his stomach twitch violently, as if hot gravel was rolling in his respiratory tract, causing endless pain.
He didn't dare to imagine all this, his second oversight, his second sin.
"You are afraid that another disaster that can obviously be prevented will break out in front of your eyes, and you can do nothing but regret and cry in the shadow of belated arrival." Morse walked slowly to his side. . "You are afraid that Rogal Dorn and Robert Guilliman will be disappointed in you, that you have failed to fulfill your duties as brothers."
Perturabo grabbed Morse's shoulder and let go suddenly as if he had been burned. He hunched over, displaying a huddle that seemed unbecoming of an adult Primarch.
"Maybe nothing happened on Macragge. Maybe Robert Guilliman's territory is still stable. After all, you have met Archon Gloria, and you are sure that he has long since lost the courage to launch a rebellion. . But you are still uneasy, you know that something is lurking in the shadows, waiting for an opportunity. Your subconscious has helped you gather some hidden clues, but not enough." br>
"What on earth do you know..." Petula Boss dropped the personal pronoun at the end of the sentence. What he read in Morse's words was full of cold cruelty. "Why hide it from me?"
Morse walked to the front of Perturabo and stretched out his hand to him. Perturabo grasped the craftsman's hand - so difficult for the Primarch's oversized hand that he could only grasp nearly the entirety of Morse's forearm.
"Feeling better?" Morse asked.
Perturabo made no answer.
"What you fear most is that I deceive you without reason, betray you, know everything but say nothing, and watch you jump into the abyss of danger and sin. You are afraid that I will watch with cold eyes. Become irredeemable, I hope you make a mistake a second time." Morse said, shaking his head, "I'm not that crazy, you can also continue to calm down. Really, I do have someone to recommend to you for your blame.”
He also dropped the personal pronoun in the sentence.
Perturabo remained motionless, maintaining his silence. Time passes in stillness indoors.
Thirty seconds later, he exhaled the hot air in his chest, let go of the craftsman's hand, stood up straight, and asked a question that went straight to the core: "What are you and Malcador doing these days?" What are you talking about?”
——
“Are you ready?” Sigismund asked, waiting for the nine brave men in front of him to first put their gauntlet-covered fingers on the magnetic buckle that fixed the power sword.
The ever-burning candle crackled quietly in the dark sanctuary at the core of the Phalanx. The oath brazier placed in the center was raised and hung in the air by iron chains, with flames burning in the basin.
On the back of the light, in the shadow that was sometimes briefly illuminated, nine battle brothers wearing bright yellow armor and all wearing helmets stood calmly and cautiously. The weapons were silently held in their hands, and the bolters that had been inspected and removed from the bullets were hung on their waists in a ceremonial manner.
This is a selection trial for the Templars. After the establishment of the Haskar Guard, Sigismund adjusted the admission criteria for the Templars as promised. He no longer limits the number of challengers or demands that they must be defeated. What will be valued is not only the skill of fighting, but also the will of the warrior.
However, even after the standards were relaxed, the Imperial Fists seemed to continue a certain prideful habit of challenging him one-on-one. Today's nine-person joint battle request is the first multi-player battle request that Sigismund has received.
He readily accepted.
"Ready," the warriors answered him, letting the weight of their weapons become one with their arms.
Sigismund nodded, turned around, and pulled out the edgeless oath sword specially used for trials from the empty round platform behind him. The servo engine on his body made a running sound, announcing the upcoming test.
The long sword gradually came out of the silver scabbard and fell into the hands of the only templar.
At this moment, a series of wind-breaking sounds pierced out from behind him. As if he had expected it, Sigismund suddenly drew his sword and turned around to swing it. Nine bullets were cut off by him in the air, and the gunpowder and bullet casings were thrown away. The residue splashed and scattered.
The attack came like a storm, followed by bullets, and Sigismund raised his sword to meet it. The attacker's rhythm is as fast and furious as a poisonous snake, changing from all the shadows. The tip of the sword flashes with a cold light that is enough to kill, forming a secret code with the new round of explosive bombs fired.
Sigismund raised the Sword of Oath, and the blade whirled cleanly, accurately picking off a warrior's faceplate in a diagonal move. The candlelight changed in brightness and darkness, and he could clearly see the unfamiliar face.
The next blow hit the attacker hard on the flank, causing a fatal stagger. He had no time to strengthen his advantage this time and immediately withdrew from the circle of nine people who cooperated seamlessly. At the same time, he wrapped the edgeless sword around his right hand through the chain.
“Go on,” said Sigismund.
——
Angron did not like Macragge.
No, this is not Macragge's problem, nor is it his negative opinion of Robert Guilliman.
Objectively speaking, he actually has a hidden respect for Robert: every reform measure proposed by Guilliman and his sons will be sent to Angron's desk the moment it is implemented, and the next one will be placed on the elders' desk. When a government order approved by the court is implemented, data on the impact of the previous order is often being summarized. He would never deny how happy he felt for Robert Guilliman and Macragge when he read how the citizens of Macragge had gained actual benefits from Guilliman and his son's new deal. I sincerely hope that more beneficial laws and regulations will be born in the high-speed Macragge government, through the rolling data and printed documents among countless meditators, in this country covered by rocks, but increasingly Showing a wonderful world full of vitality.
And his opinions on Macragge only come from another faction represented by Macragge's dual-war king system, that is, the old aristocratic faction headed by Consul Gloria.
These people are stubborn and decadent, protecting the so-called old aristocratic factions and supporting all the dross in the culture that can maintain their own rule and interests. Angron did not understand why Robert Guilliman allowed the two parties to take turns in power in the Senate.
Aside from the bad habits of overthrowing and criticizing each other, and the efforts to undo every order the other faction has ever issued, thereby increasing the loss of assets, he could not see the impact that the simultaneous existence of the two factions had on the overall situation. What are the benefits of politics?
As for democracy, it is an unreasonable joke: dividing the limited public power handed over by the people equally to two opposing parties will only lead to both parties using all kinds of rhetoric and coercion to threaten the people. Exploit more power for your own use.
However, Angron knew that no matter what, Macragge was the home planet of Robert Guilliman. He can suggest, but not interfere.
This often made him regretful.
And the reason why he left Macragge was different from what most people thought. He didn't leave out of disgust - he didn't have time to make overly emotional choices out of emotion. There was too much that could be done and too much that needed to be done.
Angron just returned to Nuceria with the results of Guilliman's reform practice, and selected from them Nuceria can be used, or can be properly modified after some localization Apply the laws and try to implement them on his own planet.
As for why he didn't explain clearly...well, it was because he didn't like Macragge.
In any case, Angron is leaving Nuceria again and heading towards Macragge. He still needs to discuss some problems encountered in practice with Robert. As one of the founders of the reform theory from a planet with the same culture, he believes that there are some problems that Robert can solve, and new experiences can be shared. of.
At this moment, the Resolute Resolve is suspended outside the orbit of Macragge, undergoing the customary entry inspection of the local Ultramarines. Of course, regulations need to be followed, and the Primarch's fleet has no immunity for direct entry.
The visitors have arrived at Angron's door. The Lord of Red Sand pressed the button to open the door and allow the officer to enter.
He saw a red-helmeted sergeant saluting him. This warrior's armor is as neat as new, and he exudes a confident and steady demeanor that can easily gain anyone's trust.
"The entry documents have been sent to you," Angron said. "Do you have any questions, sergeant?"
"Since the communication network is being fully updated recently, the new version of the system It is not compatible with the old letter message format,” the soldier said, “The fastest method at present is paper information.”
"A fleet has a large amount of documents, sergeant. It takes a long time to print them all as paper materials."
"I'm sorry to bring you unnecessary trouble, sir," the soldier lowered his head. Saluted, "But this is our duty."
Angron stared at him and sighed. "Come here."
The soldier followed the words and approached. The Lord of Red Sand left his seat, walked around the desk, walked to the warrior, and looked down at him condescendingly.
The warrior raised his head, his expression covered by a mask. "My lord?" he asked confused.
He stretched out his hand, patted the soldier's shoulder, and then with great force, pressed the back of his head and slammed his head into the wooden table.
"Who are you!" the original body growled, breaking the man's hand that was reaching for the weapon at his waist, "Do you think I can't hear the emotional fluctuations in your heart, pretender?"
< br>——
"What do you want from me, warrior?" Robert Guilliman sat sleepily, barely holding on to his groggy energy, and covering the paperwork on the table with his palms. "Your name?"
After receiving Perturabo's warning, Robert was completely caught in the dilemma of wanting to rest but not daring to rest, wanting to wake up but objectively unable to do so. He had to forcibly awaken his tired soul by reading more Legion documents. He knew he wouldn't get a moment's sleep until Macragge's condition was confirmed.
"Iote Capa, my lord." said the tall warrior, "soldiers under Commander Valentus."
Robert remembered Valentus and the sound in his voice in the command room. Trembling. Recalling that scene made him feel an undeniable sadness, and he softened his words to Capa: "Okay. You are all brave soldiers, my worthy heirs. So, what brings you here?"
Capa took a step forward. "President Valentus wishes to know what kind of burial honors Commander Caspian will receive. He considers him a dear friend, my lord."
"Macragge Memorial Gardens, just east of the Avenue of Heroes. The dead warriors will have a peaceful sleep there. This is Macragge's tradition, is it acceptable?" Robert said softly, guessing that Valentus Doro didn't know what the memorial garden was. What a place.
"Thank you, sir." Capa saluted respectfully and did not leave.
"Any other questions?" Guilliman asked.
"Yes, sir. I have a personal request." Capa stepped forward again.
Guilliman's eyelids drooped heavily, then raised quickly. The weakness in his soul left him almost unable to move. "Say it." He said softly.
A gunshot rang out.
A bright bloody hole appeared in Capa's hand when he was about to lift the bolter. The second bolt hit his thigh, forcing him to fall to the ground on the spot.
Perturabo stepped into Guilliman's office, grabbed Iote Capa from the ground, held his neck and looked down at the painful face at close range: "Who are you!"
" I am..." The soldier smiled eerily, and the smile superimposed a distortion unique to the pretender on his painful face, "Alfaris..."
The third gunshot sounded, No bullets were fired.
Mors put down the hand that had just cast a small sounding spell and walked into the office. While directly injecting spiritual energy to nourish the soul of Robert Guilliman, who was determined not to rest, he muttered: "Don't listen to him, Perturabo. He is obviously not Alpharius himself."
(End of Chapter)