Chapter 312 Mask
The flames went out. Thick fog flooded into the village again, lovingly caressing the rotting corpses half sunk in the soil. The dim clouds floated and moved slowly, and faint light poured downward from the gaps in the clouds.
Soon, the last threads woven by the sun melted into the clouds and mist. The patter of rain began to fall, wrapping the surface of Barbarus in a hazy coldness. The independence of the objects themselves is reduced to an inseparable whole under the cover of thick fog. The buzzing sound of mosquitoes whispers in the mire, completing this unshakable realm of death.
Mortarion disappeared in the thick fog, even though his presence was still clearly visible to the two top psykers.
Sometimes, Morse would want to know what the Emperor was thinking, what kind of theory behind his enigmatic actions supported him in choosing his destination, and what path led to it. The path to the end point.
Even though Morse often believed that he was a follower who knew the earthly king relatively well, he still knew that the Emperor he knew was only a silhouette among the many faces of the Emperor. Or two. That's not all there is to this man who has lived through so many generations.
The boy wandering in the river, the man standing outside Nineveh, the knight on horseback with sword, the scholar at the stake, the farmer cultivating the fields, the cruel and bloody warlord, the strategist, the miracle, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace...
The Empire of Man, the Emperor.
"You made him angry, Emperor," Mors asked, wondering if this might be what the Emperor wanted. He could not see any loss or surprise on the dark-skinned face of the Lord of Humanity. There stood a figure like a statue of gold and jade, a blank and heartless mask.
In the thick fog, some subtle fluctuations were caused by Morse's words, spreading among the fine drizzle and the poisonous gas that seemed soft but was actually pungent.
"I know," the Emperor replied, shrinking back to mortal size. His dark gray robe is worn but clean, loose and strong, suitable for activities, running, and working. Some raindrops slid across his face along his dark brows and fell into his robe.
"Mortarion has finally become curious about you, Nyos."
The Emperor's psychic energy has been restrained, and all the overflowing etheric light has been withdrawn. Morse met the Emperor's eyes, hoping it would help him learn more about the Emperor.
"He learned about your blood relationship with him; and considering what his adoptive father Nacre did to him, his reaction was better than I expected."
The emperor listened quietly, and the raindrops wetted his hair more and the golden leaf crown on his hair.
"You can have a son." Morse hesitated when he said this.
The Emperor seemed to be thinking. He looked away, and Morse knew where he was looking, where Mortarion was heading.
Primarch No. 14 continued towards the plains instead of the mountains. It is not difficult to imagine that Mortarion intended to find more villages. He might be looking for companions, maybe comrades, maybe just A place to stay, a nest to stay, but no longer family.
Then, the Emperor looked back.
"If I had needed a son," said the Emperor, "I would not have come in golden armor."
Morse frowned.
“I’m not sure what you mean, Neos.”
“Interests, emotions, and ideals. These are the three foundations of cooperation. Any chain that is strong enough can be invested. Use. And the collapse of any chain symbolizes termination and ending." "Between you and me, we have all three."
His eyes told Morse that if the person who was here at this time was not a loyal person who had known him for tens of thousands of years, he would not know any of these words. Will resort to oral.
The Emperor continued, in his own voice, a voice that spoke from ancient Eurasia to the thirtieth millennium, a cold word of reason, a voice of choice that required no comfort or tenderness. The sound of destiny.
"I cannot provide Mortarion with the emotional connection he needs. In both foreshadowing and deduction, he has been proven to be resistant to inadequate friendship. And our first meeting was already an irresistible one. The disaster of redemption."
"Therefore, I will not show him the image of a father."
"The master of the Twilight Raiders will only be a man of shared ideals and interests. And the leader of the legion who follows the Sky Eagle, rather than a conflicted person who desires and hates father's love." "Tools." Morse paused, "Weapon, general, master of the legion. An ally in battle, an enemy of sorcery. This is what you ask of him."
The Emperor nodded slightly. "I want him to abolish the force of his enemies, throw their corpses under the golden throne, and chop off their heads."
"But not the heir." Morse asked tentatively.
The Emperor spoke: "Angron, Robert Guilliman, Perturabo... already have the Primarch of the first family, and they rarely call me father."
There is neither displeasure nor joy in the words of the Lord of Mankind. He was just stating, and his tone could even be said to contain a certain gentleness floating in the mist.
"But they still fought for the Great Crusade. That was enough. When they looked at the evil and miracles in the world, they knew why they should fight."
Morse His expression became a little unhappy in an instant.
"You are truly a merciful monarch," he said in a low voice, "who is willing to hand over the truth to those who are unfortunate enough to be the heirs of You."
The Emperor glanced into the distance.
"Not really." He said, "I will leave the emotional tether to Horus Luperkar. He is naturally good at it."
The Emperor looked on Morse. "Maybe you can."
"Me?" Morse shrugged, "I'll forget it, this is not my talent. I will accompany you until Mortarion officially joins the Great Crusade. Leave.”
"Okay." The Emperor said slowly.
Morse suddenly thought of a question.
"If you knew that Mortarion would hate you," he asked, his tone cautious, "I mean, if, this matter became a known fact, under what circumstances , you will still treat him the same way you treat your heir, give him a gift, and give him a token forged by your own hands. When he rejects you, you allow him to take another weapon, allow him to fight you, and accuse you of taking it. Take him to victory, and you still trust him until the end?"
The Emperor did not look at Morse, nor did he speak.
"When you occasionally decide to be selfish." Morse judged firmly.
The Emperor stood silent, his gaze tracing the distance, tracing the cracks the scythe had carved in the earth as Primarch Fourteen staggered through the mist. Even without the armor on, the shadow of the sword in the emperor's hand was still lit up, and fire surged out, sweeping out a blazing wind, and igniting a lantern-like light in the thick fog.
"Come," said the Emperor.
Morse shook his head and followed closely behind the Lord of Humanity.
——
"Although our misleading truth sounds really immoral, I am still happy to tell you the truth about my performance with the Emperor. First of all, your father is not acting at all. Whenever I want to help him change Mortarion's impression of him is that he must use his damn heartfelt words to stuff all the benign hesitations that your brother finally had into the sewer."
"Sometimes I think he is simply. He is a blind general wandering around in a maze, listening to no one and believing no one except the crutch in his hand. "
"When it comes to misleading truths, I tend to think that they will also be misleading. As a matter of purpose, there is indeed a difference between using words that do not violate the facts and using direct lies, that is, whether you still have a desperate respect for the moral bottom line... No, let's get back to the topic. Perturabo. "
"After that day, Mortarion wandered the wastes for a long time under the yellow mist of dawn, walking through many places ruined by death, dodging the sorcerous overlord. The pursuers, or the regular raiding teams sent by the psychic aliens, would let his sickle taste their blood."
"He actually didn't know that he was there. Wherever I want to go, I can only say that he does have the characteristics of tenacity in specific military competitions."
"Furthermore, without your robot guards, this is another person you can't defeat in hand-to-hand combat."
In the mist, Mortarion polished his scythe.
He picked up a rough stone and rubbed the scythe's blade repeatedly with it, dealing with the gaps and cracked scythe tips caused by the fighting. The child of death was self-taught and sharpened the iron tool in his hand from a simple agricultural tool into a silent sharp blade that could easily cut through the twisted creatures kneaded by witchcraft.
He repaired the scythe, grabbed the handle, and supported himself to breathe in the thick fog. Under his feet were crushed heads lying on the ground, as well as stumps that had completely fallen into decay after being separated from the magic.
Respirators to protect against poisonous gases have long been out of use. At first, the filter was overwhelmed, turning the respirator into a decorative ornament. Soon after, the straps holding the respirator in place snapped, forcing Mortarion to face Barbarus' poisonous mist.
Mortarion was submerged in the rising fog and became part of the dark yellow air background. He coughed heavily like a seriously ill and dying person and persisted in walking on the plains.
Under the premise of being far away from those tall and dark mountains, the Primarch would not fall to the ground due to this level of damage. But if he decided to head for the cliff, he would have to equip himself with armor and a mask to withstand the poisonous gases gathering in the highlands.
The Emperor followed Mortarion at a distance, accurately blocking the distance and staying at the very edge of the Primarch's senses.
His following was precise and unshakable, letting Mortarion know that the Emperor was behind him, not interfering with his actions, just waiting for another rejection, a new hesitation, or the final compromise.
It is filled with incomplete fragments of once-living creatures, as well as indiscernible pieces of flesh and bones, and even some burn marks settled under the surface soil layer. This is a story that once took place in Barbarus, including hints of resistance and massacre, as well as the scattered bones of collective punishment and execution.
The acidic drizzle coated all this with a silk-glass curtain.
“Sometimes, I follow him and turn over the remains of some huge metal or stone objects left on the land of Barbarus. These things are very rusty, and it is basically impossible to tell what they were once, but roughly It can be seen that some are gun barrels covered with moss, and some are fallen aircraft. Perhaps every planet that has not experienced the old night has some remnants of symbolizing civilization."
"Emperor. He acted very patiently, I think this is because he only sent a psychic projection: everything that happened on Barbarus only delayed my time, which can be called my soul. Inseparable from things of will."
"In your last reply, I saw you wrote that the timing of the Emperor's landing was indeed unfortunate. The fate of the matter, or the unfortunate events of the physical atmosphere and sorcery missiles, is still within the Emperor's expectations."
"Your arrogant creator, sometimes his stubbornness is annoying. Surprised. I now wonder if he gained some reflection from his relationship with Horus, so much so that he began to adjust his image in front of the Children."
"Of course, just for me personally, I never think that binding a cooperative relationship with specific friendship is a long-term and stable method, and on this basis, it is difficult to build an unbreakable alliance. Neither will you You can recover hundreds of various worlds in the Olympia Cluster just by relying on your personal charm, right? You give them tangible benefits."
"But..."
Morse removed the last one. The turning word, rewrite the ending.
"Anyway, I wish you an easy and pleasant journey to Betagamon to build the fortress."
He folded the message into a carrier pigeon and followed the message he left at Perturabo Spell beacon transmits. In long-distance communication, the energy consumed by this method and the loss during the process cannot be ignored, and the transmission is not instantaneous. Now that Morse had nothing to do, he tried this method.
He pretended to adjust the tightness of the gas mask on his face, wiped the rainwater from the side of his cheeks, and called the Emperor.
The emperor's golden shadow turned back and waited for him where he was.
In his clenched hand, the light flowing from the runes on the sword shone steadily in the thick fog, forming a round ball of light with blurred boundaries.
“Mortarion can go on like this for decades, my emperor.” Morse reminded, “You have to do something instead of dragging me along like a lonely ghost. Man Barbarus wandered."
+After he realized what he needed. +
The Emperor's psychic voice came through the mist and rain.
+After his first victory of his own and the resulting gap of desire. After he understands how far he can go, how much power he can control, and how many external objects he can use. +
"That shouldn't be long," Morse breathed a sigh of relief. "There is a village not far away."
It is undeniable that the emperor's words have already caused ripples in Mortarion's heart. The Lord of Mankind has told Mortarion that he hopes that the other party will eradicate the poison of witchcraft to mankind, and this is Mortarion's own wish.
In fact, the dream of the Great Expedition has almost the same essence as any ideal that hopes for a better future for mankind.
This may be why, when the Emperor occasionally withdrew from Mortarion's range of perception while standing silently thinking, the Fourteenth Primarch would hesitate to slow down until the Emperor caught up again.
As this strange understanding formed, Mors almost began to feel bad for Mortarion.
+I'm starting to think Mortarion is a little more likable than you, Emperor. He is simpler than you. +
Mortarion held the scythe in his arms and stood uncertainly outside the village for a long time before making up his mind to once again step into the human society that he had brought disaster to.
In the mist outside the village, Morse said this to the emperor.
(End of this chapter)