Chapter 424: The Emperor's Descendants: General Preface
You have to know that there are often only two types of legends that can be circulated in this human world for a long time, especially those stories about great demigods that can attract readers.
You can either talk about their sacrifices and contributions, discuss how many soldiers were sacrificed in a battle, how they were all one in a million, fighting to the death without saying a word of begging for mercy, a revolving door of light coming back. Here, recalling the tears and silent vows made when seeing the Emperor for the first time in the past, and returning to the throne in the golden light.
In this way, the children drank milk before going to bed - it was probably a half-tube of cement-like nutritious cream left by the family's frugality, while feeling proud to be a member of such a great empire. Patting his chest. This is the first type.
However, this is still a bit...well, too lofty. Although no one dares to say that they don't like it - at least not in front of the imperial bureaucrats, like you, Malcador, I know you will review my manuscript.
But what other things are enough to be talked about freely by the people of the Empire who live in small boxes in complex housing complexes and work while scolding them every morning until the handover of the night shift?
"The Emperor is truly powerful," these words wafted in the mist of Macragge's bathhouse. "He can give birth to eighteen Primarchs!"
"How many must he have? A wife? Are these children really his own? Or are the eighteen babies drifting down the waters of Terra to the foot of the palace and being picked up by the Emperor? Which of his children is the most like him? Do you usually eat spicy apples or sweet apples? Are Konrad Curze and Corax Corax the most powerful? Among the Primarchs, who is the most powerful? How much antox can you eat in one meal? With the bones or without the bones?"
Yes, you have to admit, another thing that the Imperial people like to do on the surface is to discuss these elegant and charming people. The private side of great and extraordinary wonderful creatures that is closer to life itself.
People seem to have a certain duality. They don't really think that the Primarchs live among humans, but they especially like to assume that the Primarchs also wear the artificial leather boots of the Underhive.
As for what else the Imperial people secretly like...well, I think it's best not to share with you here the various conspiracy theories that the majority of the Imperial people believe in. You know some people think Fulgrim is pretentious, Perturabo is sullen and harsh, Horus is hypocritical and cold, Ferrus might be an iron man... all interesting, aren't they?
So, in this collection, we talk about the Primarch.
"The Emperor's Descendants" is an eye-catching title. It may be able to promote the empire's paper book economy. If the financial report is prosperous enough, I will go to the Chamber of Memories to publish more series of works. , such as the emperor's bloodline, the emperor's heirs, the emperor's descendants...
To sum up, this is the meaning of the existence of this book. The Great Crusade brought light to the world - and while it was the Terran Star Torch that physically accomplished this, that wasn't the only thing humanity needed, was it?
Of course, I know you can't stand this passage, Macado, so go ahead and use my 223-word preface, serious old man.
——
“You are very self-aware, Morse.” The Imperial Prime Minister said, slowly putting down Morse’s parchment. "Being able to write this general introduction, it seems that your mood is not that bad."
"The relationship between a person's mood and the things he writes may not be so intuitive, Macado," Moore Si said, taking care of the artificial feathers of the antique quill pen in his hand, his face calm, "I will stick to my hobby of satire until the day when I am no longer required to write anything."
"And I will ensure that the Ministry of Internal Affairs will not publish any of your unreviewed works without authorization," Makado said, removing a document from the desk and using some internal logic to find another one he needed. of instruments and illuminated with candlesticks.
Recently, the Royal Palace of Terra decided to simulate a long-lost snow scene. The person who proposed this idea was Mortarion, who planned to test the frost tolerance of garden plants.
Now, within the psychic barrier of the palace, artificial white snow fell from the dark snowy night sky, blowing the cold wind throughout every interconnected corridor. Malcador's approval of this proposal is enough to show that sometimes people just tend to do things that don't make sense.
"It doesn't matter," Morse shrugged and looked out through the window.
The golden dome is covered with white snow, and the vast pure tones re-cover the man-made palace, restoring it to the ancient majestic snow-capped mountains. It was not until today that he realized once again that the Terra Palace was indeed built on the Himalayas.
Makado paused while flipping through the documents, and his eyes moved to the craftsman's black robe.
"What did you talk about, Morse?" the Imperial Chancellor asked in a low voice.
"Some... family matters," the craftsman replied absently, staring into space.
After a while, he snapped his fingers, and a little golden light flashed in the air, following the intersection of candlelight and darkness, and injected into an ancient gramophone. The gold-copper gramophone made a dry scratching sound, and then, without the record being placed, it emitted a hoarse singing voice.
"The Puppet Song," Morse said, leaning on one side and laughing. "It's a pity it's a fake gramophone, but it has a good repertoire."
"You like it?"
"It's not easy. I like unusual repertoire." Morse said , "I heard that you have a strong-brained cat as a pet?"
"Listen to the Emperor?"
"When we were chatting one time, he finally decided to use some light topics to end the question and answer he provoked."
Morse spoke, The singing of the gramophone was woven into an invisible golden barrier by him, surrounding the inside of Malcador's room. The runes of isolation were like living thin snakes, curling up and appearing on the wall.
“We talked about a lot of topics, and the location was at the top of your corona spire, where you built a meditation room.”
“Oh,” Malcador shook his head slightly, “there. It has been abandoned. It is too close to the outside world, and the awareness of the body will be correspondingly weakened. I have converted the meditation room underground."
"But there is obviously no difference between him and me. There is wind at the top of the spire, and the circulation of natural wind is a gift from the galaxy. In any case, he asked me if I knew the situation on the 11th."
Malcador looked a little in disbelief. "He asked?"
"Am I a liar? Yes, he asked, and of course I answered I don't know."
The craftsman propped himself up slightly, as if He heard the wind slipping through his palms again, and the real snowfall at this moment, blowing through the rustling curtains and the open section of glass on the mullioned windows, sometimes brushing against his arms, bringing a trace of Coolness.
“I think he regretted it as soon as he opened his mouth.”
"He knows you don't like this topic." Makado judged.
"I'll never like it." Morse said, turning his palms wrapped in black cloth to make a gesture of grabbing a bow and arrow. The snowflakes rolled into the room, forming a vaguely shaped light-transmitting long bow, and then dispersed in the next second.
“I think he still wants to say something to me, but he has been unable to say it. There are some things-things I don’t know that are hindering him and making him hesitant.”
He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them. The basalt inside the corona spire and the fine gold runes embedded in the wall seemed to reappear before the eyes in the wind.
The Emperor stood beside the stone seat he had given to Malcador, looking up towards the small window high up in the tower where the sunlight shone, as if there was something important there that only he could see, a beam of light. A cold light, or a gray-black ember.
Then, the Emperor turned his head and glanced at him.
"I did not kill him," the Emperor said.
"Okay, so where is he? You know I am compiling a series of Primarchs, my Emperor."
Morse folded his arms in front of his chest and leaned against Stone wall stands. Time flew by, and he replenished himself with too many senses. A chill enveloped his back vaguely.
"He does not trust the Empire." The Emperor spoke. "The Legion is what he resists. Leman Russ cannot bring him back."
"So, where was he?"
"Do you know about the Holy Grail?"
"What kind of concept?"
"Occult."
"Of course," Morse said, humming softly, "a holy thing, a cup that holds the essence of eternity, like an egg cup, I think, only for the Messiah ”
When he mentioned that proper noun, his eyes stayed on the emperor, "Or his blood. The Holy Grail can also be a person, a person with the blood of the Messiah flowing in his body."
"Or An expanded area," the Emperor said. "What do you mean?"
"You want to find him."
"Yes."
"And you won't find him."
"Fuck you, Emperor. You sent Konrad Curze to the Grail Expansion, or your power found him through Sanguinius , is that so? Your damn plan, my lord!"
"You agreed to all this," the Emperor said firmly.
“Never!”
The emperor shook his head slightly, unmoved. He left the stone chair, his footsteps seeming to be one with the wind. His steps were so powerful, but his face still looked tired, as if he was walking on the sharp edge of the Himalayas, and he still had a long way to go.
"Many things exist differently than you think, Morse," he said, "the Primarch, the Webway, Waldor, you and me."
"You said these words , Nios. If you don’t give me an answer, I will blow up the palace now.”
The emperor smiled, which meant that he raised the corner of his mouth and made a movement without any joy in his heart. .
"And you will remember part of the answer. It is now...963.M30, and the time is approaching."
He paused: "All of us are tools and weapons. , container, fruit. When the time is right, someone will tell you the complete story personally, and you will tell it to me again. This is a task you must do
"One day we will enter the final gamble. Regardless of success or failure, the price must be paid without anyone knowing."
Morse could not explain his uneasiness.
"I mean - enough." He said, "One hundred and sixty years, I can't stand any more new puzzles. You can put it more concisely, I won't Angry that you call me a tool, I am only angered by unknown plans."
"I can't tell you what I don't know," the Emperor said. "I can only. Tell you the part of our plan that I and several others know and are responsible for."
"What is it?"
He stared at Morse, and his eyes were no longer associated with anything that could inspire reverence, longing, or pity.
It contains the emotions accumulated behind the glorious performances and dazzling blessings for countless years. It points directly to the old man himself who has walked alone for 30,000 years, and is no longer related to the conventional flashes of humanity. No, it is the darkness of human nature, anger, cruelty and even arrogance, and naked hatred.
“I don’t want to be Emperor,” he said, “even if someone has to do it, because it would mean a fraud on humanity, a game of self-deception. It would mean that I am using falsehoods to to promote justice and peace, and to use artificial light to cover up the darkness that cannot disappear."
"This is... an expedient."
"You like expediency. A plan?" the emperor retorted.
He walked around the tower, light occasionally sweeping over his robes, and the rest of the time he was immersed in darkness.
"The truth of the Empire is nothing more than a big lie. I know the warp exists, I know what it means, I hate it, my friend, I hate it, I hope it turns into ashes, destroyed forever, never Return.
“I hope that humanity’s path will never be blocked, that My creation will never have to be destroyed, that we will not live in the mockery of darkness, hiding in the space of the real universe and the Webway. Hanging on for breath, deceiving myself with lies, trembling in the face of the Milky Way.
“You asked me whether all the contradictions of mankind will be self-defeating after having the Internet Channel. My answer is no. People who have this idea are self-anathematized in timid joy.
"How many races have long since become monuments, the Ada relies on the webway but is still destroyed, the orcs are intoxicated in foolish ecstasy, and the million-year-old empire is also vulnerable, but anyone is affected by the soul. Races affected by the sea have no chance of surviving in the world forever. ”
"Since there is subspace in this world, how can one manage the Galactic Empire and realize the liberation of mankind?"
At this moment, he is not the master of mankind, but a confused man looking for a way. , a wandering old man, relying on some incomprehensible stubbornness - even stubborn hatred, to go through all the years of glory and darkness.
The past days no longer shine on him. The light and ambition have become ferocious and even ugly under the erosion of the old night. What supports him is something closer to something that deserves to be cursed for ten thousand years. Ambivalent, harsh, cold, and intense enough.
"You can't do it alone," Mors replied, hearing his own voice become distant.
"Then, I will be a god." The Emperor returned to calmness, few things could make his emotions so volatile. Today was an exception, even for Morse, who was familiar with him.
"You -"
"If everything goes well, I will be under control." The Emperor continued, taking a step back and looking away, his face pale enough against the black stone bricks behind him, "A set of yoke, an iron rope. Human beings understand me with brilliance and shape me with good deeds. This is the meaning of the identity of 'Emperor'. Even if this step still fails..."
He He pondered, letting the next few words disappear before exiting.
“But,” he continued, “all this will happen after the Great Crusade is over, to ensure that we can indeed complete the complete establishment of the Imperium of Man. Then, one person will be chosen to serve as our The legacy left behind."
"Are you satisfied with the answer you got, Remus? I'm only sharing it with you."
Morse couldn't answer.
Is this why you indulge Aurelion? Is this why you allowed the Word Bearers to deliver your Word? Look, I thought you didn't know what a hypocritical god you are, and I didn't know what you were asking for by radiating light here every day...
But until the end, he didn't ask a single question.
"Humanity is never satisfied," said the Emperor. "It is not good or evil that defines the foundation of our race. We simply never stop."
Morse stood and watched. The Emperor leaves the spire. Artificial snowfall has begun in the Terra Palace at night. Electric light flashes on the surface of the roaring rain cloud machines, while icy snowflakes fall from high altitudes, getting closer and closer until they cover the fine gold on the top of the spire.
The cold wind passed through the window panes in the tower, brutally broke into the room, and whizzed around in the small space. Amidst the howling of wind and snow, the outline of the palace became blurred and dissipated under the silent devouring of the artificial snowy night, stripped of color and texture.
He closed his eyes and was silent in the sound of wind, feeling the snowflakes streaking across the side of his face, like cold arrows grazing his cheeks.
Then he opened his eyes and heard the ancient coloratura music on the gramophone. The paper is being turned, and the warm candlelight in Malcador's room creates a warm glow. Snow and wind hit the outside of the colorful window, which had been closed by the imperial prime minister.
“Afterwards, he mentioned that he might need to find someone to act as his agent. I think he was planning to find one of his own descendants to complete the work.” Morse smiled, “Maybe it’s Horus. ·Lupekar? "
"Or Leon?" Malcador thought, seriously considering which original body would be the successor, which would be more conducive to achieving a peaceful connection with the imperial civil service system. "Ferrus?"
"It shouldn't be Leon El'Jonson, he can't coordinate everyone. I think it's Horus." Morse said objectively.
A real smile appeared on Malcador's old face. Perhaps he would never change his opinion of the Emperor, and the Emperor carefully maintained this - the Lord of Mankind was not a A fool without emotional judgment.
“Who knows what our old friend is thinking?” Malcador joked, “It’s not you anyway.”
“The sacred golden throne,” said Morse, “ Fuck you, Malcador”
(End of this chapter)