Chapter 492 Tower of Babel (Part 2)
The luminous platform, which they might call a flying carpet, sailed in the direction of the light source for another period of time. In Perturabo’s precise and stable mind, this period The journey time is two hours and ten minutes. Most of the time along the way, he was talking to Morse's voice, while observing the world on the current flow of time through the blurred waves.
After stepping through the door, Perturabo realized that they were not following the Emperor's life closely, but were traveling upstream in the rapid flow of history, looking for some chance to find something. A strange moment where the Emperor's life path intersects.
In the beginning, during the period closest to the thirty-first millennium, their encounters were more frequent, and as they gradually approached the fifteenth millennium when the Emperor visited Moro , the frequency with which two lines happen to intersect has decreased.
"What will I say next?" asked Perturabo. The flow of time blew on his face in a form that humans can understand, and the fragments of time next to him passed through his field of vision like small islands, flashing with colors that changed with the light source like mother-of-pearl, with different shades. The fragment's shadow cast a shimmering light and dark change on his body.
"Why do I know, I am not a prophet, Perturabo." Morse said, his voice came quietly in the wind, "I am walking on the same side of time with you."
"You know more than I do, Morse, and I want you to tell me. If I didn't do something at an earlier point in time, why would the Emperor tell you at a relatively later point in time that there is absolutely nothing ahead of me? Room to retreat?”
He still has many questions to ask the craftsman on the other side of the Gate of Moro, such as why the color of the luminous platform he is currently stepping on keeps changing from dark green to gold. There was also a lot of information that the Emperor told them later that seemed to be very targeted...
However, soon, new fragments were flying towards his face, expanding like a spider web into a wide area. The veil enveloped him in it.
...This brilliance is like the light of the star torch itself, bright and transparent, with white coral-like curls on the edges. And the scene inside the time point quickly became more specific...
Ripples like molten metal continued to roll out in the pale world... In the vast sea... a turbulent wooden ship defended itself from the side with a long bow that floated and fired automatically, and the sails hunted on long poles. The ground is spread out, a huge real spine is embedded in the center of the deck, strings of bone fragments and bells are hung on the outline around the central iron brazier, an old man is sitting by the brazier warming himself...
Except In addition, there is a young man in white robes, standing on the edge and looking out, observing the turbulent and trembling lightning in the subspace, as well as the hazy halos...
Perturabo Looking at the people standing there, he only paused for a moment, and then turned his attention to the old man sitting on the ground again.
"There you are," the old man said, the firelight covering his dark skin. "You."
After Morse walked forward to the fire and smiled coldly at another stunned young man with an almost identical face, Perturabo Only then was it confirmed that the old man was indeed referring to "you".
He still doesn't quite understand why Morse can really appear next to him only here. Perhaps this is determined by some characteristics of psychic energy.
Morse now looks like a translucent ghost, his mist-like skin looking uncertain in the light of the subspace, and the missing parts of his arms are clearly exposed.
"It is indeed us," Mors said. "Have you guessed it, Neos?"
"Hardly," the old man raised his head, looked at Mors, and raised his hand. Ask him to sit down. "So, we met, what do you have to say?"
"Is this Moro?" Morse asked and shrugged, "I remember that your speaking style during this period was really disappointing. It's unpleasant, but I don't know that I'm here... I should be here."
He sat down, invited Perturabo to come over, raised his hand and patted him on the back with a rare kindness, and then spoke to the old man again.
"Who do you think this is?" he said, sounding a little playful, "Can you imagine, Neos?"
"My son." The old man didn't even have to think, He gave the answer, and his directness made Perturabo's lungs tighten slightly. He relaxed a little and sat down silently in the empty space around the fire. The heat of the fire covered and fixed his face like a mask of glue that had set.
"No thoughts?" Morse asked.
"This proves that I have succeeded here." The old man said, "How did I do it?"
"You ask me?"
"You arrived from the future to the present, and I lack a solution to the present. If the one who gave the answer was not among us, my son would not have been born."
The old man stood up, and for a moment his existence seemed to become extremely distant. The wind and waves outside the sailboat they were on expanded and slapped the outside of the boat.
The young man on the side finally reacted. Half of his mind was still paying attention to Morse's missing arm: "So, you are the future me?"
"Third Eleven thousand years of you." Morse replied, avoiding his own eyes, "Don't look at me, I won't predict for you."
The young man moved away from staring at Morse and leaned against the side of the ship to look at the flow of energy in the vast ocean. His hands that would be missing in the future were tapping the dark wooden boards with salt stains on them.
"Emperor." Perturabo used the only title he was accustomed to.
The old man accepted his title as a matter of course, his eyes fixed on him firmly, examining the structure of his body, and then nodded with satisfaction. "What's your number?" he asked.
"You're too hard on your kid," Morse half-complained, "Ask him his name, he's a very nice guy. After all, I think he had a life before you I have seen you many times.”
The old man was silent for a moment and did not refuse: “Okay, tell me your name.”
"I am Perturabo," said Perturabo, feeling an urgent buzzing in his ears. He allowed his heartbeat to calm down. "Hello."
"Hello," the old man said, his expression seeming to soften for a moment, "Hello, Perturabo. Come and solve our problems. I need some Children, and I can't let them be born yet..."
He waved his hand, and the corresponding whimpering wind rippled in the vast ocean, "Their essence will be taken out of this vast ocean, but I still There are some containers and bait missing."
"What if there are none?" asked Perturabo. "What if we hadn't arrived here?"
"You will come, children." He said firmly, after a pause, "If you hadn't come... you would still be born, but your shells will be more susceptible to damage, and your essence will be less indestructible than I would like.”
Perturabo paid no heed to the Emperor's addition of the plural after "children." For a person who is old enough, almost everyone in human history is his junior.
His mind was more focused on another thing. This was Moro, the place where the Emperor re-elected the Primarch's role and truly understood the changes he could make to the Webway... They were about to make a decision, whether to tell the Emperor of another path... or to refuse. The future where the Dark Lord is born, rejects another possibility of the Webway, rejects the many deaths that have already occurred...
"Verify my idea," the old man turned to Morse, "Tell me, my The guess is correct or not."
Morse sighed, "Correct, I think."
"Okay," the old man said, "Remus, I need your strength. Constrained subspace ”
"Oh, how to do it?" "One harpoon is enough."
The young man smiled, he just raised his arm, and a harpoon formed in his palm The prototype was interrupted.
"No," said Perturabo, "is this enough?"
Morse's eyes flickered, and the shoulder of his missing arm moved.
"You decided," he said.
Perturabo stood up, his tall body towering over everyone. Pieces of information became coherent in his mind, including the many hints the Emperor would give him further down the line of time.
If they had given up the idea of interfering with the Emperor here, then the real plan for the Webway would not have been born... The Dark Lord would not have come at the end of the Great Crusade, and Erda would not have By forming the Illuminati, Magnus would not die, and the destruction they had now faced, but which they did not yet know about, would surely end...
"Father," he said to the Emperor, Tasting the flavor behind the word, "Do you understand the Webway?"
"Tell me what you want to say." The Emperor stared at him.
"A bigger plan," said Perturabo, "a plan from which there is no retreat. As you told me, there should be no room for retreat."
"Say it."
"First of all..."
His words were interrupted by a scream.
Morse reached out to himself. The young man chose to respond in confusion. The next moment, he screamed in pain. Half of his arm was rapidly splitting, releasing thousands of broken runes and bright lights. He glared at Morse in shock, He fell to his knees in severe pain.
The black-robed craftsman knelt down face to face with him, his expression stern, their eyes locked tightly, as if they were a single individual.
The runes spread outward, setting off huge waves in the vast ocean currents, and some huge energy aggregated into tangible masses, such as giant sharks or birds, swooping down towards them from the sky, exuding a strange luster The body was rolled up with an irresistible power like nature itself, but was tightly bound by the open mantra net. The vast ocean surged with vast howls, waves and high-frequency screams beyond the range of human hearing. A whirlpool formed around them.
“First of all, it is more effort - the Primarchs you originally envisioned are perfect, but they are not enough to fulfill the duties they will perform. As vessels, they must be more - indestructible and unusual. "
As Morse said, his own components also began to boil. Silk threads spread out from his body and decomposed in all directions. Each string plucked a rapid and repeated sound. A low trill.
"Secondly, you have to realize that what you will create is not your heir." He said, a vague smile appeared on his cold face, and his voice was raised extremely high in the pain of decomposition.
"Before that, they were tools, weapons and containers. My Lord, don't treat them as children."
All the black cloth strips wrapped around his body were spread out, and everything contained in them was poured out from the cracks. When it came out, it was like golden blood, completely spreading in all directions.
The arm he took from the young man was instead twisted into the last part of his carrier in the world; the young man's face turned pale, and he fell into a coma in the process and fell forward. Down, Morse caught him.
"He will not remember this memory, my lord," he said softly. "This memory belongs to me now... After that, you just need to let him go."
The old man witnessed all this, the storm around him rolled up his clothes, and his half-white hair was on his head Then fly.
He said: "Therefore, in the plan you mentioned, from now on, Remus, you will live with the only remaining strength.
"In addition, my son will Not my son, but my tool - so what do I have to give? "
Nios said, his dark eyes reflecting the sharp edges of the flames. Was there a sense of loss or sadness there? Perhaps Perturabo was expecting and fearing to see these emotions in his face. He Nothing was found.
Morse's voice echoed without source, and his body had turned into a dense golden net:
+Give your future, Neos. He will surely sit on the throne in the thirty-first millennium, and there will be many deaths, many destructions, and an undetermined final outcome...+
Then Perturabo spoke. For a moment he suddenly wanted to shout, but his voice was as dark and stubborn as a tomb.
“We have traveled a long way and finally reached where we are today - not a single thing or death can make us regret it, or make us stop and start over, and give up future success. Possibility."
The old man nodded, his thin hand pointing to the obsidian blade pierced through the robe.
"Then, you can tell me about this plan." He said, his face gradually plump, and the cold golden crown tied his raised black hair. Standing here was almost the emperor in Perturabo's memory.
——
"No existing sacrifice deserves to be denied, no written history can be insulted, no hesitation out of regret can determine the path, and no broader future ends due to reluctance..."
"This Sin is indeed what we choose for each other, and we are actually willing to choose it with our own hands..."
Batusa Narek woke up from his sleep, half of his brain was still immersed in the strong wind and huge waves. , and the time was still very early. On his planet, the sun had not yet risen from the sky, and the weathervane on the wooden roof was still creaking rhythmically in the night wind.
His stiff body gradually relaxed, and a warmth slid down his arms, making his heart feel more stable. He immediately found his paper and pen, and tried his best to write down the fragments he could still save - this was not something that a priest could know, but the emperor gave it to him, and he had to record this story in his own hand Come down.
This is something that someone should know...he thought...but he cannot tell it in its original form. This is an incomprehensible and vast secret, mysterious, incomprehensible and unreasonably harsh. This is...the Emperor's The story, the story of the origin of the Empire, and the Iron Lord...
However, the Emperor's thoughts were to be conveyed in a way, and what he needed would be... ah, fables. A fable that people can understand without reading too much and causing confusion and panic.
In addition, Narek had a premonition that the history he had been witnessing would come to an end in the dreamland of the next day. In other words, the end point has been clear from the very beginning. He will follow the river of time and return to the present...
After that, he will do what he should do.
(End of this chapter)