Chapter 297: Is that all?
Ptolemion was filled with doubts.
The champion of the Origin Chapter is now immersed in a kind of torture that is not physical but purely mental.
The main reason for this came from the fact that he began to obsessively agree to "consider" the other party's proposal under the pressure and atmosphere created by that cell - when one of his thoughts could cost the lives of the entire Third Company brothers. At that time, he did have some real concerns about this talented warrior who was not over fifty years old in terms of mortal age, but he would never admit this to anyone.
Although Ptolemion meticulously followed the requirements of the Holy Codex Astartes written by the great Guilliman for nearly forty years, from daily prayers to evening prayers, without interruption.
His purity and devotion are something that the Chaplain of the Chapter often praises to his other brothers, and he himself believes that this is a way to bring himself closer to their genetic father, Robert Guilliman, both physically and mentally. Self-discipline is necessary.
Morning rise, prayer, training, listening to the sacred sermons of the brother priests, company lunch, training, reading the holy scriptures together, training, dinner, bed...or, fighting, praying to the Emperor and Guilliman, Fight, kill, get injured, fight, fight, until victory is achieved, and return to the New Star with all or some of the brothers and their gene seeds, where they will once again participate in a solemn farewell and solemn resting ceremony.
In this way, he won for himself a short, quiet and regular life. Between going to the chapel, he could stay in his favorite monastery corridor and walk quietly and slowly, allowing himself not to worry about it. I stood in a daze for a few seconds, watching the leaves swirling from the trees in the garden to the ground.
But he never knew that breaking this regular and rigorous life would make him so uncomfortable... so uncomfortable, but it was not a torture that could be concretely manifested in the physical body. He couldn't tell.
After all, it is true that most of what the master of the Eighth Legion promised to Ptolemion in that cell has been fulfilled - the brothers who came to this ship alive and without further harm. (Naked, of course), and he himself was not forced to perform any sacrilegious killings or kneel before any evil being, nor was there any imagined torture and torture, or the crafty work that the Eighth Legion was famous for. imposed on himself; therefore it is obvious that in terms of the education and training Ptolemion received from his childhood in a feudal noble knight family until he became an Astartes, the promise he agreed to make at that time It should also be followed.
But maybe he shouldn't keep his word to heretics because they don't deserve it. He had heard similar remarks in the war group, but never delved into it, because in front of his invincible thunder hammer and terminator, unclean heretics and aliens usually would not have the chance to survive to fight Ptolemion. When talking, let alone quid pro quo.
There are no priest brothers here either. The commander of the third company is still vacant due to his refusal - he knows that others are looking forward to his taking over, but he always says that he is still inexperienced when declining. , which earned him a more humble reputation, but only Ptolemion himself knew that he was not ready to shoulder more and heavier responsibilities - like today.
He had to take responsibility for the lives and futures of nearly a hundred Astartes brothers on his first try.
Although the crown is light, it has its own weight.
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"Don't stand there in a daze like Ogryn, there is work all over the place that needs to be done urgently."
A cold voice startled Ptolemion out of his immersed thoughts.
He raised his head, and now he was barefoot, wearing only a rag robe that was so tattered and dirty that it was no different from a piece of cloth - it was very small but the gaps between the rags were big enough. They should have come from somewhere. The slave was stripped from his body - he was standing in a hall that had just been evacuated. His genetically enhanced sense of smell and taste told him that many people must have died in this place before - very, very many - unusually strong blood and The smell of other bodily fluids mixed together made the Astartes want to gag.
"Hey, be kind to the young people, Valier. They still have a lot to learn. You can't ask them to know everything from the beginning."
At the other end of the hall, a man The Dreadnaught—Ptolemion tried not to habitually add the word “holy” in front of it—but it really looked older and more impressive than any he knew—was standing there, That was one of his appointed guardians on this ship, known as "War Philosopher" Macharion, and the other was Valier who was in front of him.
Even for a champion of the Company Astartes, having such an elder as a guardian is a serious and honorable treatment, and the invisible part deep in Ptolemion's heart is indeed a little small. Feel something close to pride or satisfaction.
The pharmacist turned around and roughly shoved a bunch of improvised but useful cleaning tools into the company champion's arms.
“Here, this is what you are going to do here. Clean this place first, find yourself a desk, then start counting data, and finally process files! - No offense intended , War Philosopher, but I still have a lot of work to finish, and I don’t have enough medicine and materials yet.” “Ah, I can understand, Valier, thank you for your efforts and efforts. It’s okay. , let me do it here”
“All for the King of the Night”
Just...that's all? There's no such thing as working in the death mines, entering the gladiatorial arena for people's amusement, or becoming experimental materials for evil pharmacists?
Ptolemion stood there holding the pile of tools in disbelief, listening to the pharmacist's footsteps leaving in a hurry. There was only a few emergency lights shining precariously, and there was darkness everywhere. Huhu.
The Dreadnought's rotating motor made a whining sound, and Ptolemion's muscles tightened. Perhaps this Dreadnought was equipped with an electric whip or something else...
"Pa."
There was no pain as expected.
The two searchlights at the top of the Dreadnought shine brightly, illuminating Astartes' blank face and his next work site.
"I think this brightness should be enough. Well, start completing your work, child."
"Ah, thank you very much, respected Lord Macharion... "Human?"
Before he realized what he had answered, the habitual words of reply had flowed out of Ptolemion's mouth smoothly - although he immediately pursed his lips tightly, wishing he could Swallow all the words.
There was a loud banging sound like a rotating metal bullet chain inside the Fearless.
For some reason, Ptolemion felt that Fearless was smiling.
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Looking at the champion who was confused and ashamed about his words and deeds in the dark, the pale giant held up his hand and finally got it. The "second best" took a sip, then his whole face wrinkled, he put down the "good wine" that was extremely rare and precious on this ship, and began to rinse his mouth with the more precious tasteless water.
(*I'm starting to see why you picked him.)
"Huh?"
(*As rich as he is in combat experience, he is lacking in social experience. His whole life is as boring as the most tasteless corpse starch. This man became the Champion of the Astartes solely because of his combat skills. His pure focus and shitty luck. He is so young that he can be easily persuaded and swayed as long as he takes off his armor. )
"Isn't it good to be lucky? Luck is rare. Character, I think both you and everyone else on this boat sorely needs some."
(*...I don't believe in luck, and neither does war.)
"It doesn't matter," Lamizane thought about the next thing, "Just believe in metaphors and omens."
(*...?)
(End of this chapter)