40k: Midnight Blade.

Chapter 823 Extra: Round Table Movie Viewing (Part 6)
The once lively round table now only had five people left. Leaving one person aside for now, the remaining four looked at each other, none of them intending to speak first.

The awkward silence lasted for a while until the blue light flashed again, bringing Magnus and Loga Aurelion back.

Unfortunately, they had little interest in chatting or sharing. One was muttering to himself absentmindedly, his face filled with disbelief, reciting things like experimental rules. The other was in a state of extreme rage; his face, so similar to the Emperor's, was now distorted beyond recognition.
This scene seemed to touch a nerve related to joy in Conrad Coates, and he immediately burst into sharp, piercing laughter, laughing so hard he almost fell off the large chair.

Regardless of why he laughed like that, at least three people around the round table at that moment could not tolerate such behavior.

However, only one of them chose to speak out and stop it.

"Shut up," Peturabo growled darkly.

This statement naturally had no effect. Not only did Coz not stop, but he even pointed at him and laughed even harder, his exaggerated laughter making one wonder if he had gone mad.

Unable to bear it any longer, Peturabo stood up and drew his sword in an instant.

He strode toward his brother, who was still curled up in his chair, laughing, sword in hand, his steps firm and resolute, as if he were truly carrying murderous intent.
“No,” Feralus Manus interjected, trying to dissuade him.

Peturabo barely stopped and glanced back.

Roger Dorn withdrew his arm from his shoulder and sat back down in his chair with a calm expression.

"Don't worry about him. What you should be doing now is recalling and learning."

Peturabo sheathed his sword with a cold smile, but seemed to have found a new target.

He turned to Dorn and said sneer, "What? You think that guy's so-called tactics are worth learning from? He's just sending people to their deaths!"

“He’s trying to win,” Dorn replied slowly. “I don’t believe you can’t see that; he’s done his best under the limited conditions.”

"At the cost of our soldiers' lives!" Peturabo roared, barely able to contain himself. "Your legions are among them!"

"They were fighting side by side. To achieve this, the two generals must have communicated thoroughly beforehand. They must have made complete contingency plans and defined the division of responsibilities, otherwise this situation would not have been possible. In terms of strategic direction, sacrifices are inevitable if you want to capture some strategic locations."

Perturabo was about to say something more, but the blue light suddenly flashed again for a moment—Horus appeared first with his fists clenched, followed by Forgrim, and their return completely shattered the calm in the conference room.

As soon as Forgrim landed, he charged toward Horus, punching him so hard that blood trickled from his mouth and he fell to his knees.

Horus was usually an easygoing person, but his bottom line was very clear. He would not treat this kind of thing as part of the brothers' playful banter. But now, he did not resist. He just reached out to support himself, swallowed the blood, raised his head, and showed a bitter smile.

"I don't know why he would..." he said, his voice trembling slightly. "I...I..."

Fugrim twitched the corners of his mouth, his eyes narrowed and curved into a beautiful smile, then he pounced on him, his hands already gripping Horus's neck.

Ferrus Manus appeared behind him like the wind, his iron hands mercilessly grabbing the Chermos man's hands and forcefully forcing him away from the man being slowly murdered. Robert Guilliman joined in half a second later, prying open Forgrim's fingers one by one.

And so, Horus did not die.

But he didn't seem satisfied.

He sat there dejectedly, unresponsive to the bright red finger marks on his neck. He simply spread out his trembling hands, lowered his head, and stared at them without uttering a word.

"Murderer!" the Chemos roared—or rather, screamed—from under the iron grip. "Murderer!"

“Calm down, and then tell us what you all saw,” Feralus Manus whispered in his ear, his tone almost commanding.

Robert Guilliman, exasperated, unbuttoned his shirt, which he had just buttoned up, wiped the sweat from his brow, and stepped in front of Horus and the phoenix, which was still struggling to break free from Pheros's restraints. He raised his hands and spoke very sincerely.

"The storyteller said that none of this has anything to do with us, so whatever you saw wasn't real—"

Forgrim immediately interrupted him with a roar.

"—Really? Do you know what he did? He imprisoned my offspring like dogs, then made them tear each other apart and kill each other for his own amusement! Tell me, Guilliman, if you were the one treated like that, how would you feel? You can now stand on your own accord and tell me to calm down, and say it's just a story, but what if something similar happened in your legion in the sequel?!"

"I told you, calm down!"

Ferrus Manus emphasized his words, then suddenly pulled Forgrim towards his chair, and with one hand dragged the chair into the darkness away from the light, thus temporarily separating them from their seats.

Robert Guilliman stood there, stunned, for a long while before turning his head to look at Horus.

"Is he telling the truth?" he asked in a low voice.

Horus raised his head, his face pale, and nodded.

Conrad Coates started laughing again.

No one knows when he stopped, but he certainly didn't have good intentions. He stopped on purpose and then chose this moment to laugh again.
The people in this room are all his brothers, and the bond between them is clear even without seeing each other.

He chose to laugh at them.

A flash of blue light suddenly appeared.

"Yeah, that's a pretty awful laugh. But if you keep using this method to mask your emotions and escape your true feelings, your mental illness might get worse, and your interpersonal relationships will be terrible. At least I think at least three of the people in this room right now want to beat you up."

As the sound rang out, everyone turned their attention to the blue light that was constantly flickering in the center of the round table.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Lan Guang asked, puzzled. "Shouldn't you take this opportunity to express your feelings?"

Robert Guilliman took a deep breath.

"You said from the beginning that whatever happened in those stories was none of our business. But if it's none of our business, why did the Emperor ask you to show them to us one by one? And in such an immersive way?"

“Hey, that’s your father,” the narrator chuckled. “Why do you call him so formally?”

"I asked the question first." "Oh? After I answer, will you answer my question too?"

Guilliman's eye twitched slightly, but he remained calm and nodded very seriously.

“I will,” he said.

"The deal is done." The narrator whistled cheerfully. "Those stories really have nothing to do with you, believe me, that's for sure. In other places, you won't have this kind of opportunity to grow together."

"But you have indeed asked the crucial question, little clerk—why did your father specifically invite me to give you this shocking lesson? He could have just had me show you the story, which would have been much cheaper."

"Ha, the answer is actually quite simple. Because the culprits who caused so much suffering to those people in the story have never really left you. They are still hiding, and they might even be listening right now, smugly savoring your emotions."

"Therefore, he asked me to warn you, and it had to be a very severe warning, like a child who disobeys his parents and goes swimming in the river on his own and gets a severe beating when he gets home—if it's not this severe, who knows, one day when he comes home he might find your bodies floating on the river after you've drowned."

After a moment of silence, Roger Dorn frowned and raised a key point.

"But the story is too real, and we even unconsciously identified with the characters in it. This doesn't make sense; you must have done something else."

The narrator whistled again in a flippant manner.

"Yes, you're really smart! After all, you've already had an immersive experience, so why don't I give you some psychological cues? Don't worry, I'm controlling the intensity. You'll only feel uncomfortable for two or three hours at most, and then you'll be back to normal."

He chuckled strangely, and a wisp of blue light flew up and arrived in front of the silent Robert Guilliman.

"Now it's your turn," the narrator said expectantly. "Answer the question quickly."

“The reason I don’t call him father is because I don’t feel any affection from him,” Guilliman said slowly. “The way he looks at me is like he’s looking at a useful but still imperfect tool. He doesn’t see me as a son, so why should I see him as a father? Besides, I already have a father. My father is Connor Guilliman.”

"Okay, I've recorded it," the narrator said.

“What?” Guilliman was stunned. “You—why would you do this?”

“Because I’m going to show it to him,” the voice in the blue light replied matter-of-factly. “Otherwise, why would I make a deal with you? Just to hear an answer I already know? Sigh, young Robert Guilliman, you’re still a bit naive. Idealists are destined to suffer. But I can give you a free lesson in advance: a businessman never loses unless he has a gun to his head.”

The Macuraq man unbuttoned all the buttons on his clothes, then stood there taking several deep breaths to catch his breath. He returned to his chair, his fists clenched tightly, his face flushed.

"Now it's your turn." The floating blue light appeared before Conrad Coates. "So, little bat, how did you like the story?"

“You’re a damn bastard,” the Nostramo man said politely.

“Likewise, you little lunatic. Shut your mouth now, or I’ll throw you at the scene of Khalil Lohals’ death and make you watch it for ten days and ten nights. Some people are coming back, and I don’t want things to get too chaotic because of you, or I’ll have to resort to violence. Trust me, you don’t want to see me when I’m angry.”

"Oh, and those two brothers whispering in the dark, that's enough for you two. There are still people here. When no one's around, you can get a private room and have a proper chat, okay? Um, and you too."

The blue light drifted and came before Horus.

Surprisingly, at this moment, the narrator's voice no longer sounded so awful; it was even somewhat gentle, and the tone became very slow.

"Everything you experienced in that story just now was not real."

The light flickered for a moment, then Horus swayed as he stood up, returned to his chair with a blank expression, and sat down without saying a word.

Everyone's expressions became complicated, but Roger Dorn remained unaffected and spoke again.

"Where are the others? Why haven't they come back yet?"

As if mocking his words, the blue light suddenly shone to its brightest point, so bright that the Primarchs instinctively closed their eyes. When it went out, the owners of the empty seats had all returned, but they had all changed to varying degrees.

Saint Gilles, who was always smiling, stopped smiling. He folded his wings close to his body and crossed his arms over his chest.

Anglang leaned weakly against the back of the chair, the white plastic tube above his head now almost entirely filled with blood.

Riemann Russ was unusually dazed, looking up at the dark ceiling with an expression that was somewhere between thoughtful and bewildered.

Kolus Corax kept glancing at Conrad Coz until the latter couldn't help but bare his teeth at him, at which point he looked away.

Leon Aljonson gripped the armrests of his chair, his face ashen, saying nothing, but his anger was impossible to conceal.

Vulcan and Mortarian exchanged glances, one with pain, the other with suppressed emotion, before both looking at the Makrag. The look in their eyes made him instinctively tense.
Alpharis, however, remained calm, even showing a hint of joy.

He looked around, seemingly wanting to say something, when the blue light immediately floated in front of him, issuing a warning.

Don't say anything.

The snake helplessly touched its smooth head and nodded.

"Very good, everyone's here, so now—"

"—Let's take a break for now."

A voice rang out at the doorway of the room. Everyone turned around and saw an old man wearing a long robe, his face under his hood unusually calm.

He then went into the room and stood aside to make room.
The Primarchs realized something, and they all stood up at the same time.

“Robert,” said the man wearing the laurel wreath. “Come with me. And the two of you too.”

He raised his hand and pointed to Horus and Phorgrim.

(End of this chapter)