40k: Midnight Blade.

Chapter 851, Part 22: Interlude - The Cocktail Party (Part 4, 22)

Two-headed beasts—there are at least tens of thousands of beasts in the Empire that can be called that, but most of them are probably not edible, otherwise Grox would not be so popular.

In the days before the breeding of graciles was formalized, people were even willing to die every week just to keep these strong and temperamental animals in their world. That speaks volumes, doesn't it?

But the two-headed beast of the Duns A-2 is quite different, to be precise, very different.

The two-headed beasts living in this animal farm are generally gentle in nature, have extremely strong digestive abilities, and their meat is not only delicious but also highly nutritious. This is completely contrary to the pattern of natural evolution because they have no means of resisting threats from head to toe.

Therefore, the most plausible theory at present is that some unnamed biological sage or underground modifier skilled in gene manipulation probably modified the ancestors of the two-headed beasts in the distant past for unknown purposes, and gradually shaped them into their current form.

Otherwise, it is truly difficult to explain how these creatures survived in the harsh natural environment of Dons A-2 in the past.

Now, the renowned aroma of the two-headed beast ribs fills the entire banquet hall. The waiters have already brought the dish to the table, and the perfectly fried, tender ribs are quietly waiting for the knife and fork to arrive, accompanied by a rich broth and a few vegetables.

It's worth mentioning that they are quite large, and even for the Primarch, they are not dishes that can be finished in just a few bites.
Therefore, it's clear that Markus Krensky is indeed a highly skilled chef. Cooking such enormous ingredients with such exquisite control of heat while being only human, it's no wonder he's so popular.

However, despite the delicious ribs, no one ate them at the table.

About ten minutes later, hurried footsteps sounded from outside the banquet hall, and a woman wearing an Olympian-style robe pushed open the door and walked in.

Her hair was gray, and her eyes were lined with wrinkles; she did not come alone.
A giant dressed in a simple black and white robe followed her into the banquet hall.

The servants quietly closed the door from the outside, and the Primarchs slowly rose to greet the tyrant of Olympia and the Primarch of the Nineteenth Legion, Kolus Corax.

"What has slowed you down?" Peturabo asked, stepping forward first with a furrowed brow.

Califon pushed away his hand that was helping her up, bowed deeply, expressed her apologies to the demigods of the Empire, and slowly explained the reason.

"I'm sorry, everyone. There was some traffic on our way here. It seems there was a traffic accident."

“It’s good that you’re alright,” Peturabo said in a deep voice, then took her hand and stood beside her.

This gesture drew a low chuckle from the Khan. The Chogoris turned to the side, nudged the rock standing beside him with his shoulder, and laughed, "Don't you think he's funny right now?"

Roger Dorn, without looking at him, said, "I refuse to answer that question."

“Yes, it’s good that you’re alright, Ms. Califon.” The other person agreed with Peturabo.

The speaker changed his previous drunken and laughing manner; his previously open clothes were now closed, and his loose white hair was gathered up again.

He smiled gently, nodded to the tyrant, and even cracked a little joke.

"Actually, when I heard that you and Corax happened to meet, I thought you would suddenly pop out of thin air. Although you are a little late, at least you came through the main gate normally, which is very good."

Kolus Corax looked over silently, and his eyes met those of the phoenix.

The latter grinned at him, strode over, and immediately began to tidy up his long-lost brother's appearance—of course, he didn't forget to criticize the Lord of the Crows for his casual attire.

"Roll up your sleeves, tighten your belt, and don't let your robe drag on the ground. Look at you, Corax! Why didn't you change into something nice for such an important party? Didn't I tell you I brought a lot of my personal treasures? It wouldn't be difficult to alter your size on the spot."

Kolus Corax sighed, a rare occurrence for him, and resignedly raised his hand so that the Chemos could smooth out the details on his robe.

However, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Khalil standing at the back of the crowd, who was manipulating a data panel.

The shimmering blue light disappeared entirely into the unique black eyes of the Nostramo people, without causing the slightest ripple.

He frowned.

Khalil put down the data panel, looked at him, smiled slightly, said nothing, and simply shook his head. Corax, however, was already overwhelmed by the Primarchs surrounding him and could no longer say anything.

A moment later, all thirteen Primarchs were seated, even a disabled prisoner had his own seat. The three mortal guests, Kalil, Califon, and Celestine, sat at the end of the table, dining with the help of raised chairs and small step stools—there was no other way but to endure these inconveniences when living with giants.

The Grand Inquisitor and the Tyrantess were already used to it, but the nun who came as a jailer was very uncomfortable, restrained and cautious.

She shouldn't have attended the party, nor did she want to, but her duties weren't over yet. As long as the trial of Omega, the leader of Hydra, hadn't begun, her work would continue. Every day, she had to monitor Omega and record his actions and words.
Thinking about this, she even lost her appetite, especially when she looked up and saw the prisoner's smile. This loss of appetite deepened into an unbearable nausea.

Her unusual condition was quickly noticed. The one-armed gladiator inquired about her condition with concern, then summoned a waiter who took her to the lounge.
After the minor incident, the banquet continued.

A variety of dishes were served in succession, and fine wines that replaced Russ craft wines took turns appearing, most of which were Macurag wines that had been enhanced to suit the Primarch's constitution.

Robert Guilliman was quite pleased with himself for this, and even stood up and raised his glass, declaring that the world's best wine was produced in the 500s—his statement was quickly suppressed by Vulcan, Saint-Gilles, and Khan, and even Corax asked him to have a couple of drinks.

Soon, the clerk, who had been busy with his work shortly before the reception began, loosened the collar of his consul's uniform and stared blankly at the table in silence.

Clearly, Ruth's brew isn't the only spirit in the world that can get a Primarch drunk. Therefore, Guilliman's earlier statement wasn't entirely unfounded boasting.

Amidst this lively atmosphere, Khalil, carrying his half-eaten plate of ribs, slowly approached Omega.

The prisoner lowered his hands, giving the constantly waving knife and fork a brief rest, then smiled and asked, "What's wrong, Uncle?"

Khalil didn't say anything, but simply handed him the ribs, then turned and walked toward the now-empty terrace.

Before the snake-headed man could say anything, he felt a force pushing him from below—his wheelchair began to move on its own, carrying him to keep up with Khalil's pace.

The Primarchs all remained silent on the matter, except for Loka Aurelion, who was somewhat worried.

His expression quickly drew the ire of someone, who reached out and grabbed his shoulder without warning, forcing him to look at him.

Leon El-Jonson asked in a cool tone but with concern, "How are you?"

"I--"

"Speak," the lion urged. "This is a family feast, Luo Jia, you can say whatever you want."

“Yes, brother.” Saint Gilles smiled as he looked over. “This is a family dinner.” The lively atmosphere at the long table faded away for the moment, and on the terrace, a cold current from a thousand meters above blew in, causing Omega’s thin clothes to flutter up and down.

The snake-headed man, whose physical condition had greatly weakened, had to temporarily place the ribs he was holding on his lap and straighten his collar before he felt a little better. The person who brought him here said nothing, but simply held out his hand, asking him to hand him the plate.

After Omega did as he was told, he was seen eating heartily, devouring all the meat bite by bite.

Only when only bones remained on the plate did Khalil put down the plate and place it on the small round coffee table on the terrace, speaking slowly as if in casual conversation.

"How many people came?"

“I don’t know, Uncle. This operation wasn’t ordered by me; they acted on their own,” the snake-headed man replied with a smile. “But I think there are probably no fewer than five hundred people.”

“What a generous gesture.”

"You flatter me. It's just the same old trick of infiltration and espionage. Old dogs can't grow new teeth. Aren't you going to ask me about Celestine? Her condition just now can't be explained by simple stress."

Khalil tilted his head slightly, looking at him with a half-smile.

"Do I need to ask? Mental suggestion isn't difficult for you; you have plenty of time to give her suggestions, just waiting for the right opportunity. But do you think now is that time?"

Omega was still smiling, but his expression was somewhat somber, which did not seem fake.

“Of course not, but I had no choice. They’ve already taken action, and I don’t want this respectable lady to be implicated afterward.”

Khalil's ambiguous smile gradually turned into mockery: "Implicated? What implicated? You don't think anyone can cause her trouble, do you?"

"No one can say for sure, Uncle. There are always more fools than fools in this world. And I'm about to die. I'm afraid that after this family dinner, you'll take me to see him, right? Perhaps it's true that people do good deeds when they're about to die. In any case, I don't want to see another innocent person suffer because of me."

“That sounds nice,” Khalil nodded. “But actions always speak louder than words—tell me, what are they planning to do?”

"They probably created a riot and took the opportunity to rescue me."

Do you think they can do it?

Omega sighed helplessly.

“I’m crazy, but not senile or stupid, Uncle. If they could do this, Chaos would probably have been strangled by us long ago.”

"So, this was a suicide mission."

“Yes, without a doubt.” The snake-headed man’s expression finally became slightly serious. “And you’ve already informed them of this, haven’t you? I know how efficient the court is. In about ten minutes, or even a few minutes, they’ll inform you that the matter has been resolved, right?”

“No.” Khalil shook his head. “I did not notify the court.”

Omega raised an eyebrow: "Really? Then I suppose the security forces my brothers each brought will handle this matter? Don't you think that would cause too much of a commotion?"

No, you guessed wrong again.

This time, Omega remained silent for a very long time, so long that he almost turned into a solemn statue in the cold wind.

He spoke in a low voice: "Conrad?"

"No, he's having another banquet with Magnus and Mortarian in the wasteland right now. They can't come to this banquet, but at least they can have a little get-together. It's a rare time for rest, and I won't let him go out to work at this time."

“Then—” Omega frowned in confusion. “—I can’t think of anyone.”

"You certainly wouldn't have guessed that," Khalil thought with pity.

He came behind the serpent's head, and a flash of psionic light appeared, and the skeletal giants of the Eighth Legion were thus reborn in an absurd form.

He reached out and grabbed Omega, gently pulling him from the wheelchair, then leaped, plunging off the terrace. The clouds tore apart, sunlight streamed onto their shoulders, and the wind howled past, blurring everything into a hazy image.
Omega gritted his teeth and endured the bone-chilling cold that emanated from within, speaking hoarsely in the wind.

"Where are we going?"

“Go see my helper,” Khalil told him in a low voice. “Go see your father.”

The snake's pupils contracted sharply.

Another gust of wind swept in, and their figures disappeared outside the building.
-
Saihan, a member of the 20th Legion, which inherited an ancient name, was a well-trained and experienced man who knelt on both knees with his head bowed. His weapons lay naturally at his sides, the blades unstained and the bullets still inside the barrel; his body was not even in a fully combat-ready state.
Coincidentally, the same was true for the other 499 lurking serpents of the 20th Legion.

Few of them wore full power armor; most wore lightweight, later-made synthetic armor or nothing at all. This was the necessary price to pay for their long-term infiltration, and their presence here now meant they were prepared to sacrifice themselves.

Logically speaking, they shouldn't be giving up the fight like this.

However, the real world doesn't reason with people.

“There’s no need to fight,” the man said to them from a short distance away, his tone surprisingly gentle. “There’s no need to shed any more blood.”

Really? Is that really so? The Emperor? Saihan couldn't help but ask himself.

A second, or perhaps less, later, the person he was asking responded to him with a psychic voice.

Yes, Sehan of the Twentieth Legion. Today, I have not come to kill.
The snake remained silent for a long time.

+But+
I know.
Saihan looked up in astonishment and panic at the man, only realizing how foolish he had been several seconds later—yes, he was the emperor, what lie could possibly fool him?

The man shook his head.

+You're wrong again, Saihan. I've been deceived many times. I'm not a god, nor can I be one. Being deceived is inevitable. Wait, Saihan, your genetic father is coming soon. +
Are you going to kill him?
Why would I kill my own son?
He's a traitor, and so are we.
The man laughed, a genuine laugh. Facing the dark figure descending from the sky, he spoke again.

“I don’t want to talk about business today,” he said. “This is a good day; how can I let official business take up this hard-won time?”

Therefore, he will not die today, Saihan, even if he is a traitor.
(End of this chapter)