Warhammer: Start with a dog.

Chapter 343 A ghost is wandering here
"So the area where the Desert Ark is located needs to dispatch a tactical team with 'experience in fighting Space Marines and suppressing riots' to provide emergency support?"

On the Iron Blood, the Iron of Destiny, the members of the Honor Guard received a message from His Highness Angron Petra.

The arrival of this message immediately temporarily terminated the Iron Blood's twelfth mess hall siege and thirteenth mess hall expedition of the week, and triggered an unprecedented boom in the use of and discussion of the gladiatorial cage hall.

——No matter what kind of technical officers are needed there or what additional selection criteria there are, as long as the opponent is defeated first, then the chances of being selected will be increased. This is a simple truth that everyone on the Iron Blood now understands clearly.

The Bronze Throne greatly appreciated the sudden surge of blood-red rage and courage that poured into its Eternal War Fortress, and urgently sent a void telegram of congratulations and a recruitment letter.

When the vampire herald riding on the steel bull just jumped out of the Iron Blood's gladiatorial cage, riding on the passionate battle and the exciting subspace emotion wave of deciding the strongest person - oh, then, under the disappointed gaze of the bloodthirsty Astartes, it was "kicked (annihilated) back (destroyed)" to where it came from by the Iron Blood's 88th upgraded anti-psychic detection and automatic annihilation system.

As a result, Perturabo BC became even more furious when he discovered that the parts of Khorne on the tables that had just been leveled were now level again due to the additions.

"I just can't stand it! We need delicate and planned calculations! Delicate! Balanced! Obedient! Like trimming the hedges in the garden! Damn it! When I get back to the Iron Blood, I'm going to pick some people and put them in the torpedo tubes to launch them, so that my blood pressure can drop! - So what happened to those crazy Dornish guys who were kicked behind the blast door on the seventh deck?"

"I must point out that if all the plants are hedges, it is not conducive to the harmony of the garden. - Apparently, the devout monks of the Black Templar are tightly surrounding their lost 'Primarch', like a group of vigilant black dragons guarding their most precious treasure, and trying to listen to more of 'Dorn''s teachings and extremely fierce curses and oaths of revenge against us by interpreting every gesture and movement of your poor student. To be honest, they recited so long and with such intonation that it even sounded like ancient Gregorian chants."

The former Imperial Regent made a cup of tea, and the air was immediately filled with the faint scent of white flowers. "Come on, have a sip, Angron, don't worry too much. We have two primarchs and a Malcador here. Is there anything that can't be solved?"

The Twelfth Primarch, who learned the bad news that he had been successfully labeled a "traitor who colluded with heretics" by the sons of Dorne without his knowledge, took the teacup from the old man. His face was as peaceful as the body of the Iron Lord Perturabo BC hidden behind the screen. Then he took a sip of tea and sighed.

"Perturabo should have bombed half of Port Wander."

On the ceiling that no one cares about, no one knows, and cannot return to his place, Mr. Ramizane Kalosini is currently looking at his "drawn" soul that is "stuck" in a stagnant position, feeling very uneasy.

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Desert Ark

Seventh Deck
The lights in the isolation cabin were bright, illuminating——

Magna Dorn, with his golden armor shining but condensation dripping down his back, and the Black Templars kneeling around him.

"Dorn, the Great Saint of Terra! Our glorious gene-father..." After saying only these words, Lord Caleb was almost choked with sobs and could not continue, "I can't believe it! Those hateful traitors and heretics! Look what they did to you!! If it weren't for your golden armor that could be recognized by us... your voice, your eyes, your face, your..." He knelt on his knees trembling, muttered a prayer to the newly locked weapon on his wrist and began to confess to the holy Emperor.

"It's our fault! The Emperor has guided us here, but we didn't find you earlier! And when you were forced to wear that filthy cloak and try to comfort your offspring, we didn't recognize you immediately! Repent! We need more repentance and atonement! Only the blood of sinners can wash away our sins!"

...I shouldn't have asked the teacher and the armory to make one for me just because of the majestic and beautiful golden armor in the saved data.

Now, it was a mistake because of the perfect replica. What should I do? Why do these Black Templars and Lysander look so different in reality? Aren't they all descendants of the original, brothers of genetic blood?
Magna Dorn sat at the top of the center, not knowing what to do, but he knew it was best not to disturb his black-and-white tyrant guardian Perturabo BC when he was furiously trying to balance the balance sheet of reality-warp. He still remembered the first time he used his own mecha to kill a demon that broke in and ran to the studio in panic, but Perturabo, who was furious because his calculation process was interrupted, forced him to shut down for several days!

In his database since he had "cognitive power", there is a large amount of corpus analysis of Ramezane Kalosini and Perturabo BC in the daily life conversation section, as well as a few of Malcador, Angron, and other Astartes. None of them told him how to deal with such a situation, so he remembered what Ramezane told him during the chat, "Don't promise anything to others casually! If you don't know what to say, just keep silent and wait for Pepe or others to help you sort out or explain the situation."

Magna Dorn thought this suggestion was very pertinent and practical, and as the master controller of a ship, he was not used to being too far away from the familiar void ship.

So when the Black Templars who had come here after hearing the news asked him to leave with them, he shook his head firmly, and then he didn't do much before he was dizzily surrounded by the sad and angry-looking Black Templars and pushed into the isolation cabin - he was confident that he could escape in time, and it didn't matter if he didn't have this golden power armor! Through the ubiquitous communication network, the data would be transferred in packets, and Ms. Lothalazarin of the Desert Ark would help him.

But Magna, who was smart, thought about it again and decided to see the situation first. After all, they were the descendants of the original body! So when he sat down, he waved his hand slightly at any of their speculations, meaning that there was actually no such thing, I was fine, and you guys shouldn't think too much.

But it’s clear that there’s so much that can be read into gestures without verbal description.

The atmosphere in the isolation cabin became increasingly solemn.

Praises to the God-Emperor, the Father and vows of revenge were made by different monks every moment.

In Magna's panicked eyepiece was reflected their priest Geratos. This priest brother, who believed that he had unforgivably offended the Holy Primarch in his previous actions, had now taken off his power armor and was wearing only the simplest and roughest linen ascetic robe. His feet were bare, and his hands were burned by the burning coals of atonement. His feet left a trail of bright red footprints along the way he came - the priest had punished his hands and feet for his previous actions, and now they were covered with bleeding wounds left by caltrops, and his scarred, pale, and sunless pious and loyal face was exposed to the lights and eyes in shame.

Due to his ascetic practice of not taking off the priest's skull mask, many of his fellow believers saw the true face of their priest for the first time after decades or even nearly a hundred years of service and fighting side by side. This made Geratos, who walked forward with his head down under the gaze of the crowd, feel an even greater sense of atonement as if he had been publicly humiliated.

"Father! Your suffering is so noble, and it is the source of our vengeance." He knelt devoutly before the Primarch's golden armor, kissing the ground where the Primarch's boots stepped, his rosary and cross falling to the ground as he moved. "Your Majesty, God-Emperor, who sits on Terra! Please look after your servants. May your divine wrath fill our hearts, so that any betrayer and heretic will melt before our wrath. May your great power fill our arms, so that we can repel all shameless evil under your gaze. May your firm vigilance fill our souls, so that no heretic traitor can deviate from your righteous intentions. Dorne! We will avenge you! Please bear witness! We are here to launch an expedition for you! Your will is the firm weapon and rage in our hands! I will repent! I will atone! This polluted place will be completely and holy cleansed!"

Young Dorn's eyepieces turned a bright blue in shock at what he was witnessing.

What happened? Why did he hurt himself so badly? Just because of a misunderstanding? I don't mind?! I didn't say I minded?! Did you ask me before you hurt yourself if I wanted to atone for your sins like this?!
Are these really the descendants of the original body? How did they become like this? They are also different from the Imperial Fists he saw on the Iron Blood, right?

What shaped them into such fanatics ten thousand years later?
Wait, but what does he mean by that? Are they going to attack the Desert Ark and the others right here?!

No?! Wait a minute?! What did I say?!

Magnar Dorn began to frantically send messages to Angron and Malcador, asking who would help him to hold down these black-painted heirs! Why would they start a war over a disagreement?!

In the eyes of the Black Templars, the Gene Father who was originally captured, deceived, damaged, and deprived of his voice and five senses stood up because of his descendants' pious oath of atonement, and stretched out his hands to atone for them in this unswerving journey of atonement and salvation.

(End of this chapter)