Warhammer: Start with a dog.

Chapter 366 Socratic Questions and Answers
"Do you think Perturabo will mess up this time?"

Angron Petra sat in the cafeteria box attached to the mess hall of the Destiny Steel, with a cup of sand-brewed black coffee in front of him.

Opposite him was a white-haired old man wearing a simple green robe, with his staff, which he used as a walking stick, leaning against the armrest of the huge sofa. He was lowering his head and carefully measuring out a portion of tea from the tea can.

"Hmm...it's hard to say."

The Twelfth Primarch smiled, his red hair curling and flowing behind his head like the mane of a king beast.

Although Angron Petra's warm spring-like friendliness often makes people ignore his huge body, now sitting in the shadows, his snow-white canine teeth flashed sharp light under his smile.

The white mist rising from the teapot that was bubbling with crab-eye bubbles between the two made his face look like an ancient sacred beast, with a hint of cruel yet noble biting feeling.

“You are not always able to make a decision?” He said in a tone that was hard to tell whether it was a sigh or a mockery. “Regent, Chancellor of the Empire, founder of the Ministry of Internal Affairs, the Inquisition and the Court of Assassins, the mastermind behind the Empire, the man who rebuked the Primarch - Malcador, are you unable to come to a conclusion even at such a close distance?”

The old man calmly reached out and grasped the long handle of the boiling pot, and began to pour hot water to wash the tea leaves.

"It is indeed very tempting to know what fate has in store for us, but it is also a very foolish thing. Isn't it, Angron Petra, the conqueror of Nuceria who got rid of the name of Tark. The only thing I know for sure now is that the right path has been opened by the right person, and one of its results, Nirvana, is sitting so solidly in front of me, which makes me feel relieved that my choice this time may be more correct. That's enough."

The red-haired Primarch pursed his lips at one of the words and leaned forward, unconsciously approaching the thin old man.

Angron's broad, majestic features tightened dangerously, revealing beneath his gentle face a god of war steeped in slaughter and the warrior's art, a god of death who truly knew how to reach out and take lives, showing how he could quiet those who would not sit down and listen to his reasoning.

"Did you notice?"

The former Imperial Regent raised his eyelids. "You did a good job of covering it up from beginning to end. After all, this is one of your biggest secrets. I guess even in today's Empire, not many people know about it, right?"

"That's right," the Warrior King replied. "If there's one useful maxim I've learned over the years, it's that the best way to keep a secret is to never let anyone know it exists."

Malcador smiled, but there was no surprise on his face. "You seem to have little faith in the Empire as it stands."

"No one would fill a leaky sieve with their precious wine. If I did, it would be a waste of some kind of ritual to reach a compromise. I said that if I have the ability, I will choose to take care of my people first. If I have the spare capacity, I will try to take care of others. That's it. I am open and aboveboard, and there is nothing wrong with that."

"Yes, but this will not please your father. He doesn't like it. This is not the behavior of his favorite child. I would not be surprised if your expedition fleet occasionally lacks supplies and information notifications. - Someone still knows your secret, right?" Malcador poured out the first batch of water and added a second batch of boiling water. The tea leaves gradually expanded in the cup, exuding the fragrance of narcissus, gardenia and tea buds.

“Of course.” Angron leaned back into his seat on the couch, sighing as his increasingly tired muscles and bones found temporary relief.

"Kh'an, my faithful child, my best son, he and my captains, my silent but reliable Priory members, more or less know that I must rely on their loyalty, love and strength to get through every weakest moment, and they have fought and worked like this for ten thousand years - in my sense of time. - We are not here to discuss my problems, Malcador. Back to the original question, do you think Roger is really awake? How long has he been awake? How much does he know? What is his next move? Should we contact him?"

The former regent brought the brewed tea to his lips and blew away the heat, then began to sip it. He slowly finished the cup and nodded at the aftertaste in his mouth before putting down the cup and continuing the conversation.

"What do you think?" "Don't throw the question back at me, Malcador. You've been here longer than I have, and you're strong enough to sense my problem, so I'm asking for your opinion, not some Socratic question. I think he's awake, and has been awake for quite some time."

"Because of the existence of Ramizane Kalosini?"

"Because of his presence. Your agents in Port Wander, Port-O'-Stop, and throughout the sector are not likely to have been unaware of the latest outrageous rumors, Malcador."

"I have heard something."

"This is not in line with Perturabo's wishes. Although we have all heard his remarks about the relationship between food, restaurants and the future of this galaxy, it is clear that this level of power growth was not in his plan. It was an accident."

"Indeed, those comments alone are enough to convince us to close the restaurant, but he never said anything about making Port Wander a destination for Anglican pilgrims. Please continue. I am listening."

"Although he is awake, based on my personal understanding of our brother, he is absolutely unwilling to face Perturabo under any circumstances."

"Oh?"

Angron took a sip of the sand-brewed black coffee that was beginning to cool, its bitter but unusually mellow taste filling his mouth and mind. "Don't act senile, Malcador. The Imperium and the galaxy do need Dorne, but a dead Dorne is better than a living one. Rogal Dorn knew this, so he did it then, and even if he is brought back to the world by our brothers now, he will not allow himself to risk anyone thinking he might be resurrected."

The former regent was silent, and at last he simply said, "It's a shame, Rogge was definitely one of my favorite Primarchs."

"Just because you like him doesn't mean you can't give him up, right?" Angron asked sarcastically. "Similarly, as long as he can achieve the ruler of your ideal world, it doesn't really matter who he is."

"Let's get back to the topic." The old man smiled. "Do you think Perturabo can find out this time that it was Roger's little trick behind the scenes that caused the imbalance in his important Mr. Carlosini's power bill?"

“I’ll bet a week’s worth of desserts in the officers’ mess.” Angron stood up and walked out. “With the tests he’s doing now, he won’t be able to find out. The best he can do is keep his suspicions to himself.”

"why?"

"When Rogal Dorn decides to use his rock-hardness as the foundation for everything he does, I have no doubt he will be the best actor in the galaxy."

"Heh." Malcador watched the Twelfth Primarch leave. Now he was the only one in the box. "Perhaps, after reading about what happened in the past ten thousand years, people will change. But Saturnine... is indeed one of the earliest and best traps made by Rogal Dorn. He actually chose that time..."

He shook his head.

"Always so sentimental. Fortunately you still have him now."

(End of this chapter)