Warhammer: Start with a dog.

Chapter 784 Why do I feel like my teammates aren't exactly good people either? Is it just my imagination?
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*Transition Chapter
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"Can these scraps of metal smashed out by barbarians really be called the most dangerous and deadly weapons in the universe? They're only slightly more refined than the weapons of those green-skinned beasts!"

Even Togarden seemed unhappy about this.

"Are these foreigners really mocking us with these things? Do they mean they can defeat us with these primitive, ancient artifacts?"

“I don’t think so, Taric. It’s probably just a difference in perception between the two sides, not an intentional problem. Since we can communicate peacefully, perhaps we should also face each other squarely.”

"Hmm, yes, Cognition. You've been hanging out too much with the Iron Lord and those pedantic intellectuals lately, Gavial. You're acting all timid and lacking any heroic spirit. You've all forgotten the most important principle the Emperor entrusted to our Legion: if these people still consider themselves human and acknowledge Terra, then their only way out and duty is to surrender to the Legion immediately, completely eradicate the Xenomorphs, and dedicate every ounce of their strength to the glory of Terra and the Empire. If they can't do that, then we should conquer them until they are willing. That's what the Emperor told us at the start of the expedition. In my opinion, Commander, you're completely wasting your time here."

Abaddon said gruffly, but Loken didn't respond or ask Abaddon who he meant by "you".

The remaining two members of the Council of Four exchanged a cryptic glance.

Saint Gilles keenly caught the sound of the Steel Lord gasping for breath.

Meanwhile, Governor Naore's solemn introduction continued.

"...Given that they were forged using the nearly lost technology of the Kambrako people, and that their forging techniques are difficult to convey to us accurately in words, I have specially invited our instrument hall guardian, Master Asherut, the curator of this place, to give you a better introduction to them."

As the governor spoke, the Kambrako man, whom most of the delegation had assumed to be some kind of alien servant or steward, stepped forward and greeted both sides with an equal and soothing manner that made the members of the empire uncomfortable.

“What the hell,” Locken heard Togaton mutter. “They actually gave this thing a master title. They’re insane.”

At this moment, the role of the interpreters finally became apparent for the first time: the rhythms that had previously seemed like background music now cleverly filled in Asherut's extremely muffled and almost indistinguishable words, allowing everyone to understand what he was saying.

Saint Gilles was nodding with a smile when another sentence drifted into his ear, "...It's unbelievable! They even made him speak High Gothic, and although I couldn't understand it, it was High Gothic. Oh my god, imagine, you're thousands of light-years away from Earth listening to a Sumatran orangutan speaking Latin to you..."

What exactly is this Sumatran orangutan? And what language is Latin? The Lord of Angels looked at his brother with doubt, but on the other hand, these unfamiliar words stirred up a certain ripple in his heart, as if the ancient and distant past was plucking the heartstrings of the unknown and unfamiliar future.

...It's that feeling again.

Saint Gilles knew that he could sometimes glimpse important events of the future, just as he had known that the Emperor would surely come to Baal.

Unlike Conrad Kozner, who, despite his madness, cried out in great detail about the future fever, the visions he glimpsed were almost all blurry, sometimes hallucinations, sometimes just a lingering thought.

But during his time with Peturabo, the Lord of Baal constantly felt that his ability was being "tested," as if someone was hammering on the gates of the fortress—not with great force, but undeniably real.

Although he didn't tell anyone, this was one of the reasons why Sanguiles lingered there. A premonition grew stronger day by day, forcing him to ignore the growing demands for him to return to Terra to deal with the increasing pressure on the War Council and the Astartes Legion.

"These weapons are called 'Nemesis Blades'."

Accompanied by translators, Master Asherut spoke in Gothic, which the imperial envoys could now understand. As he spoke, he rolled up his blue-purple lips to reveal his pink, moist gums and even his fine teeth.

"They are forged from Sensitive Metal, which is now strictly prohibited from being melted and manufactured. Therefore, these are the only stockpiles. All the Nemesis Blades made by my race are here—and of course, some other weapons made from Sensitive Metal."

He raised an unusually long and powerful blue-black finger and pointed to a row of display cases on the other side.

Inside were things that had nothing to do with "dangerous weapons": small boxes, pendants, antique bracelets, old rings, and the like.

“However, none of these weapons are as powerful as these Nemesis Blades,” he explained. “Only the Nemesis Blades can have the most lethal effect on the enemy, so only I, the governor, or the representative from the capital have the authority to open this display case.”

It seemed that the other Interrex were now eager for the Imperial delegation to ask questions, but many, like the Chief Company Commander, felt slighted and offended and remained silent.

Some, on the other hand, feel that the Interrex, who so far appear so retro, superstitious, and aloof, may only be able to gain a place in the universe by relying on their precious heritage such as the ancient STC, rather than by truly fighting, conquering, and gaining their own honor in expeditions upheld by the Emperor's gifts to mankind: offspring, bloodline, and the truth of unity.

At least with Ramizan and Saint Gilles' hearing, they could hear the hushed discussion behind them—in a variant dialect like Krzunian, clearly intended to be unintelligible to others.

“It wouldn’t be wise to do this with translators around,” the Iron Lord glanced back, “though they wouldn’t actively translate unofficial conversations.”

The war commander maintained a polite smile and diplomatic demeanor in front, using his figure to conceal the various underhanded actions behind him.

He listened politely to the introduction and showed the most appropriate smile at the most suitable time—a little stiff, but still perfect.

“Excuse me, sir, I don’t quite understand.” Someone at the back of the delegation asked, and when everyone looked at him, they realized he was a member of the group of chroniclers.

The tall, stout man was slightly embarrassed and sweating. Beside him stood Kyrel Sindemann and Euphrates, among others. This time, the photographer, however, was quite disciplined, not taking pictures indiscriminately, but simply documenting the meeting. "These look like the most ordinary weapons imaginable. I believe that if they were wielded by powerful warriors—like our esteemed Astartes—they would certainly inflict great damage. But these blades of brittle iron and stone will break and wear down; how could they possibly be as lethal as powered blades? I'm afraid they are unworthy of their reputation, uh, Master."

Ignas took out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He was very unaccustomed to being the center of attention. He also noticed that several Astartes were looking at him with gloomy faces, and a shiver ran through his heart.

But when he saw the Lord of Steel give him a thumbs-up in the shadows, the poet felt as if he had eaten a milk ice cube filled with mint honey on a sweltering summer day—happiness permeated every strand of his hair. The starlight of inspiration flowed through his soul, and he felt his pen trembling in his pocket, wanting to sing out.

We will live up to your expectations!

And when no one is paying attention to him, he must immediately start creating!
On the other side, the Kambrako man had clearly been waiting for this question, and upon hearing it, he showed a satisfied expression.

He carefully touched the red down on his chin, then slowly began to speak, and the translators' rhythmic chanting became low and solemn.

"The Nemesis Blade... is named as such because its lethal power is, to some extent, specific to a particular person. That is the meaning of the word 'nemesis.' Once it is activated and a person is designated to be killed by the weapon, then the weapon will become a weapon that can definitely kill that person until the purpose is achieved. Whoever wields this designated weapon can definitely kill that person."

“This power sounds a bit too mystical,” Hindman pointed out politely but jokingly. “The phrase ‘intellectual metal’ is incredible. Does intelligence exist within metal? And the power of this weapon you’re describing sounds more like… a superstitious belief from before the Dark Ages, a magical curse?”

The translators' chanting had become disordered and frantic, but they still dutifully translated the problem.

Master Ashruth nodded solemnly, then touched the red down on his chin. “Yes,” he said, “I’m glad you understand them, guest from afar.”

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"What do you think of this place and the Interrex?"

As they sat by the floor-to-ceiling windows of a building in the Zenobia Foreign Affairs District, the mortal incarnation of the Lord of Steel asked his companions a question.

Just now, the communications officer of the delegation, along with his team and servants, had inspected and scanned for any possible eavesdropping devices inside and outside the premises, and then turned on the shielding field generator they had brought before leaving.

The room was now completely quiet, and the faint chanting that had been lingering in the city of Interrex had vanished entirely.

This team of narrators and speakers is now the only narrators allowed to accompany the delegation to the mainland.

Unlike the Shadowmoon Wolves who immediately found excuses to return to the Soul of Vengeance after the welcoming ceremony, none of them were willing to return to their spaceship in orbit right away. Instead, they had been touring the beautiful diplomatic city of Zenobia for weeks, accompanied by their hosts.

“This is a very rich, leisurely, and advanced civilization,” Messati said. “Euphrates, Ignatius, and I have been strolling around for the past two weeks, though of course we haven’t actually been shopping.”

She smiled. “But Zenobia’s botanical gardens, hotels, large shopping streets, various street concerts, and the latest technology demonstrations alone are enough to dazzle us. The technology here generally tends to serve a more comfortable living experience, and the people are mostly very friendly, but overall, I think they are somewhat lacking in… ambition and adventurous spirit? It seems that they are already quite satisfied with the current situation, which is very different from the adventurous and enterprising style advocated by the Empire.”

“I feel the same way,” Kairel Hindman said. “The overall tone here is one of stagnation or slow development. From what I’ve seen in museums, historical galleries, and their audiovisual archives, their territory is certainly more than thirty star systems in size, and their military might not be as lax as it seems—I mean, at least in terms of numbers—but overall, they don’t identify with or want to submit to the Empire’s martial spirit. They just want to be independent and live their own lives, and I think that will be a big and difficult point of contention.”

"Oh?"

"Actually, there's no need to worry. If war breaks out, we are by no means without a chance of winning, because their preparations for war are far inferior to ours. It's just that I haven't yet figured out how their military equipment and heavy vehicles other than spaceships will work."

The old man expertly opened his data panel. “Shehan and Naore probably weren’t lying. Those seemingly flashy and primitive weapons in their hands are indeed standard-issue weapons in the military. With the throne above me, I really can’t imagine how they would use such weapons to fight against bolt guns and power axes in space.”

"In addition, as usual, I also collected geographical, astronomical, climatic, flora and fauna and other data here, please see."

The old man proudly puffed out his chest, turned the data panel towards the crowd, and showed off his achievements. "In addition, the orbital shuttle brought me several preachers I trained, and we conducted some small-scale experiments at several gatherings. I am happy to say that the echoing work we did on other conquered planets is still effective here, and perhaps I can report our work to the Warmaster later."

“Oh…you truly live up to the title of the Empire’s chief preacher,” the blue-eyed man smiled, narrowing his eyes. “I’m glad to see you’ve begun to recover and return to your work efficiently, Kyriel.”

“This is all part of my duty,” the preacher said, bowing with his hand on his chest. “To lead preachers to bring the Emperor and his truth to all the ignorant and superstitious people in the universe, and to integrate them into us, is the cause I am willing to dedicate my life to. It is this flame that supports me to rise again.”

The Lord of Steel offered him further encouragement, then announced that he would pass on his views to the Warmaster and others before dismissing the morning meeting.

However, Ignas, who had been sitting to the side, noticed with his poet's eye that the Lord of Steel had just given the rather arrogant chief preacher a deep, deep look when he was praising him.

He could swear that that glance was by no means one of approval.

(End of this chapter)