Warhammer: Start with a dog.

Chapter 785 I'm telling you again, don't just tell your dad what's on your mind.
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"How's it going?"

Later that evening, Ramizane returned to the Warmaster's lodgings in his Primarch form and asked.

Just like the room they were in, this place had already been dealt with by the anti-eavesdropping and jamming team led by the communications officer.

“Not really,” Saint Gilles said. “I reserved my opinion and only allowed Radoron to speak on behalf of the Blood Angels, but his statement clearly supported Abaddon and the others’ views.”

"Oh?" Ramizane smiled faintly. "So, your opinion actually supports the view that's currently gaining a lot of support within the Legion—to directly wage war against the Interrex and annex them?"

“I didn’t say that. I reserved my opinion so that my brother could use it when it was most needed,” Sanguielles said.

"Now is the time when your brothers need it most! So why are you silent? Doesn't your First Company Commander's opinion implicitly represent your own? This will only embolden those commanders in the Sixteenth Army Corps who have implicitly united against them!"

"You're so aggressively blaming me, but where were you at the time? If you had been there, the three of us speaking in turn could have given us a more favorable position!"

"For example, I'd be the bastard who stands up against the three legions' soldiers and the Imperial fleet's people's desire for war, and you'd be the kind and gentle mediator? Isn't it because you and Horus actually know the problem, but you don't dare to let your legions show the slightest sign of mutiny! You're essentially being manipulated by the opinions of your own legion's offspring and mortal overseers! How pathetic!" The Iron King's smile made Saint Gilles' fists itch.

"Oh?! We're pathetic?! But even if we're pathetic, we're not as pathetic as some people who gave their offspring an eleven-draw kill as their first gift! You use the Iron Warriors recklessly as expendable resources, and this is what you call not pathetic?! Your infamy is entirely self-inflicted! Your jealousy of Dorne is so pathetic! So pathetic that even Baal's moon can see it!"

"Ah! You've finally spoken your mind! Very good! Look! What have you been hiding all this time, walking on thin ice every day! Baal, the Black Angel! Let me see the true, primal wildness within you..."

"Alright! Alright! Stop arguing! Are you here to help me solve my problem or to create new ones?!"

So the Angel Lord and the Steel King, who were almost at each other's throats, finally stopped and looked at their third brother in the room.

Saint Gilles came to his senses and found his back covered in cold sweat. His sharp canines pierced his tongue, bringing a slightly metallic taste, while "Petulabo" seemed rather unhappy.

"Wouldn't it be better to speak frankly? Otherwise, how do you plan to persuade Saint Gilles to leave first? Right now, because you've been so diligent and skilled in handling administrative work, the pressure from the Terra Council isn't great enough to require him to return to Terra first!"

What do you mean by "you're too skilled in administrative work"? Why was Peturab in such a hurry for me to leave? Why could Peturab speak to Horus like that? And... why did my throat... feel so thirsty just now...?

...Thirst...His throat was almost cracked, as were his internal organs; they were parched, parched, and needed fresh, sweet, warm life-giving substances to quench his thirst...

Saint Gilles' nostrils flared, and his sharp, white fangs peeked out from his beautifully shaped lips, as more life force and the subtle taste of flesh and blood flooded into his enhanced nasal receptors.

...Hmm...? The Lord of Angels took a deep breath in confusion, then another.

...Why does Lupecal smell more like...steel and engine oil...? And Peturabo across from him...

An odor that shouldn't have been there pierced his nostrils like sharp, forceful icicles from behind a curtain. Saint Gilles coughed, as if he had a fever or had been transported back to the scorching, radiant desert of Baal. He stumbled and swayed precariously.

In a distant brass fortress, the being who sat high on the throne let out a joyful laugh as loud as war drums. "Give it to me!" He said, "Give him to me! He will be my most glorious champion! I will promise you my eternal covenant!"

The crimson blessings poured in continuously. Lady Inmei and her team on the Vengeance Soul were frantically exchanging information with the Star Speakers and Navigators of other ships. The fluctuations of the warp waves suddenly became powerful and strange, yet concentrated at one point, making it hard not to wonder if some kind of conspiracy or accident had broken out.

A strong arm reached out from the side and grabbed him. "Wake up!" the voice shouted, but it didn't seem to be the voice of his most trusted brother. It was probably a very similar imitator... But could anyone imitate the characteristics of twenty unique beings like them...?
Saint-Gilles, panting from the high fever, raised his head, his vision blurred through his hair. Those pine-green eyes…it was indeed Lupecal…but he smelled wrong…and…what…but…

The owner of that arm now stretched out both arms, desperately trying to subdue the angel whose wings and limbs were struggling wildly. "Damn it! What have you done! He shouldn't and absolutely shouldn't be acting up here! Damn it! I can barely control his frenzied power!!!"

“I didn’t do anything, I just saw that he was suppressing himself too much, so I advised him not to bind himself with too many dogmas.”

"Help me! I can't hold him down any longer!"

"...Are you mistaken in asking me, a human who can't even throw a wild punch, to help hold down a warrior of Saint Gilles's caliber?"

"...Sometimes I really hate you for it."

“That sounds pretty good, doesn’t it?” The wretched Perturabo, who was sitting on the sofa, shrugged, stood up and came over to help hold down the angel whose skin color had begun to change.

"...The paint job and color scheme are quite nice too."

"Don't talk about whether it looks good or not right now! My God, please stop daydreaming."

Was Horus's voice pleading with someone? No need! The voice just now was actually right. He had always known the flames burning within his own heart and the hearts of his offspring, the suffering they had endured, and the darkest hells they had struggled to crawl out of to find a way to survive.

In the now little-known history of the Ninth Legion, the Empire thought they were all dead countless times, and the Empire wanted to drive his offspring to become the devils the Empire needed to fight for it in the worst circumstances, but Sanguires was unwilling to see his offspring fall into such a state as he wished.

And he was unwilling, absolutely unwilling, to accept that future falling upon himself and his offspring—at least not by the Ninth Legion—

"It shouldn't be anyone else either. No one is born to suffer this kind of hardship, no one is born to endure suffering. That's why I think we shouldn't believe it, but the people want to believe it, so there's nothing we can do... Sigh, how have you all been manipulated like this... Even if you don't have a weakness, we'll create one for you, really..."

Someone muttered something, and another person placed their palm on Saint Gilles' back.

Ah, that feeling, that's right, it's Lupecal, that familiar scent and quality. Saint Gilles calmed down; Lupecal already knew the dark secrets of his legion, and he would help him…

As he smiled and looked up to grasp that warm arm, saying the other's name, "Horus?!!!!!"

Perturabo's face blinked as he looked at the end of what he thought was Horus's arm.

"Aa ...

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"I knew it! I knew it! Someone always manages to find something suspicious!" In the laurel ring, Horus Lupecal, who had gone from surprise, anger, doubt, fear, embarrassment to near numbness, was frowning with worry over Saint Gilles's bizarre outburst.

But when he heard the Lord of Angels vaguely reach out his hand in his direction and call his name, he jumped up from the sofa, threw away the potato chips in his hand, walked around barefoot, and excitedly waved his fists.

"See! I knew it! Although Loken had his suspicions, his identity limited his guesses. Saint Gilles! He truly is my closest brother! He recognized me! Someone recognized me! Finally! This is the first step for me to leave this godforsaken place!"

The gray wolf glanced slightly flustered at the black and white cat behind him, which was still leisurely swishing the tip of its soft tail. The cat gave him a lazy look and slowly shook its head.

"I need to find a way to contact Saint Gilles... Damn it, they just said they were going to send him away to lead the Blood Angels back to Terra. I don't have much time left, what should I do?! Perhaps it's time to risk it and confirm my theory!"

Horus paced back and forth, deep in thought. Suddenly, the gray wolf felt a chill run down his spine. When he looked up, he saw Horus staring at him with gleaming green eyes.

"Awooo!" The gray wolf's mane bristled as he stared at it, and it warily raised its tail and tucked its ears in.

"...Sweetie, come here, don't be afraid...I won't do anything to you."

"Meow—" (Oh dear, this is really bad, my brother. The chances of Lupecal trying to pounce on you, strangle you, skin you, and leave this place are higher than...)
Before Conrad Coates could finish his cat-like speech, the gray wolf howled and jumped up and ran away.

"stop!"

"Awoooooo!" (Anyone who stands still is a fool! I'm running away! Koz, good luck!)

"Meow—" (I don't think he'd actually go after...wait a minute. He's heartless! How could he do this to me!)

The black and white calico cat jumped off the back of the sofa and ran off in a flash.

So when Lupecal returned after losing the gray wolf, all that remained in his field of vision—a place furnished with a sofa, carpet, coffee table, snacks, drinks, and a lamp—was the pigeon still waiting for him.

"Coo?" The white dove tilted its head and looked at the panting Horus.

"...You didn't run away, but you, perhaps because you're too small, can't make me leave here."

Horus said dejectedly, while tugging at the strange short-sleeved shirt wrapped around his fat belly from lack of exercise. These uniform details were so different from the short-sleeved shirts and shorts and big-thumb flip-flops in the legion and the palace that the grey wolf had brought him.

"My situation is even worse than before... I have never felt anything like this before. It is heavier than any metal and colder than any ice and snow. It is burning me from nowhere. Is this fear? Or despair? Or both?"

Horus slumped to the ground, leaning against the sofa, clutching the white dove in his hand.

"Ah! I wish I could go out and say a few words to Saint Gilles right now, even if it's just someone else's voice!"

"Coo!" The white dove tilted its head.

"Huh? Aaaaaaaah!"

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"Very well, now it's all over, all over. How dare he speak such truths so casually in front of Old Man Dove? Does Horus really not realize that many of his wishes there were actually fulfilled by the doves?"

Pallas, who looked like he had a strong English accent, commented on the situation, while Leman Ruth, standing next to him, gulped down his Irish coffee.

"Damn it, Ruth, are you trying to stay awake or sleepy by drinking malt liquor and Reca coffee at the same time?"

"That's not contradictory. Drink some coffee to perk yourself up, then go out to work and hunt green-skinned sardines. After you've had your fill, come back and the alcohol kicks in, and you just collapse into bed!"

Pallas wrinkled his nose. "Have we already arranged enough mechs for Ruth's bedroom to clean and prevent him from vomiting and drowning?"

“It’s arranged,” Magna Matt Dorn said calmly. “Besides, you shouldn’t linger here and waste your time. This rest time is Ruth’s.”

"The Phoenix Fire of the Forge! Okay! I'll head down to the hangar right away to catch the next Stormbird—why is our little rural town suddenly getting flooded with green-skinned swarms?! These things are always so numerous and troublesome whenever they come!"

“It wasn’t sudden,” Magna said. “This isn’t the first time there’s been a battle between this place and the Orks. Back in 422.M41, they fought for years against an Ork fleet that invaded from the port. They finally repelled the Orks after gathering two-thirds of the ships in the Calicus Sector battle group. And you know, it’s not hard for Mushrooms to come back, especially when the soil where they used to grow has become more fertile.”

"Alright. So, have you found their war leader? My Phoenix Guard's blades are eager to find him!"

"It's hard to pinpoint. The names of the war leaders of this group of greenskins at the time were indeed recorded, but according to the intelligence sent back from the front by Clarkes, these orcs did not mention names like Gurglog. Obviously, after several centuries, they not only increased in number, but also changed their war leaders."

“The defense of the port itself is not a problem. We are still in a stalemate because we don’t want to give up some important production facilities,” Pallas pointed out. “But as long as we find the ship where the war leaders are located, it is easier for us to organize an elite team to kill the leaders and repel them than to fight them.”

Magna glanced at him.

"That's true. But if you're still planning to linger here, then I'm not so sure about the defenses."

"Okay! I'm leaving! Remember to leave me a copy of the recording so I can watch it during my shift!"

“Of course.” Magna Dorn turned his blue electronic prosthetic eye toward the observation mirror. “Oh… this is…”

After finishing his sixth pork floss, ham, and egg sandwich, Ruth finally let out a suppressed chuckle.

(End of this chapter)