Warhammer: Start with a dog.

Chapter 812 A Sweet (?) Burden -
"The Flesh-Tearer".

"The Crying Person".

"The Flesh-Tearer".

"The Crying Person".

"The Flesh-Tearer".

"……Ugh."

The atmosphere in the officers' mess hall of the Destiny Steel was somber today.

Of course, this isn't because the vast majority of the "Silver Skull" chapter members and unofficial (?) members have been sent out or gone directly to the front lines, leaving the place empty and desolate, a far cry from the warm and friendly atmosphere of the victors' meals during the daily simulations of famous battles.

Rather, it was because among the esteemed guests sitting here eating today, there was a melancholy-eyed, black-haired giant (?) who was sighing as she picked up the last survivor from a bouquet of flowers and began to peel the petals off this unfortunate rose.

"The Flesh-Tearer".

"The Crying Person".

"..."

"What on earth is he doing?" Fograim Pallas asked earnestly.

The object was Magna Dorn, who was slowly absorbing the cafeteria's special solid fuel jelly next to him—Petrulabo BC across the street.

Although the biological form of Peturabo BC is currently very likely (cough cough) already one of the open secrets on this ship.

However, out of consideration for the feelings and face of the person involved, and to prevent them from going on strike in anger, everyone still assumes that the Fearless, which is engraved with the name "Kedomo" and is always covered in Phantom camouflage that looks very much like Peturabo, is him.

The mastermind of the Ironblood, Magna Dorn, commented, "This is actually quite good, isn't it? It effectively prevents a large number of victims from needing prosthetic arms or brain implants because they were charmed during conversations and reached out to touch Perturabo."

Then Pallas saw the black-eyed, armored Peturabo, who was eating across the table, stop eating with his spoon and glance at the blue-eyed Peturabo, who was plucking flower petals at the other end of the table, dressed in Olympian-style casual clothes.

“It’s nothing,” he told Pallas. “He’s just performing some kind of boring ancient Terran petal divination.”

"Fortune telling? Is that reliable?"

“Unreliable,” said Peturabo, who was sitting opposite him, as he picked up his water glass and “took a sip” of water—though to Pallas it sounded more like he “licked” it. “As long as he doesn’t change his initial choice, sooner or later he’ll get the result he wants.”

"Then he..."

"It's just a psychologically plausible reason."

"I wanted to ask him what exactly he was using this for divination..."

“What else could it be?” Border Collie said through gritted teeth. “He’s trying to figure out which side of the Sons of Saint Gillespie he should win over first.”

“I thought he would say, ‘It’s what I want; adults should have both.’”

Magna emitted an alarm sound indicating that some kind of engine oil had entered the wrong valve.

When the other two Primarchs (?) turned to look at him, his metallic face remained expressionless. "Machines are not saints; it's normal for machines to make mistakes."

“You better be,” the dog said suspiciously, turning back to face Pallas. “He definitely wants both! But he thinks it can’t be resolved immediately, so he always has to neglect one side, which he calls a ‘sweet burden,’ and wants to make a decision before lunch is over.”

"Why before lunch is over? Didn't you just get back this morning? — Wait, where's our father—I mean—where are the pigeons?"

"He went to the chapel and said he wanted to check the connection monitoring system he left when he came to the chapel before to see if there were any problems on Terra."

"...Is it alright for him to go see it like this?"

“I believe that even if our Emperor were to become a pigeon, he would still have his own unique means of self-preservation,” Peturabo BC said coldly. “Of course, if he were to fall into the hands of a client who shouldn’t have caught him, we would certainly bring him back.”

"I'm relieved with your words."

“As for why it’s before lunch is over,” Peturabo BC snorted, “he’s already itching to go and see for himself… and knowing him as I do, he’ll definitely try to communicate with them normally at first.”

"OOOPS!" Pallas gave a look that was hard to describe. "You're not going to stop him... Fine, then who's going with him? It's not me, is it?"

“Not you.” Perturabo BC grinned at him and tossed him a stack of data panels. “Ruth is waiting for you in the conference room. Now that we’re back, you two should start planning how to completely resolve the orc fleet problem—as far as I know, your last boarding plan was rejected by Magna and Sigismund, right?”

"The main issues are intelligence and manpower. Orcs are too unique; conventional effective tactics like infiltration, deception, fear, and simple decapitation are rarely effective. Even a surprise attack requires enough manpower to break their morale. Besides, head-on battles and protracted warfare are simply a matter of attrition. Their boarding tactics aren't a big problem, provided the enemy isn't orc; otherwise, beheading a few high-ranking officers would cause morale to collapse—and by the way, it wouldn't work against Tyranids either. As for other things, our equipment is fully up to par, but we still lack the personnel to use it." "Times have changed," Pallas sighed. "Why does it feel like there are more and stronger monsters these days?"

“It’s alright,” Peturabo BC said. “Now that we’re sitting here.”

He looked around the modern, bright canteen of the Destiny Steel.

"Then we still have hope."

This is a rather evocative sentence and situation.

until.

"Hey! Pepe! I've made up my mind! I'm going to visit them next!"

Perturabo, with his dark eyes, frowned after just one glance. "You... alright, then, before you go, promise me you'll wear the LOGOS and keep its highest level of intelligence, alarm, and emergency teleportation device all enabled."

The person, elated, readily agreed and immediately went to the warband commander's private armory to prepare to put on armor.

“…Is it necessary?” Pallas, who had witnessed Lord Ramizan Carlosini’s incredible power in the cosmic cycle fragments ten thousand years ago, seemingly capable of stopping time and destroying the universe with a mere gesture, asked. “He could kill an ordinary Astartes in less than a second. — To be honest, I’m only sitting here now with the mindset of ‘every extra second I live next to him is a bonus.’ You’ve really gone through a lot, Peturabo.”

"Thank you. And...it's quite necessary."

Peturabo slowly turned his gaze away. "You remember when he twisted his ankle in Wandering Harbor Park, right?"

"...I remember. What? Right, wait a minute, if he's such an extraordinary being, why did he need to rest for so long just because he twisted his ankle..."

A look of understanding gradually appeared on Pallas's face.

"...Well, for some reason, he will still behave as a mortal as you know him here...but I think it's better for everyone not to let him casually display his extraordinary qualities as before."

Peturabo BC slowly said, "Our universe expects a third way, not yet another whimsical king who can truly rule everything."

--------

So, under the warm artificial lumen light of the afternoon in Wandering Harbor, Ramizan donned his phantom camouflage over his LOGOS, disguised himself as a sage of the Cult of Machines, and, accompanied by the sage Desimar and three Iron Ring mechs, rode a rhinoceros through the more crowded central part of Wandering Harbor than before the war and across the empty harbor bridge, arriving at the new quarantine port on one side.

Lamizan exclaimed in amazement upon seeing the dilapidated strike cruiser that could barely float—or even be moored—with the help of the new robotic arm in the harbor.

“...Even a layman like me can see that,” he said, staring at the ship’s hull, which was almost split vertically into two parts from the rear, “that theoretically, even if it didn’t fall apart, it shouldn’t have been able to have jumped out of the warp, right?”

“In theory, that’s right,” said the sage Desima, as his mechanical eye began scanning the ship’s firepower and weaknesses as if it were an occupational habit.

Yes, the perfect plan that Lord Ramizane came up with after putting his clever mind to work was to disguise himself as a mechanical cult repair sage that the other party would definitely not refuse, and successfully obtain permission to board the ship to see what was going on inside. However, he was obviously completely ignorant of "Binary Chanting and the Art of Warship Repair".

Therefore, for the sake of maximizing safety, ensuring the most legitimate identity and minimizing the risk of making mistakes, and playing a more professional role, the sage Desimah from the armory was invited to accompany him to this place.

Oh, by the way, the order to which Sage Desima belongs is called the Source Restoration Order, whose research focuses on how to efficiently demolish illegal buildings and invent all sorts of explosives, big and small, that can destroy everything.

"Can you fix it, Sage? If anyone on their ship brings up some technical topics later, then we'll all be counting on you!"

“…It should be possible.” The other party’s camera and internal gears made a continuous “click-clack” sound. “…I can temporarily load some information from Belisarius Caul, which should be enough to deal with the ignorant lower-level sages.”

"Alright, then I'm relieved. I'll pretend to be your accomplice in a bit, just observe and don't say anything! Just remember to tell them I'm being sent for an internal inspection and let me wander around!"

“Of course.” The third electronic eye of the Sage Desimah flashed with a communication signal, and at the same time, the eyes of the three iron-ringed mechs bearing the battle group's insignia also flashed with the same light.

"Can you hear me? This is the Mechanicus Repair Center in Wandering Harbor. Can you hear me? The communications officer on this ship? Or anyone else?"

After a burst of piercing noise and the sound of tuning channels, accompanied by a hissing sound, a hoarse, pained voice rang out on their communication channel.

"...This is the strike cruiser 'Thorn Oath'...belonging to..."

The other person seemed to hesitate for a moment, wondering whether to reveal the rest of the name, but ultimately spoke up.

"We belong to the Lamenters Chapter. We've already met the person you came with last time. Is there room to clear here? Could you please allow us to rest here for a few more days... We'll leave once we've restored her to a condition where she can move again, and we won't cause you any additional trouble."

"...Isn't this a bit too polite? It sounds like..." Ramizane questioned. "...Russ, you really just came to visit because you wanted to?!"

(End of this chapter)