Warhammer: Start with a dog.

Chapter 821 The wrestling mission team has decided to assign you to it.
-
*Sorry, I made a joke about the Imperial Guard HOMO. If you don't like this pairing, you can skip this.
—

The sound of flapping wings, accompanied by the roar of a wild beast, faded into the distance.

The red glow, the heat, and the craving for bloodshed gradually surged like a tide...

wrong.

This description is incorrect.

A passage of text, as vivid as a painting, flashed into the mind of the alchemist master.

Ah, yes, that's a good description, even though his field of vision is only a small area in front of him.

...Just as a seasoned breakfast chef swiftly and smoothly scoops a layer of batter from a pancake griddle, the noise and heat that had been plaguing Hong Suo all the way, which had been bothering him, vanished from his body and soul the moment that forcefully struck him.

Before he could turn his eager head toward his rescuer, the force that had "stripped" the intruder from him had already swept over him like a whirlwind, breaking down another door in the infirmary corridor.

—The bulletproof door with its ceramic steel interlayer melted and shattered as easily as the transparent rice paper on a candy when it came into contact with them, eerily without making the slightest ripple; the sound seemed to be "swallowed" by the space itself.

Then, from the depths of the dark room came sounds like two super-strong men wrestling and cursing each other, their fists pounding and their voices mingling. The shadows obscured everything.

Ok?
"I want to be you."

The hammer's owner lifted the massive warhammer from the shattered, brain-splattered head of the ugly gene-stealer at Hongsuo's waist.

“I absolutely will not look over there even once. — And turn off your oracles and all other detection instruments. Don’t look, that’s an order.”

"Of course, of course, my lord."

The apothecary master got up from the ground. "Thank you so much for your help... I think..."

He glanced at the numerous brain tissue fragments that had flown to the ceiling and walls. "So there's something wrong with this brain, right?"

"You're smart, aren't you? You didn't even activate an extra mental protective field when you came into contact with it."

The machine piloted by Peturabo BC fearlessly retracted the hammer that looked exactly like a furnacebreaker's, placing it behind his back—Honsor found himself unable to resist staring at it—

"You're stupid, but how did you manage to withstand that guy's whispers for so long and realize right away that there's something wrong with your head?"

Peturabo BC, who arrived at the scene, nodded. Like any miser in such a situation, he chose to leave Ramizan in the safe office and brought over someone who was best suited to wrestle with the kobold himself.

—If he were to handle this matter, and things went wrong, at least Ramizann might cause the entire galaxy to perish with him. If Ramizann were to have problems, he himself didn't know if he would be able to open his eyes again as "Peturabo." It was easy to decide which was more important.

Clearly, this time Old Deng hadn't lost his mind, and—Petulabo BC privately suspects—he might have wanted to do something like this before: beat up some red-skinned guy in such a safe—relatively safe—way.

Moments later, both ends of the corridor were strictly guarded by the iron rings that had been brought in, and nothing was allowed to enter.

After washing himself clean, Hunsso stood with Peturabo BC in front of the Genestealer's remains, which had been shoveled onto the lab table.

The lights above the operating table, the surrounding projections, the protective force field, and the monitoring instruments are all ready.

The surgical instruments above fell down, and Hong Su began to dissect the remaining parts of the head.

“Look,” Peturabo BC said, “mutated neural synaptic forms. They receive psionic fluctuations from the subspace, amplifying the recipient’s thirst and fanaticism for killing and blood through the modified biological form. The Flesh-Tearer was affected, and so were you, but you are not of the Saint Gilles bloodline, so the effect on you is relatively limited.”

The apothecary master keenly grasped the unspoken meaning in those words, and his eyes gleamed with even greater interest. But now was not the time; patience was required, Hong Suo.

He kept working, responding to Peturabo BC's words.

"Yes, my lord. Look at the test data here; the ratios of various neurotransmitter components are different from all previously recorded samples... It's a pity it's so broken down. —I mean, we'll have a much better chance to capture it next time under proper protective conditions—"

Under the watchful gaze of Peturabo BC, he smoothly switched words, “to obtain a more complete sample for studying this new form of fusion.”

"It can't be a living being," the furry tyrant, well aware of his offspring's despicable nature, emphasized. "Otherwise, I'll turn you into a living cannonball and throw you into the macro cannon."

"Of course, but I think it's possible to cut it off and save it immediately."

"...Then launch it into the lowest level of the Tower of Domination in Terra Palace, so that you will be helplessly surrounded by the naked, oiled Imperial Guards."

"...I promise I won't bring any overly active components into the Ironblood, Father."

Hongsuo carefully peeled the shattered cortex from the innermost crystallized core, then held up the reddish shattered crystal and brought it to his eyes.

The operating lights illuminated it clearly, and after he rotated it eight times at an angle that Peturabo BC had told him, a faint blood god symbol appeared at a specific angle of refraction.

"It's well hidden and cleverly designed; who would bother turning it eight times at the same angle for no reason?"

“It’s not a recording done through conventional means,” Peturabo BC scoffed. “Clearly, some being doesn’t want others to realize that it is also quite familiar with witchcraft and rituals, and can even do it in great detail.”

"So it could have actually prevented them from becoming like that, right?" Hong Suo suddenly asked, as if it were a casual, offhand question.

Peturabo BC scoffed. He wasn't fooled.

“Don’t always ask questions you shouldn’t know, Honsau. It will turn you into abluish purple,” he warned. “In this universe, ignorance is a blissful privilege. And the straightforward definition of the answer can only be uttered by one person.”

"Yes, yes, my lord. As you wish."

The dissection, sample preparation, and storage took some time, and the Pharmacist also took the time to check on the stasis field beds of the Flesh Tearers and visit the gene seed repository.

A brisk yet composed efficiency. Peturabo BC watched his actions, noting the excellent allocation of steps and time, which was almost at the level of some of his best sons, and perhaps only Frick could surpass him.

"Aren't they finished fighting yet, my lord?"

After finishing the work he could do, the apothecary master returned to his father's side. The iron ring mechs at both ends of the corridor had not been removed, and the force fields around the room were increasing, layer upon layer. Hong Suo felt that he seemed to see some technology of Eldar and other races.

The apothecary master could also hear that the warship's reactor was increasing its output power to allocate more energy to the internal force field—a situation that has become increasingly rare recently.

“Who knows,” his father muttered. “They can fight as long as they want, because even the fighting itself… don’t worry about them. When it’s time to end it, someone will be able to leave and get away.”

So the master pharmacist readily agreed and locked the door, and had the privilege of accompanying the two fathers to the officers' mess for a meal.

Wait, both fathers are here.

Isn't it the power of a father?

Honsau frowned inwardly. He knew both his fathers were present, but his fathers' other brothers were not. He didn't believe that the being who had condescended to infiltrate him through a series of ingenious schemes that could influence gene-stealers was someone that any Astartes or mortal could "wrestle" with.

So……

He looked around with his naked eye and medical prosthetic eye to see who was missing.

strangeness.

Who?
Who else can wrestle this?

--------

Malakin Foros knelt on the spot, repenting and praying for a long time.

During this time, the garden around him gradually became more vibrant.

On the damp grass, the rainbow was gradually shrouded in mist. The lawn and the depths of the path were covered with water, and the color of the trees turned into a dark, almost black, color due to the moisture.

Thick moss began to grow on the grass and stones. Its color was initially a beautiful and pleasing bluish-green, but over time it gradually began to turn into a yellowish-green color.

But no one ever came to this place.

Warm, humid, and quiet.

Thin, yellowish-green tendrils began to touch his blond hair; his handsome features, inherited from Saint Gilles, resembled those marble statues entwined with vines in an ancient garden.

It sounded like the giggling laughter of little elves carried on the wind.

But the sound of the door opening and the abrupt complaints suddenly became the main noises.

There was a rustling sound of something sticky running away in the shadows.

"...One or two is such a hassle... Why don't you come yourself?... Oh... So that's what the similarity is all about? Ridiculous, that guy is having a good time out there... Ugh, whatever, for the sake of the budget and project funds."

A series of pattering footsteps broke the warm atmosphere of the garden. Then a hand reached for the controller by the door, pressed a few buttons, and the water level began to drop rapidly. Subsequently, the dehumidification function of the air conditioner was turned on, improving the foggy situation. Finally, the visitor adjusted the temperature to a lower setting, which was more suitable for clearing the mind, and set the fan speed to high.

"stand up."

The gray-haired, pale-green-eyed mortal, adjusting his glasses with his middle finger and looking impatient, said to the kneeling Malakin, "Don't you notice something's wrong with your surroundings? You're just going to kneel here and pray? Wait?"

"In fact, I think doing this allowed me to wait for the opportunity for change, didn't I? You came."

Malakin opened his eyes, looked at the mortal in front of him, and replied seriously, "In my opinion, there's something very strange about you who can walk in this place and talk to me."

This remark must have triggered something funny in the other person, because the young man, who was wearing a white robe over his clothes and had pens stuck all over his chest, started laughing wildly, bending over backwards.

“Yes! That’s absolutely right!” he said finally. “How crazy all this is! Numerology is far more rational and orderly than any of this! They dare to say my numerology is unreliable! It’s more reliable than anything! I came to you after I had my numerology done!”

He proudly pushed up his glasses again, as if they were some kind of mask that shielded him from the outside world.

"I think you have a very low impact on me, which is why I'm willing to come to you."

"why?"

Malakin observed the man cautiously, but he was healthier and "normal" than most of the mortals he had ever met.

It had neither extra limbs nor any horns or wings. Its skin was smooth and free of scars, chemical corrosion, air pollution, or disease. Apart from being a little thin and having dark circles under its eyes, it could be considered a model citizen of the Empire.

“Because,” the suspicious young man’s next words made it impossible for Malakin to refuse his request to go with him.

“Someone heard your prayer,” the young man said. “The person who heard your prayer asked me to take you out for a check-up and then keep you in a suitable area.”

He narrowed his eyes. "Astartes alone cannot get out of this labyrinth."

--------

Warren, the company commander of the 10th Flesh-Tearer Company, was sitting in a seat by the porthole.

Holding a coconut latte reca in my hand.

He was puzzled.

What's puzzling is that the young man not only performed a physical examination on him, but also re-treated some minor external wounds that hadn't been treated before, and even prescribed medication.

There was also the incident where, when he tried to attack the young man and force him to reveal more information, a skinny young mortal suddenly grabbed his wrist, threw him over his shoulder, and carried him away for further examination.

...Impossible! This is absolutely impossible!

The two of them are at least ten times different in weight!
How could a mortal possibly stand a chance against Astartes, especially against melee-oriented warriors like the Flesh Tearers! Warren was confident he could even fight a member of the Assassin's Court!
Ok.

He dejectedly took another sip of his coconut latte.

It shouldn't be a hallucination, because he immediately judged that it might be due to psychic mind control or hallucinogenic drugs, so he bit his arm until it bled and launched another attack.

In the end, all I received was another over-the-shoulder throw, a sedative injection, countless injections of other medications, and a very unpleasant comment: "You bunch of brutes are incredibly lucky to have survived this long."

Well, that guy even gave him a lumbar puncture anesthesia, so he has to sit here now and wait for the anesthesia to wear off.

"Stay here for observation for thirty minutes."

"That's what the haggard young researcher said as he left."

What kind of anesthetic could possibly prevent Astartes from being metabolized quickly?
Warren was lost in thought when his coffee cup emptied, the aroma of coconut soothing his thirst.

"Perhaps I should have another cup," he thought. Even right after they drank the blood, they hadn't felt more relaxed and comfortable than they did now.

It was just coconut and coffee, his detection and analysis nerves told him with certainty.

His gaze shifted to the half-full coffee pot.

(End of this chapter)