Warhammer: Start with a dog.

Chapter 827 I...we...miss you so much
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“Excellent spoils, my lord.”

"I know. Of course."

"So……"

"There's no need for an infirmary, Hong Suo. All he needs is some sedatives and a hospital gown."

"If there is any need, my Lord, I would be happy to spare a little more time..."

"I will let you know if I need any medical services, thank you."

So the pharmacist regretfully left after installing a magical sedative pump and other monitoring instruments.

The two remaining battle commanders watched from the next room in the office as this freshly baked...

"Uh, why would a new Imperial Guard be deployed in this remote rural area?"

Lamizain looked at the towering, muscular man in a hospital gown lying on a steel table and asked a question.

The man had his eyes closed, a dark-skinned face, and short hair. Ramizane had seen this skin color feature on many Istvan veterans from different legions.

By reading the library's collection, Ramizane already knew that this was a common skin color among the 30K Terrans, and in fact, it was very likely that many famous Legion warriors had this as their initial skin color.

However, although the skin on this imperial guard's face looked relatively good at first glance, it already showed signs of vicissitude and roughness. Fine crow's feet extended from the corners of his eyes, and although there were not many signs of graying beard on his clean-shaven chin, the hair at his temples had also been tinged with the frost of time.

“How would I know? I can’t read minds. To be honest, he wasn’t wearing armor or carrying standard Imperial Guard weapons, so it’s reasonable for him to be a Black Robe. After all, we’ve been here for a while, and it’s normal for him to be drawn here by rumors if he happens to be wandering around this sector.”

"The Black-Robed Ones?" Ramizain asked. "That sounds familiar. Is it the title for retired Imperial Guards?"

“Yes. ‘Retired’ Imperial Guards, or rather, when an Imperial Guard feels that he can no longer swing his weapon faster and has even slowed down a little, he will think that he may no longer be able to perform his duties as an Imperial Guard in his best condition…”

"Besides guarding the palace, the shadow prison, and the throne room, what else are the Imperial Guards responsible for...? Although... it seems they haven't been keeping a very good watch over things."

Peturabo BC glanced at him quickly.

"...In short, when a member of the Imperial Guard senses even the slightest decline in their skills, they will choose to 'retire,' returning their weapons, equipment, and armor to the Imperial Guard Order. They will then don black robes and begin traveling the galaxy. Some call such members 'Emperor's Eyes.' During their travels, they will send back intelligence they encounter to Terra or thwart plots to overthrow the Empire..."

"...What kind of secret censor? The problem is, first of all, the Imperial Guards are so obviously huge, taller than ordinary Astartes (strange laughter here), well, I mean, in real life they certainly are. So, combined with the second problem, is it normal that after ten thousand years, so many huge figures have been sent out from the palace and there's not a single record in the galaxy of them successfully preventing any major events..."

"Why don't you ask someone who's been watching for so long about this question?"

Peturabo BC said bluntly.

The pigeon, which had been sneaking along the wall in the shadows trying to make itself inconspicuous, stood frozen in place, feeling quite embarrassed.

"Gulp...I'm just...that..."

The pigeon's feathers were still crooked and sticking up, showing that it had been smoothed out with great effort. The laurel wrestling crown was worn quite straight, but several of the gold leaves were crooked or deformed. Clearly, the wrestling with the Blood God was a brutal affair, with everyone using their maximum critical hit rate and critical hit effect, trying to break the opponent's defense again and again.

"Hey, wait!" Ramizam suddenly shouted.

Peturabo BC immediately lowered its tail.

"W-What did you do?!"

A pet owner, faster than his mouth, swiftly pulled out a comb and neatly combed all the pigeon's messy, upright feathers.

"Don't run away with your feathers all ruffled! This is better... And what's this?"

He shook the steel comb in his hand in surprise, and a few tiny, glittering metal shavings fell from the few fallen feathers on it.

"brass……?"

"It's nothing!" The pigeons swooped down and grabbed them before Ramizan's fingers could touch them, stuffing them under their wings.

"Hey? How could you hide under your wings..."

"It's an ancient Black Forest practice that talking birds can hide anything under their wings, so it should be allowed to happen!" the pigeon shouted loudly and quickly.

Lamizain thought for a moment with a puzzled expression, "...Does such a book exist? Perhaps it's Grimm's Fairy Tales? Maybe..."

Peturabo BC's gaze, having foreseen the deplorable state of the ledger, pierced the pigeon like poison, while the pigeon returned a "what else can we do?" look, pretending not to see it.

However, when the Border Collie's gaze became increasingly hostile, Pigeon nervously offered a suggestion.

"The reason he can travel through the galaxy is this phantom camouflage generator," Pigeon explained. "It's an old design, but it's smaller and easier to use than most modern ones."

He will wake up soon, and he will surely recognize me when he sees me. But he will most likely not be able to calmly face you all.”

He said, “You might as well go to the room next door and wait. I will have a good talk with him and then bring him to you. That way you can get a very good person without being too tired or troublesome.”

"You're so confident," Peturabo BC raised an eyebrow, "So he was in the first batch? The second batch?"

"Uh, the first batch."

Upon hearing this, the person let out a strange, joyful laugh, as if they had pulled a miracle from a single draw.

"The first batch of hand-rubbed limited edition golden corn! Hehehehehehe... Tell me who this is? La Endymion? Amon? It can't be Waldo, can it?!"

"Of course not." The pigeon's eyes started to dart away, but he eventually said a name.

“Uh…Diao.”

"Who?"

“His full name is too long—Diocletian Coros.”

“Oh ho,” Ramizan said, “Petulabob BC seems eager to suddenly build a Royal Guard Dreadnought. You’ll have to have a serious talk.”

--------

Meanwhile, on the other side of the Destiny Steel...

Warren rushed to the quiet window in the cafeteria, a small window set on a plain stone and terracotta countertop, just wide enough for a plate, with a rounded top that generally allowed drinks or towering piles of desserts to pass through safely.

He glanced inside; the lights were off, but strangely, even Astartes's eyesight couldn't see any details inside when the cafeteria's lumens were on.

Hey! Is anyone here?! Is anyone here?!

The man tearing the flesh roared loudly, even frantically reaching into the window to pound and grope for anything behind him—

A hand grasped his hand.

Even at such close range, he still couldn't see the face of the person behind the cafeteria window.

This is not only highly suspicious, but also extremely wrong!
Warren was startled and reached for his explosive pistol at his waist, then remembered that the weapon had been confiscated and not yet returned. Oh no—

Wait, this hand...

His senses told him that the hand was very…large.

But his bone structure is perfect, and his fingers are long and strong.

Although his punch was thrown casually, the force was astonishing. Yet, in the other person's hands, it seemed like nothing more than a child's insignificant playfulness. The adult gently closed their palm, enveloping his hand. A warm feeling washed over them.

There was also a very beautiful, deep voice that made Warren tremble.

"Hello, child. How can I help you?"

The man who tore the flesh trembled as if he had a fever. He knew this voice. He knew it because he had heard it countless times before he forced himself to calm down and return to the world that was not occupied by darkness.

But every time he tried to escape the darkness and bloodshed, the voice he heard was a roar filled with pain, the sorrow of betrayal, and the rage of revenge, not as calm and gentle as it was now, filled with a warmth that soothed his mind and body.

"I……"

He opened his mouth and realized that his lips were a little chapped, his face probably looked a mess, and how long ago was the last time his poorly maintained power armor had been oiled?
For the first time in two centuries, Warren Characa hesitated for a moment.

But the other person didn't rush him; they held his hand and patiently waited for his reply.

How loving! A warm feeling flowed from the hand being held into his body and soul. The man tearing the flesh had his lips soaked in the salty liquid, and he realized that he had been moved to tears without even realizing it.

"I...we...miss you so much."

“I know, child.”

The voice answered him from the darkness, loving, noble, and merciful.

"I know."

--------

Because of the pigeon's requirement to guarantee a high success rate, Ramizam regretfully did not hear the specific content of the pigeon's conversation with Diocletian Kross.

However, it is clear that this certain pigeon king still has some tricks up his sleeve. He used some method to quickly verify his identity in front of this famous Imperial Guard Protector and made a request to him.

In conclusion, Diocletian Cross has now successfully rejoined the ship (?) and agreed to serve as a temporary member on the Ironblood.

Since he cooperated so well, he received the rare privilege of signing a contract in the war guild leader's office.

However, this process took a long time; it took a full two hours to sign in the names that were legally binding on the contract.

“Much easier to persuade than I thought, uh, well, welcome to our warm… ‘Silver Skull’ chapter, or the Carlossian Merchant Ronin Dynasty? Diocletian.”

Lord Ramizan Carlosini was still very talkative when they met, but the Imperial Guards were clearly even more verbally deficient.

"Although I believe this place is still rife with untrustworthy traitors, liars, demons, and inhuman beings, since my King has reappeared and told me with His own lips that you are necessary, indispensable, and that I must serve the great cause of the galaxy today, then so it is."

He even refused to extend his hand to the other person in the ancient handshake greeting.

The being before Diocletian, with the face of a traitorous creation, showed no life; on the contrary, a remarkably human smile appeared on that face. It was almost entirely human.

“Oh! That’s great, just like that!” the being said gleefully, rubbing his hands together. “So now we have a Royal Guard officer on board! I can imagine how dramatic things will be… This is fantastic! Uh, by the way, Dao, did you forget your golden armor and spear?”

It called me Dio. Diocletian thought to himself, only my closest brother or the leader of a thousand men could, should call me by that name. But I didn't feel offended. How terrible.

Only then did the tribunal lower his head and give him a cautious bow.

The other person once again wore a silly grin.

...Can this thing really save everyone from their current miserable situation, as our king claims...?
The tribunes of the plebs became uncertain about this again thousands of years later.

---------

Malakin Forros felt like he was having a very long dream.

But it was the first time in so many years that he had a dream that felt relaxed, beautiful, warm, and carefree.

At first, it was a nightmare, a complete nightmare.

All the pressure, doubts, betrayals, attacks, and even the pain of losing a comrade-in-arms that he experienced before and after becoming the battle commander all transformed into concrete boulders that pressed him down under the mountain formed by those boulders.

Looking around, all he saw was pure darkness. Only endless grief and anger permeated him, gradually burying his soul and heart. He remained silent at the bottom of the fortress formed by despair, until his body ended or his last bit of reason was worn away.

It seemed as if someone was dragging him.

It could be Warren Charaka, the man who tears flesh.

Malakin thought indifferently, tears streaming uncontrollably down his face.

He couldn't help... The Flesh-Tearer was also in dire straits. When Malakin saw the red in the whites of his eyes and his overdeveloped canines due to their frequent protrusions, he knew that the Flesh-Tearer's demise was only a matter of time.

I can't help you either... Grief overwhelmed him, the unwavering loyalty and hard work he had served for thousands of years, the countless brothers who could have survived, the betrayal behind the Star Claws' overtures, the Minotaur's plunder, the loss of his homeship... the pride and despair of being a son of Saint Gilles...

I only wish that my death will not betray the blood of Saint Gilles.

My body seemed to be lifted up with great force and placed on some narrow platform...

However, if Warren were to have an attack now and want to drink his blood, it wouldn't matter; it would be good to relieve his cousin's thirst for a moment with his own blood.

This means that he... can still be of some help.

Is that so? You think so?

A warm hand rested on his hand that had fallen deep down.

A voice appeared as if it were a ray of light shining into the darkness.

who……

There's still so much you can do. Malakin Forros, so much, here, trust them.

[Trust...them?]

Trust everyone here, no matter what face they present to you.

I...I'm afraid after what happened to Huron...I can't...I can't do it...I can't do anything...

"You can do it." The voice was warm, firm, and as solid and dry as the land of Baal. "You can do it, Malakin Forros, believe in me one more time."

"Then I'll... believe... just one more time... the last time...?"

"You did very well," the voice said, so warm and loving, only turning a little mischievous at the end.

【You did a good job. ...Do as they say, he won't let you suffer. Now go outside.】

[Wait! Don't go! Please don't go! We miss you so much!]

That warm, large hand squeezed him tightly again, accompanied by a heartbreaking sigh.

Malakin opened his eyes on the cafeteria floor.

(End of this chapter)