Warhammer: Start with a dog.

Chapter 828 What are you doing here!
"You're awake!" Warren Charaka's anxious yet joyful face came into Malakin Forros's view.

—The blood of Saint Gilles. A flesh-tearer with a sincere and seemingly rational smile. Am I really dead? Already in the afterlife?

Even so, the weeping man politely winked at the other. The warmth on his fingertips gradually faded, replaced by a deep sense of regret, but he felt incomparably strong now.

He then answered, "Yes, Warren, I'm back."

He sat up, and the two sons of Saint Gilles remained silent for a moment on the smooth, molten basalt floor of the dining hall.

"You...see?" The one who tore the flesh finally broke the silence. "I couldn't push you all the way in, I could only push in one arm, but your face is pressed against it too."

"No." The other person shook their head, and Warren's expression immediately turned to disappointment, but then he realized something and his face lit up.

“You know what I’m talking about!” he said happily.

“Yes,” Malakin nodded. “I didn’t see it, but I felt it. That feeling. You felt it too, didn’t you?”

"Yes. Yes..."

They raised the two hands that had been touched, clasped their palms together, and touched their foreheads.

"As a warband leader, preside over a small prayer of joy for us, brother, and then we will pass this good news on to every one of our blood relatives."

"My honor, brother."

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"It is extremely strange of you to try to disguise yourself as a mortal, Your Excellency."

For a moment, Peturabo BC seemed to be making a very difficult choice between reaching out his power hand to strangle a pigeon and punching Diocletian Kroos into the floor.

The pigeon, with remarkable maturity and agility, flew to the back of the chair where the former tribune—oh, since Diocletian had retired, he was no longer a tribune—was sitting, thus shielding Ramizan in front of him.

The man whom Diocletian had described in such a way sat in the chair behind his desk, and upon hearing this, looked up and smiled at the retired Imperial Guard, revealing eight white teeth.

"Thank you, you too, Dio."

"Oh, look at the kind of personality you've given your baby, you old man. Does he really understand what you've told him? Does he even know what he's doing?"

"Bickering is a pretty lively thing to do, isn't it?" Pigeon's tone even carried a hint of barely perceptible sadness. "Pretty lively, very youthful."

"I'm pretty sure that even the youngest person sitting in this office right now has no connection to the word 'youth'."

“Uh, I’m not so sure,” Ramizan Carlosini said. “After all, according to the WTO’s definition, people aged 18-65 are considered ‘young people.’ Also,” his icy blue eyes were filled with curiosity, “Diocrisian, what exactly did you hear? Because I’ve forgotten who said it, ‘It’s impossible to corrupt a Custodian even by the time the universe is destroyed,’ so I’m really curious what prompted you to join our… well… small organization that clearly doesn’t belong to the ‘Imperial Empire’?”

“I don’t think it’s corruption, Your Excellency,” Diocletian said, his light brown eyes narrowing. “It’s called obeying orders.”

“Excellent. So, what can you do for us, Dao? You see, although we’re sitting in this office, the people leading our forces are named Vograim Pallas and Leman Ruth, the master controller of the Ironblood is Magna Matt Dorn, and we’re in contact with Conrad Coz, Angron Petra, and Robert Guilliman. We don’t lack Primarchs, Commanders, or Champions, nor do we lack food or equipment; we lack only line-fillers… I mean, we lack soldiers.”

Perturabo BC blinked. Hmm, he hadn't mentioned the vanished Utherma Atla and Clarkes, or the others who had quietly visited and disappeared. He wondered how much Old Deng had told this black corn.

The question was simple, but the terrifyingly audacious truth contained in the latter half of the seemingly casual remark stumped Diocletian for a moment—or perhaps it shocked him once again.

“…Perhaps.” The guard who lived to the end of the Siege of Terra said slowly, “I can start with why I am here and some of the people I know here.”

“Great, that’s what I wanted to know too! Come on, let’s make a coconut latte and get some almond dog paw bread rolls with custard filling.”

"The cafeteria is temporarily out of coconut lattes, so you'll have to try something else," Peturabo BC said expressionlessly.

"How could it suddenly disappear?! Wasn't this our new product that we were about to launch?!"

“We’ve run out of coconut puree,” said the Devil Border Collie. “A big customer has placed an order that will buy up all of Pearl Moon’s production capacity for fresh coconut lattes made with authentic classic Terra coconut puree from now until a century from now.”

"It won't hurt if I take a few..."

"Of course, but you'll have to wait until the next batch of coconuts is harvested and processed; we'll reserve some for you."

"Oh. That's all then. Today... let me think, let's have some regular lattes first. Luckily, dog paw bread with a regular latte is not bad."

Diocletian listened to this conversation, which was so relaxed it was almost bizarre.

The expression on his face, marked by ritual scars, gradually shifted from a frown to disbelief, and finally to, "Are you all making fun of me?"

Then his gaze met that of a pigeon that was awkwardly scratching its claws.

...Well, it's alright, isn't it? At least they're all human now, speaking the language of the Human Empire, and still following the basic rules of being human. Diocletian, this is good enough. Think about the past, think about what you saw before and after leaving the palace. Think about how this is your last chance with your lord.

The retired military commander let out a breath, then forced his expression to return to calm as he waited for the two "number four" to decide on the afternoon tea menu.

"I'm so glad we'll be able to eat so much food later. May I speak, sirs?"

"Oh, of course. Let me think, how did you end up here?"

“I arrived here on a strange ship called the Enterprise, and then blended in with the Kadia refugees who arrived here. Back then, the port hadn’t been expanded and reinstalled with various detectors and force fields, so it was much easier to infiltrate than it is now.” This statement almost made someone jump up again.

"How could it be the Enterprise?! Wait, you're on Cardia?! I've never heard of anything on Cardia... Hey! Wait a minute! That's you?! That doesn't match your description!"

“Yes.” Diocletian Kroos’s facial muscles twitched. “I was captured by that alien who called himself the ‘greatest collector.’ He also forged the fragments of armor that the Imperial Guard had lost in various places into a cheap fake and put it on me, and stuffed a spear, also from the lost objects, into my hand.”

“…Strictly speaking, our intervention saved you, right?” Ramizane rubbed his temples, trying to remember. “If I remember correctly, the original fate of the released Imperial Guards was to be killed by Abaddon with a single punch, you know?”

“My condition is indeed not at its peak after being in the static field for so long, and my weaponry is indeed unsuitable and unwieldy… but I don’t think the Ezekiel Abaddon I know could do this to one of the Three Hundred.” Diocletian’s eyes were cold, but he avoided the topic of saving him. “That’s not ‘Ezekiel Abaddon,’ that’s just a proxy container being injected with new malice.”

“Perhaps,” Peturabo BC said. “Continue, you infiltrated Wandering Harbor, and then what?”

"I'm observing this place; it's rife with evil, and I need to be careful. My standard equipment is usually minimal, but for some reason, the equipment bag that wretched alien made for me contains a jumble of different pieces of equipment that all the Brotherhood of the Imperial Guard use. I suspect it's because it doesn't really understand our internal group customs and division of labor. Anyway, there's an illusion camouflage pattern in there, but it's malfunctioning."

"I thought the Imperial Guards were supposed to have the smartest minds and the best bodies, so they could do a little bit of everything? Repairing it is a skill related to your equipment, right?"

"We usually have many of our own technicians and guilds to handle related matters for us..."

"Oh, so he's still a nobleman, still the same old story. The Imperial Guard isn't as omnipotent as they claim, and they can't learn everything."

"...Your Excellency, we were created to protect our lord and become the blade of his will. Physical martial arts skills and mental training are more important to us than wasting time on unorthodox methods and trivial skills."

"...The fact that you can say these things to me makes me realize where you should go—it's really necessary for you to work for me for a while to get some experience."

The being cloaked in the shell of the Fourth Primarch revealed a sinister smile, while the phantom formed by the Dauntless beside it wore a different kind of gloating sneer. "Please continue."

Diocletian frowned first; he didn't like the sudden surge of confidence emanating from the person in front of him, but he continued speaking nonetheless.

"I then chose an empty house here to settle down and decided to investigate further, but my size clashed with the ever-present and ever-increasing surveillance, aliens, and security guards. My activities were greatly hindered. However, I soon met several people who had also settled here, and they had obtained legal residency status... Clearly, we had a common goal, and after observing them for a long time, I found that they still had enough awe for the King, and my joining them would be an honor for them."

"Oh? Who is there?"

"A so-called Inquisitor with his demonic host, his psionic assistant, and two Astartes with their recruits."

"What a gathering of heroes... How could the demonic host not have been detected?!"

"Given the chaos and disorder in this place, a mere demon host is like a firefly under a swarm of stars," Diocletian coldly remarked. "The brainwashed Black Templars alone, the Emperor's son serving as sheriff, and the Imperial authority openly thwarting the Wandering Harbor's authority are enough to warrant a thorough sweep, not to mention that signboard..."

“Ahem.” Peturabo BC interrupted, cutting off the other person’s words. “An Inquisitor? That’s a bit strange. Logically speaking, Kadur should have already taken care of the Inquisitions in the last few subsectors… Could it be a Rogue? Do you know what this Inquisitor’s name is?”

“I know,” Diocletian said. “We know each other by name. But just as they couldn’t possibly know my name, I know nothing about what happened during my stasis, so it’s just my name.”

"Then what's his name?"

Diocletian casually uttered a name.

“Gregor,” he said, “Gregor Eisenhorn.”

Ramizan Carlosini uttered an extremely ancient curse, a phrase used tens of thousands of years ago in a region of the Old Earth that no longer exists to express shock.

He then stood up and paced back and forth in the office, seemingly a little agitated.

“Wonderful!” he exclaimed. “Eisenhorn! It’s him! I thought he was dead! Wasn’t he?!”

In contrast, Peturabo BC's face was grave. "This is the first time something like this has happened," he muttered, glancing at the pigeons.

"This has nothing to do with me! At least not directly. No one has mentioned this matter to me."

“You better be. But that explains why Kadur’s secret orders to the Inquisition couldn’t be delivered to him.”

Diocletian frowned. "Is this a rather influential inquisitor? He seems to be quite...close to the devil."

“Although I don’t know much about him, though…” Ramizan’s excitement subsided slightly. He sat back down and pulled up the relevant texts from the Ironblood Grand Library that he had read while slacking off earlier.

“Look here, his demon host is now inseparable from him, that must be Kerubel, they are indeed wanted by the Inquisition for heresy. And the most recent record - about 500 years ago, is that the person in charge of hunting down Eisenhorn was his own student, Inquisitor Ravenno.”

“According to the records, Eisenhorn became an Inquisitor in 222.M41, right? Could it be that some kind of connection with the demons has allowed him to live until now?” Perturabo BC also connected himself to this record.

“Wait, 222.M41? He looks old, but he’s far from being over seven hundred years old.” Diocletian’s face was full of doubt. “He’s no more than three hundred years old—I’ve seen too many mortals using various methods to prolong their lives, so I’m quite sure of it.”

“Then we’ll have to see him in person… By the way, what about the others? You said there were two more Astartes? What are their names? Which chapters do they belong to? What do their psionic assistants look like? Can you describe them? I’ll see if they match Eisenhorn’s records.”

"Yes. Two, probably Ultramarines, but their insignia were suspiciously scraped off; Eisenhorn's psionic assistant was a little boy, twelve to fourteen years old, named Zaon; the two Astartes who were suspected Ultramarines were named Ventress and Passanius, and the recruit they were with, I heard them call him Samok."

"How could they all be here at the same time?!"

Ramizam exclaimed in surprise as he looked at the transcript.

(End of this chapter)