Warhammer: Start with a dog.

Chapter 865 This time it's Mephisto's turn -
"What are you saying, Malakin Forros? Do you even know the meaning of every word you just uttered?"

Morpheus, the chief think tank of the Blood Angels, was led by a silent guard to the apothecary's infirmary on this mysterious and glorious Queen-class warship. He thought a lot and even had a strange expectation—expectation to see someone.

However, even after they reached the infirmary and met the head apothecary there, Mephisto did not encounter the person he intuitively felt he would meet.

This made him feel relieved, but also slightly disappointed.

But even with the strongest premonition, you know that Saint Gilles is dead and cannot possibly be anywhere in the real universe.

He shook his head. The apothecary beside him keenly noticed something. The apothecary's white armor still had a silver skull-shaped chapter insignia painted on the left shoulder, which was very conspicuous against the black background, but Morpheus had no intention of exposing it.

—If I still believe you are any members of the Silver Skull Chapter, I am the blindest person in the universe.

Even so, the vague, strange feeling that had been bothering him ever since they left Sabathus made him choose to remain on this mysterious, dangerous ship, even though Lacerius, who was left behind on his own Blood Oath, was extremely anxious.

"Perhaps you need to spend some time alone, Master Mephisto."

"If I could, I would be eternally grateful, Master Hong Suo."

The pharmacist, whose causal aura appeared to Morpheus to be beyond bizarre in Morpheus's psychic vision, considerately left Malakin's ward and closed the isolation pod door for them.

"All right."

Morpheus turned to the pale-faced, striped hospital gown-clad Warchief of the Lamenters, who was leaning against the headboard of several soft, fluffy white pillows.

“When he was here just now, I could tell you had something you wanted to say but couldn’t, right? Now you can say it.”

The haggard-looking Malakin then seemed to notice Morpheus just as carefully scrutinizing the chief think tank.

"In fact, our journey of atonement is not over yet..."

He spoke slowly, “In theory, my receiving treatment here is also a form of receiving help, and talking to you would be considered a major suspicion of obtaining assistance. These are all violations of the judgments we have been given, and the Tribunal and the High Lords Council may use this as an excuse to further exile us or threaten Baal.”

“Oh, if they could.” The chief think tank almost smiled at this. “My personal opinion is that this Glory Queen, no matter what power is behind her, probably doesn’t care much about the High Lords Council. As for the Inquisition, well, that’s a matter of opinion.”

Malakin seemed a little surprised.

"Why do you say that? I'm sorry, I haven't met many people since I came aboard this ship. Perhaps there are some things I can't understand..."

“You should know that the attendant who just guided me here was a member of the Imperial Guard, Malakin. Do you understand the significance of both of them appearing at the same time?”

"You saw him too?" Malakin's expression changed instantly. He said urgently, "It was at his request that we navigated this ship and tracked your route!"

The person wailing suddenly clutched their head in anguish, "My head hurts so much..."

Mephisto frowned but did not get up to seek help from the apothecary outside.

“Don’t move. There seem to be unusual marks on your head. Someone has done something to your brain. It’s subtle and sophisticated… If it weren’t me sitting here but a Blood Priest like Kobro or a High Priest like Astorius, they probably wouldn’t be able to detect these fading traces either.”

Hearing this, Malakin, enduring the increasingly intense pain and the desire to immediately obtain painkillers from Hongso, slowly lowered his hands.

Mephisto nodded and placed his hands on it.

"Bear with it, bro," he said.

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Moments later, Hunso was summoned by Malakin's screams and the sound of alarms.

“How could this be?” He frowned. “He should have already begun to recover from his Black Rage episodes. His epilepsy and headaches had decreased to once every 72 hours, and my scans showed that his brain cells were recovering very well. You didn’t do anything to him that you shouldn’t have, Master Morpheus.”

“What can I do to my blood-related brothers? Master Hong Suo, watch your words, are you accusing me?”

“I didn’t mean to, but… well, this isn’t the time to dwell on that. In my clinic, my patients’ conditions are my top priority.”

The apothecary master didn't seem too happy, but he immediately used highly professional techniques to perform pain relief and treatment on Malakin. Soon, the patient seemed to stabilize and fell into a dreamless sleep, while Morpheus was politely "invited" out of the clinic by the apothecary master with a forced smile.

"I will have someone notify you when he is in a suitable condition to meet with guests, Chief Think Tank."

Suddenly, Morpheus found himself standing at the door of the pharmacist's lab, completely unsupervised.

So, is the chief think tank a patient visitor who waits for someone to take him to the next location?
the answer is negative.

When he discovered that the mechanical guards at the entrance didn't seem to care where he was going next, and the Imperial Guard who had led him there didn't appear at the door either—Morpheus lifted his leg, took a step, and quite naturally seized this rare opportunity to begin exploring the mysterious interior facilities and structure of this Glory Queen-class palace on his own.

At least on any other ship that appears to be so orderly, the chief think tank is usually able to ascertain most of the structure and draw up a rough map of the ship before it is located and brought to a halt.

But...

After failing to determine the direction of travel for the thirteenth time by using divination and to explore the path for the ninth time by using psychic perception, Mephisto was at least certain of one thing: the builder of this ship either hated psychics very much and had enough money and knowledge to counter them, or he was a terrifying psychic who knew very, very well how psychic powers worked.

The inertia and resistance to psychic energy in the walls, floors, and ceilings of this godforsaken place made him wonder if the ashes of the Untouchables were mixed in during its construction, or if the steel was luxuriously quenched with the blood of the Untouchables.
Fortunately, even if he couldn't use destructive psionic energy on a large scale from three feet away, Mephisto was still a very powerful and competent warrior.

As he walked forward, he drew his power sword, Vitalus, while unhappily recalling the words of the shameless Grey Knight who had tricked him and warned him against becoming too obsessed with and reliant on psionic powers. That old-fashioned brat; it's a shame he once admired him.

As he muttered this to himself as he turned the next corner, Mephisto stopped, looked back at the passageway he had come from, and then activated the distance measurement and step counter on his power armor.

--------

After walking back and forth eight times, Mephisto was almost certain that there was something wrong with the passage: someone had hidden a space here, cleverly folded into a place formed by some kind of spatial array or between two worlds.

So perhaps this is one of the secrets of this ship?

The chief think tank picked up the notebook at his waist containing the spells he knew, carefully determined the number of steps to take when he crossed the passage for the ninth time, and reached the twentieth step when he reached the center. At the same time, he silently recited the incantation he had prepared in advance and made Vitalus communicate with him.

The smooth, seamless cabin walls slid slowly and silently to one side, revealing a passageway behind them large enough for a Space Marine to pass through.

The good news is that a slight airflow was blown through the passage, indicating that its bottom may not be completely sealed.

The bad news was that Mephisto smelled something ominous coming from such a hidden place: the smell of incense usually found only in front of temples and altars, dried-up organic matter, and candles that had been lit and then extinguished.

"Very well, Saint Gilles. Let me see what kind of being you and this ship are following?"

Gripping Vitalus and the Hot Melt Pistol tightly, Mephisto cautiously stepped forward.

Although the passageway appeared to be only wide enough for one person to pass through, it was constructed with great care and sturdiness. There was also a small automatic light every certain distance. However, the wind flowing from the end of the passageway was getting stronger and stronger, and the message carried by the wind was becoming increasingly ominous.

—The stench of a rotten swamp, the scent of parchment and quill pen, the sweet and pungent smell of decaying flowers and thick hormones, and—the smell of warm, fresh blood. Morpheus subconsciously swallowed, only to realize that the urge to drink fine wine was not as strong as he remembered.

The Black Angel's slumber not only halted the Black Wrath's continuation but also suppressed the Crimson Thirst. Was this an unexpected boon or an ominous sign?
Regardless, this is still definitely a good thing at the moment.

Presumably, the merciful Lord Dante, the priests who command the Death Company, and the Council of the Holy Blood are currently holding a meeting, both surprised and delighted, to discuss the new changes. Perhaps some of the members of the Holy Blood Angels' demigods whom Mephisto had seen before, who were unwilling to remove their helmets, are able to get a temporary respite until they find more ways.

A hint of tenderness appeared on Mephisto's somber face, as the hope of such a precious possibility in this universe ignited a warm flame in the soul within his cold body.

He continued on until he emerged from a hidden door concealed beneath an exquisitely carved cover.

...?
Mephisto had imagined many possibilities, including finding himself emerging from some chaotic, polluted, and bloody ritual site, or reappearing on the altar as a lured sacrificial prey, only to be forced to face a barrage of attacks.

But what he didn't expect was that what rained down on him was the beautiful, golden rays of the setting sun.

As the dazzling light that had made his soul dazed gradually disappeared with the "sun" sinking below the horizon, he found himself standing in a chapel that was perhaps not the largest he had ever seen, but was certainly the most sacred and exquisite.

After the Battle of Istvan III, the Blood Angels' formal artistic attainments and the proportion of people involved in artistic creation were second to none among all chapters. Their monasteries and fortresses were naturally filled with exquisite sculptures, paintings, murals and other works of art. Many of the Blood Angels' works could be said to be among the best in the entire Imperium of Man, and many ancient, unnamed works were treasures in the treasury.

However, compared to the statues here, these works probably pale in comparison.

The chief think tank looked at the life-size statues of the Primarchs standing on the columns around him with a mixture of surprise, wariness, and fascination.

Each one clearly corresponds to a Primarch he knows, and each statue is so lifelike and vivid that when the Chief Think Tank first saw the Raven Guard Primarch in the instant before leaping out of the secret door, he instinctively made a dodging motion.

He then realized that these were all simply amazing and ingenious sculptural masterpieces.

Although some of the statues differ greatly from or even contradict the legendary descriptions of their appearance, their features and demeanor are so convincing that it is as if the sculptor stood directly opposite the original genetic material, capturing with his own eyes the most representative moment of the subject, and using his hands to solidify the magnificent beauty of that fleeting moment of flesh and blood into this eternal poem composed of marble and gold.

If that's the case, then there must be something here...

Beyond the statue of the Midnight Lord Primarch, which was clearly beautified for some unknown reason and looked more like a law-abiding, gloomy, and handsome mathematician, Mephisto indeed found the statue he wanted to see.

Saint Gilles stood there with a relaxed and serene expression that Mephistopheles had never seen in any of the statues and paintings of angels, with what seemed to be a faint smile that shifted with the angle of his gaze as he looked at his offspring.

The angel's wings folded easily and naturally behind his back like a cloak, adorned not with pearls and silver chains, but with many unknown wildflowers and roses. He still held his spear of victory in his arms, but it seemed he had just been wiping it rather than using it. His crimson sword, along with its scabbard, rested against a stone at his feet.

He was so natural, so vivid, so real that for a moment Mephisto had the illusion that he could hear the other’s breathing and the sound of the cloth wiping the spear scraping against the shaft.

It wasn't until his trembling, ecstatic fingertips touched the cool, smooth stone that the chief think tank member snapped back to reality, gazing up at the face of the statue above.

Where was he? Recalling the ominous scents he'd encountered on his way here, Morpheus didn't want the statue to remain there for even a moment longer. He turned to channel his psionic energy—

"We usually call taking something without permission theft, according to Chief Think Tank Morpheus."

The think tank abruptly turned around, facing the newcomer with wariness.

"Who is coming?"

"Ah, please relax, I am just the pastor who presides over this little chapel."

Before the words were finished, a figure dressed in black priest armor, with weapons and books hanging at his waist and his hands empty, stepped down from the altar with a friendly demeanor.

Mephisto was shocked by the face he saw.

(End of this chapter)