Rick and Morty: My Grandfather is Rick?

Soon, the fleet docked in the port became completely agitated, with everyone's face filled with a desire for longevity.

But on the fleet's flagship, Commander Saladin was not as excited as the others.

Born into an aristocratic family, he was born into an elite education, unlike those who, from birth, had to spend a few years learning a skill that would allow them to do only one thing for the rest of their lives.

Saladin had also read history books, which offer almost no help in getting promoted or receiving a raise in the future.

He is very clear.

If there's even the slightest possibility that the longevity of gods might be used against them by the Fly People.

So many thousands of years.

Why do they still live to around fifty years old?

If a fly-man could live to fifty-five, he would practically be the mascot of the universe, and everyone would be honored to meet him.

If a fly-man lives to sixty, he can not only live for free in the imperial capital and offer his opinions to the president and parliament, but also ensure that his descendants have the opportunity to marry into a higher social class.

So Morty sent them a group message.

It's just a pie in the sky.

A pancake that can never be eaten.

It was a pie in the sky, ostensibly to send them to kill the Pope, but in reality, to distract all of Hermuel's departments.

It's just a small, misleading tactic.

However... all departments that recorded this information had already documented the fact that Normartin had directly deployed troops to Hermuel under the guise of a divine omen.

Thousands of warships and nearly hundreds of thousands of fleet members.

Ah!

So even if Hermuel didn't have a divine attack today, he would have to forcibly create a god!

Otherwise, how can all of this be explained?

How could a marginal, third-rate unit be inexplicably incorporated into a department that has been marginalized for thousands of years as its directly subordinate unit?

You two are up to something, aren't you?!

"Commander, what should we do?"

Saladin remained silent for a long time, and the senior captains of the fleet around him couldn't help but feel uneasy, fearing that he might do something irrational.

Saladin, born into nobility, was specially trained in how to make the best strategies under pressure.

He cleared his mind of all distracting thoughts.

It's like drawing a new picture on a blank sheet of paper.

He began to think about how he should begin his most important first stroke.

He pondered deeply for a full minute.

Saladin decisively ordered that, under the pretext of protecting the all-channel elemental detection equipment within the Divine Office—an important asset of the empire—a quarter of the fleet be taken to the Divine Office.

Once you get there, you don't care what kind of family they are, what kind of power they have behind them, or what kind of deep relationship they have with anyone.

We must follow the rules! Everyone needs to know this!

They were dispatched to Hermuel by the Divine Department.

Now, as a directly subordinate unit of the department, we protect the safety of individuals and property throughout the entire Divine Spirit Bureau!

Of course, if there's a chance, Morty must be allowed to escape.

Because from any perspective, letting Morty go is an excellent choice.

Secondly, send three elite squads to kill the Pope, and one elite squad to find Nomartin's whereabouts.

Why did those two have to cause trouble without even telling me?

Sell ​​it now!

If only you two had given me a heads-up beforehand.

I don't actually believe in any of those golden crispy thin noodles cults.

The three of us could easily kill Morty together, or even that old man who hid somewhere in Hermuel as soon as he got off the spaceship!

Right now, all we can do is protect ourselves!

So you two can just go die!

Anyway, it's better to die for your fellow Daoist than for me!

Chapter 162 Saladin

"Do you ever feel like you're in a movie?"

"Outside the door was a group of people waiting to arrest us. One of us was seriously wounded and about to die, while the other would either be killed by the enemy who broke down the door, or be publicly executed after surrendering."

"Does this feeling of being a desperate outlaw make your heart race?"

Tzeentch: "What the hell is going on with you right now...?"

Countless enemies are outside the door, ready to break in at any moment, while someone by your side has suddenly unleashed their true nature, starting to rant and rave indiscriminately instead of doing anything productive.

Tzeentch had no idea what sins he had committed or what kind of bewitching potion had bewitched him to believe the lies of these two guys.

And that's how I ended up with this mess!

Damn it!

Even if I'm going to die, I want to die with some dignity!

I choose to commit suicide!

Just as Tzeentch was thinking that he should kill himself as soon as possible to avoid dying of anger rather than bleeding to death, Morty, who was sitting next to him, finally made his next move.

The reason I suddenly started complaining to this guy wasn't because Morty thought things were going to go wrong and wanted to say a few more words before he died.

Instead, he was waiting.

Waiting for someone.

It wasn't my grandfather, but someone from that fleet.

After all, some old rascal said that this time he really didn't intend to be a babysitter. He would let Morty do everything himself and see if he could escape death in a more extreme situation without his grandfather by his side.

Morty has always felt that his abilities are being suppressed by his grandfather, and at the same time, he always wants to give up. Under the interplay of these two forces, Morty sometimes falls into a state of self-doubt.

What do I really want?

Knowing full well that once she leaves her grandfather, she won't have such a powerful and influential figure to rely on anymore, she still tries to constantly show him that she wants to leave him.

While waiting for the fleet to arrive and chatting idly with Tzeentch, he began to understand what he really wanted.

It is the sense of dependence and aversion to this fate that arises in every transmigrator when they first arrive in this world and receive a cheat code, a power-up, or an old man living in a ring.

Even though you know this thing can help you, you still feel, to some extent, that you are just being manipulated.

What dangers we encounter, what help we need—it all seems to be pre-calculated, like a script.

Real life... what script is there to speak of?

So when Morty does nothing at this point, he doesn't really do nothing.

Morty, holding a slice of banana cake, continued chatting idly with Tzeentch while stuffing the cake into his mouth to replenish his energy.

"Xiao Qi, you're one of the four great evil gods of Warhammer, and you acted so powerfully in my dream. How come you can be tricked and killed as soon as you come out here?"

"You're clearly a shrewd strategist, yet after all your scheming, you got stabbed and seriously injured. Aren't you just slapping yourself in the face?"

Jekyll, who was already coughing up blood, rolled his eyes at Morty with difficulty.

Skilled at calculation...

You know that with every step you take forward, the speed, weight, and airflow of your landing are subject to endless possibilities for calculation.

Such a massive amount of computation is beyond the capabilities of even the most powerful AI to manage.

But then you run into someone who'll stab you for no reason.

What the hell is this scheming about?!

I've had my suspicions that the pope might be on our side.

But what I never expected was that he would dare to attack me directly in front of the director's office at the Divine Bureau!

Isn't this just like fighting in front of a police station and expecting the security guard to be an outsourced company?

"That's the important point!"

"What should we do next?"

"If you choose to surrender first and then find a chance to escape, then please hurry, because my body can't hold on much longer."

"If you intend to resist to the end, then please give me a weapon, so that I won't die such a pathetic death."

"If you intend to watch me die before surrendering, then I'll end my own life while I still have the strength."

After hearing the options Tzeentch presented, and confirming that the guy's IQ hadn't dropped, he realized he'd just been caught off guard.

Morty stood up, went to the guardhouse, and took out a first-aid kit.

Upon seeing the universally recognized red cross on the silver metal box, Tzeentch's eyes widened to the greatest extent he had ever seen. He raised his trembling right hand, barely suppressing the urge to cough up blood again, and pointed at Morty, angrily accusing him, "So you knew from the beginning that there was a first-aid kit in the guardhouse?!"

"Yeah, I just wanted to see if you'd think that since you're going to die soon anyway, you might as well take someone down with you. Turns out, you didn't mean me any harm after all."

"Morty! Go to hell!!!"

"My uncle is Rick. If you want to cause trouble for him, I'm willing to lead the way for you."

"I was wrong..."

"Good~"

Morty approached Tzeentch, opened the box, took out a bottle of Rapid Wound Coagulation Gel, and applied it directly to the wound.

This emergency wound treatment gel, manufactured using biotechnology and chemical technology, truly deserves its place on the Galactic Empire's list of bulk medical supplies.

The physical constitution of the fly-man is completely different from that of the humanoid genie.