Warhammer Cultivation: Cultivating the Tao Te Ching in the 40K Universe

Then, he calmly said to one of the guards behind him:

"Barrow, lend me your sword."

Without hesitation, the Dao Guard leader, whose face bore a hideous scar, unfastened the simplest, undecorated standard power sword from his waist and respectfully presented it with both hands.

Hector took the weapon, so full of iron and bloodlust, so out of place in the art gallery. He weighed it in his hand, then turned to face the statue of Apollo, a symbol of "absolute perfection."

Fugrim's pupils contracted sharply! He instinctively wanted to speak up and stop him! That statue was one of his most treasured possessions, the embodiment of "perfection" in his heart!

However, Hector's next move left all his words stuck in his throat.

Hector did not swing his sword, nor did he attempt to destroy anything.

He simply... closed his eyes.

He immersed all his attention in the vast ocean of true essence within his dantian. The "Small Heavenly Circuit" within his body began to circulate at an unprecedented speed. A pure Daoist aura, filled with "harmony" and "balance," slowly flowed down his arm and into the cold, powerful sword.

That standard weapon, which originally only exuded a murderous aura, seemed to have come to life at this moment!

The pale blue energy halo on the sword, which belonged to the dynamic force field, was gradually replaced by a layer of warm, moonlight-like white radiance.

The chilling killing intent vanished completely, replaced by a warm "vitality" full of "creation."

He temporarily transformed a weapon of slaughter into a carving knife using his own "Dao".

Then, he opened his eyes and flicked his wrist.

A white, streak of light flashed across the perfect statue of Apollo.

A very faint, crisp sound, like the gentle tapping of jade.

A tiny, white marble shard, as thin as a cicada's wing and the size of a fingernail, drifted gently down from the statue's flawless left arm.

Hector, on that work of art symbolizing "absolute perfection," personally left a... insignificant, yet incredibly clear... mark...

Fugrim stared blankly at the small notch that had appeared on the statue's arm. His artist's heart felt as if it had been stabbed! An uncontrollable, instinctive anger and regret surged within him!

However, before he could react, Hector's calm voice rang out again.

"My Primarch, please look at it again."

Despite his discomfort, Fugrim turned his gaze back to the statue.

Then, he froze.

He discovered that after that small "flaw" appeared, the statue did not become "imperfect" as a result.

It... came to life.

Chapter 87 The Four Treasures of the Study

That gap is like the "eye" that the greatest painter has painted on that perfect painting, the most inspired stroke of genius!

It broke the suffocating, absolutely symmetrical "dead silence." It infused that cold, purely technical shell with a "soul" of "story," full of infinite possibilities!

He is no longer the unattainable, perfect Apollo of mythology.

He became someone who had fought, who had been wounded, yet who still stood tall...

That "flaw" did not diminish his "beauty".

Instead, it endowed him with a higher level of imperfect beauty, full of "truth" and "vitality"!

"This this……"

Forgrim's body trembled violently. A dazzling light, like a stellar explosion, erupted from his violet eyes!

He felt as if a thunderbolt from another dimension had shattered the top of his head! All his understanding of "beauty" built up over the past few centuries was completely overturned and reshaped in this moment!

"Great perfection seems flawed, yet its use is inexhaustible. Great fullness seems empty, yet its use is boundless..."

Hector's pronouncement, imbued with the essence of the "Tao," rang in his ears once more.

He finally understood.

He finally understood why the "flying white" and "imbalance" in that unrestrained cursive script were the source of its vitality.

He finally understood why the "silence" in that simple guqin piece was the resonance of its soul.

He finally understood why "black" and "white" in that mysterious Tai Chi diagram must depend on each other to form eternal "harmony".

He finally realized how ridiculous and naive his pursuit of "absolute perfection" was.

"I understand……"

Fugrim murmured to himself, his voice trembling slightly from the overwhelming shock.

The brilliant golden light in his eyes faded away at this moment, replaced by an unprecedented peace that was as profound, inclusive, and tranquil as the void of the universe.

He slowly walked forward, extending his demigod-like hands—the hands that had once created the most perfect works of art—and gently caressed the small "flaw" left by Hector himself.

He felt a cold, rough sensation on his fingertips.

But his heart felt warmer than ever before.

He knew that from this moment on, his "perfect temple," which had long since collapsed and was now nothing but ruins, had finally found the most solid and real foundation that could be used to rebuild it.

Over the next few Terra Days, Foghrim's private art gallery transformed into a peculiar "sacred space."

This Lord of the Phoenix, this perfectionist who once couldn't tolerate even a speck of dust, now sits and discusses philosophy with Hector Kane day and night, like a novice apprentice just beginning to learn.

To outsiders, this is precisely what the dean, whose mission is "artistic exchange," should be doing here.

Hector did not instill any more profound philosophy in him.

He simply and solemnly presented this artist, who was accustomed to using billions of colors to depict the universe, with a set of the oldest writing implements he had made himself before setting off—brush, ink, paper, and inkstone.

Of course, it's an extra-large size, matching the original's body shape.

“My Primarch,” Hector’s voice was like that of the most patient mentor, “you do not need to deliberately pursue ‘balance.’ You only need to try, using only the purest ‘black’ and ‘white,’ to find that most primal ‘harmony’ that you have long forgotten.”

This simple gift, imbued with Eastern Zen, deeply touched Fugrim.

He put down the golden harp that could play the most perfect music, and the energy carving knife that could sculpt the most exquisite statues.

He stretched out those hands, the hands that had once easily torn apart Titan armor, belonging to a demigod, and somewhat clumsily imitated Hector, grinding ink, laying out paper, and holding a brush.

At first, he found it very difficult to adapt.

He was used to controlling everything with absolute power. The seemingly fragile wolf-hair brush in his hand, under his power, would either draw sharp, murderous marks on the tough rice paper like iron hooks and silver strokes, or it would become weak and powerless, leaving behind pools of ink that were devoid of any spirit and resembled tear stains.

His first painting was a phoenix. The phoenix's form was flawless, and every feather was full of power, as if it would burst out of the paper at any moment and burn everything.

However, the whole painting is full of "fiery" energy, lacking a trace of the agility and grace that belongs to the divine bird.

“Too ‘full,’ my Primarch,” Hector commented calmly. “You have only drawn the ‘form’ of the phoenix, but not the ‘sky’ that supports it.”

Fugram was not discouraged. Without hesitation, he burned the "masterpiece" that would drive any mortal artist mad. Then, he started again.

He began to try to control his power. He began to try to understand the mystery of "blank space".

He began to try to find the invisible line of balance called "harmony" between black and white.

This process is difficult. But at the same time, it is also... healing.

Every stroke of the pen is an introspection. Every failure is an examination of one's own "imbalance."

Gradually, his heart, which had become frantic and empty due to the collapse of his faith, found long-lost peace in this purest black and white world, filled with the meaning of "stillness." The "fiery" energy in him, which had arisen from his excessive pursuit of external recognition, also settled down little by little, like dust washed away by spring rain.

Finally, in the quiet of the night, when Fugrim immersed himself entirely in the resonance between ink and paper, forgetting himself, forgetting perfection, forgetting that unbearable tragedy, and simply writing as he pleased—

A completely new picture was born from his brush.

It was still a phoenix.

But this time, the phoenix was neither soaring into the sky nor singing aloud. It simply perched quietly on a seemingly fragile, weathered, withered branch.

Behind it is a vast expanse of empty "blank space".

The phoenix's form was no longer so perfect. On its wings, one could even see several tiny "flaws," as if scorched by war.

But it has come to life like never before...

From its eyes, outlined in light ink, people no longer see the pride and glory of being a divine bird.

Rather, it is a profound "tranquility" born from rebirth through fire, having seen through all the world's splendor and desolation.

Hector looked at the painting, and at the inscription beside it that was also filled with the "beauty of imperfection"—

Chapter 88: Taking Away the Sword of Ral?

A genuine, relieved smile appeared on his face.

He knew that this Phoenix Lord had finally found his own "path".

It was at this moment, when Forgrim was reshaping his Dao Heart, that he made a decision that would change the fate of the entire Legion.

“Hector,” he looked at Hector, his violet eyes now clear and decisive as those of a Primarch, “you’re right. That sword is a ‘disease.’ A ‘malignant tumor’ that has invaded the very fabric of my legion.”

And I can no longer allow this cancer to remain among my children who also strive for 'perfection'.

"It must be completely and permanently removed."

To demonstrate his determination to completely sever ties with the past, and to thank Hector, his "fellow traveler" who had shown him a new path, Fugrem personally led Hector to the highest-security stasis field chamber located deep within the Proud Phoenix, where the Sword of Ral was sealed.

It was a cube made of pure black alloy that could absorb all energy, with no entrance whatsoever.

Only when Fugrim simultaneously entered his genetic imprint along with a complex password did a silent, mirror-like gap, just large enough for one person to pass through, silently slid open on the wall.

The scene behind the door stirred a cold ripple in Hector's Dao heart, which had long been calm and still due to his Foundation Establishment.

Here, there is no light whatsoever. Only an absolute stillness, as if all laws had been swallowed by a black hole. Time and space seem to have lost their meaning here.

In the center of that static force field, within a layered energy cage constructed from countless energy fields flashing with blue electric arcs, floats a magnificent obsidian sword case filled with ancient runes.

A cold, alluring "aura," even through several layers of static force fields, still emanated like an invisible venomous snake, constantly spreading its malice filled with "sweetness" and "decay."

“Every time I get close to it,” Fugrim’s voice held an undisguised, deep loathing, “I can ‘hear’ its whispers. It’s promising, it’s tempting. It’s telling me that if I pick it up again, it can give me ‘more’.”

More power, more inspiration, more... perfection.

Hector did not speak.

This sword is like a beautiful, frantically multiplying, spreading cancer, as if composed of countless shattered crystals and mirrors... "the cancer of the soul."

Each of its facets reflects a different illusion of "perfection." Sometimes it is supreme power, sometimes eternal life, sometimes the ultimate sensory pleasure. It constantly radiates these alluring "cancer cells," seeking out and parasitizing hosts whose souls have "gaps."

It won't "destroy" you.

It just "fills" you.

With its endless, highly toxic "perfection," it completely assimilates and replaces your fragile "self," ultimately making you willingly become a brand new cell filled with ecstasy on its massive, cancerous body.

“My Primarch,” Hector slowly withdrew his gaze, his voice carrying an unprecedented solemnity, “your judgment of it is correct. But not accurate enough.”

"It is not a malignant tumor."

He looked into Forgrim's questioning eyes and, word by word, delivered the final diagnosis that would make any Primarch tremble.

"It is a 'mirror'."

"A magic mirror that can reflect and infinitely magnify the 'desires' deepest within our hearts."

“Lucius, in the mirror, saw ‘transcendence.’ Fabius, in the mirror, saw ‘evolution.’ And you, my Primarch…”

Hector did not continue.

But Fugrim already understood.

In that mirror, he saw the absolute, flawless "perfection" that he had been searching for all his life.

That mirror merely amplified his pre-existing "obsession" a billion times, ultimately nearly dragging him into that abyss of no return.

“Take it with you, Hector Kane.”

Fugrim's voice was filled with resolve. He turned away, no longer looking at the demonic sword that had once captivated him, as if even glancing at it would be a desecration.

It was also a Primarch that had just turned, and it feared the constant "shaking" brought about by the whispers.

"In my name, the Primarch of the Third Legion, I beg you to take this 'curse' away. Take it away from my Legion forever, and away from my children."

Because of Nicaea's judgment, my think tank is no longer capable of dealing with this psionic artifact, and... we saw very clearly that day that there was warp interference involved that ordinary Astartes cannot comprehend.

As the psychic department of the Empire, the Jiejiao Academy has a responsibility to handle it.