This is our Warhammer journey

Chapter 361 Guilliman: Damn it, why is everyone coming for me?

"The situation outside is becoming increasingly unsettling."

"Kugas," said the chief demon of the Plague God sadly.

Deep within the Plague Garden, he gazed at the Nurgle portal before him, listening to the wailing and lamentation coming from the other side. Large tears streamed down his face, and even the plague he was stirring in his hands slowed down a beat.

“Our loving father hasn’t let us go out for a long time.”

He stirred the plague in the pot; these massive swarms of disease were of insignificant quality, yet possessed a terrifying lethality against mortals.

Should we be worried?

Anxiety and unease.

"We are safe here."

"Beside him, Lord Mortarion spoke."

He glanced at the busy steel warriors.

These losers didn't like to reveal the details of the battle in Cardia to anyone, but out of respect for the Primarch, Baben Falk, who had successfully ascended to a higher power with the help of the wizard Tzeentch, casually mentioned the chaotic battle that took place on the Dawn and its Cardia surface in a recent conversation.

His descriptions of the emperor, conveyed through Peturabo's perspective, are like a noose of steel and fire tightening around the pale king's throat, second by second.

For some reason, when he truly experienced the scene of the Emperor's appearance described by Falk, even his self-proclaimed most magnificent and resolute body began to tremble with fear.

But Mortarian will not admit it.

"If you think we can still feel safe anywhere, you're being naive."

Magnus emerged from the shadows, his single eye fixed on Mortarian with a mocking gaze.

“Outside, terrifying demons howl, trying to break in, while we are locked inside. I don’t know where is safer, inside or outside. There is probably no place in this galaxy that can be called safe. There isn’t. Even if we hide in the most remote frontier world of the galaxy, it probably won’t be safe.”

"From the formless and intangible Lord?"

"Kugas asked."

“From him, or his father, the Emperor, my friend.”

The Crimson King said in a threatening tone.

"No, don't say that name."

Kugas was filled with panic. If the reputation of the Formless and Nameless Lord in the Warp was enough to stop the weeping of the Imps, then there was an even more terrifying being above him.

"Hehe, look at you, you're so scared."

Magnus made a couple of sarcastic remarks to Kugas, then looked at the silent Mortarian.

"How ironic, brother."

"We've actually teamed up again. The last time was during the Siege of Terra. Look at what you've become, Mortarian. Are you still clinging to your numerology book?"

Magnus stared at the other's deformed body, watching the jagged horns pierce through the filthy armor, and the thin veil wings that once symbolized death now riddled with festering holes, like a shroud gnawed by maggots.

Listening to the faint rustling sound of insects rubbing their segments coming from under the mask, Magnus laughed heartily.

Their relationship has never been good, not even 10,000 years ago.

Especially at the Nicaea Conference, Mortarian, who was superstitious about numerology, openly opposed the spiritual power used by Chiko.

For Magnus and Chiko, this was not a meeting at all, but a trial concerning Chiko and him.

Mortalian, on the other hand, has always stood in opposition to psionicism, constantly criticizing everything Magnus brought about.

And now?

One of his brothers, who hated psionic power the most, has now become a demon himself, a servant of Nurgle.

A vile, defeated, hypocritical clown who is always at odds with himself!

"the same as you."

Mortarian responded coldly and then looked away.

He looked at the steel warriors who were still busy at work.

After acquiring the legion, Tzeentch did not seem to intend to keep it all for himself. Instead, he released many of its members and began to promote military reforms within the Chaos Legion.

That's right, reform.

When Nurgle provided the Death Guard with Plague Warriors who were physiologically comparable to Primitive Space Marines and capable of surviving in the physical universe to some extent without the influence of the warp, other gods also began their own actions.

Khorne provided the forge and promised a war a century later, casting demons into the wasteland to nourish countless Chaos Warriors. Those warriors who slay eight-headed demons within it would become the Chaos Eight, gaining even greater power.

Tzeentch brought the prophecy and generously declared that He would not keep the Iron Warriors to himself, but would distribute them to the Space Marines who were trapped in endless suffering.

They were dispersed into the various legions that still possessed the Primarchies.

"Of course, my brother."

Magnus said arrogantly, seemingly unaware of the mockery in Mortarian's words.

"Even though you have submitted to the Chaos Gods, you are still far inferior to me."

Mortarian took a deep breath and couldn't help but speak.

"Your master didn't send you here to let you chatter like a peacock in full regalia."

"He has already killed one of our brothers, a brother unblemished by the gods, and installed four replacements in his empire. What will he order those replacements to do next? I don't need to tell you."

Mortarian gripped the silence, putrid juices oozing from the cracks in his armor, and a low growl escaped his throat.

“We are all his stains, a mistake, and now he wants to wipe us all out, just as he wiped out Horus.”

"more than."

Magnus sneered.

“He also wants to replace us with copies of us.”

"How pathetic! Does he think this will cover up his defeat? Does he think this will change everything that happened ten thousand years ago? Does he think I will surrender so easily? Absolutely not, I am no longer the same person I was before."

“It seems you are the only one among them, Magnus.”

Motarian coldly interrupted his rambling.

"Heh, it's better than some guys who don't even deserve to be replaced."

Magnus lowered his head and sneered.

Inhale~ Exhale~
Mortarian took a deep breath.

“I command an entire legion and can do many things. No one, not even the Emperor, dares to ignore me. And you, Magnus, a wizard defeated by Bjorn, how many sons do you have left?”

"I'm afraid your company commander has a different opinion on this."

"."

"Okay, let's get down to business."

Seeing that Mortalian was quite angry with him, he pouted and tapped his lips lightly with the tip of his index finger.

“I’m here to build a weapon. To be honest, historically speaking, when it comes to malice, I can only come to you.”

He glanced at Kugas.

The unclean one scratched his cheek shyly, scraping off large pieces of rotten flesh.

"And in order to build a weapon, you must understand your objective."

Mortarian looked slightly puzzled, while Magnus made a lying-down gesture with his hands.

"Romulus?"

"You could also say it's Guilliman."

Magnus corrected him, and before the other could speak, he continued:

“That’s right, and in order to understand him, we must take into account his lineage, his background, his bloodline and his ancestors.”

"Emperor?"

Motarian seemed to have thought of something, then asked cautiously, "Right."

Magnus said.

“You see, I know him, I understand him. The Lord of All Changes showed me that history, and throughout the long years, he played many roles to facilitate his actions: Tyre of Norse mythology, Enlil of ancient Babylon, Set of Egypt, the Roman wolf, and also the Father God, the Creator.”

"Among them, Romulus is..."

The Crimson King spoke at length about the origins of Rome, how a she-wolf nursed two brothers, thus becoming the symbol of this ancient city-state, until the Pale King seemed to believe it all.

"Emperors can never forget the past, and perhaps each of us is a substitute for something from his past."

"That's how Mortarian described it," he said, his hoarse voice tinged with a bitter, rusty ache.

"Perhaps we can all find clues in the long river of human history, the years that emperors personally experienced, and the corresponding relationships between them, what we call prototypes, and our weaknesses may also be hidden in those histories that have been sung as myths."

Magnus replied with a smile, a look that sent chills down Mortarian's spine.

Did this voyeur truly know the weaknesses of all his brothers?

Mortarian clenched his knuckles unconsciously, the knuckles making a dull thud as the viscous liquid tore. Lost in thought, he was unaware that the corrosive liquid had seeped into the seams of his gauntlets, etching hissing, festering pits into the ground.

The only saving grace is that the only known replacements are Guilliman, Lane, Sanguis, and Magnus. He doesn't even know who he is replacing, so there's no need to worry about it.

But I should indeed do some research on history; I must overcome that guy's weakness.

For no apparent reason, a look of disgust appeared in Mortalian's cloudy eyes, filled with loathing for the so-called 'prototype' that he was still unaware of.

Oh, and he also needs to understand the weaknesses of his brothers.

Mortarian looked up at Magnus, who seemed confident.

“My prototype had no weaknesses; he spent his life in glory, and I also have no weaknesses.”

Magnus immediately understood the meaning behind it. He suddenly raised his head, and the golden patterns on his crimson armor flowed with dazzling light as he moved. The entire hall trembled because of the pressure he exuded.

Ramses II —

Egypt's greatest pharaoh, whose achievements are renowned throughout history, excelling in both civil administration and military prowess, ultimately rests in glory.

What a perfect life!
The moment the thought crossed his mind, the faces of the opponents at the Nicaea Conference flashed through his mind, along with the blow that Lehman Russ had delivered to his spine.

Magnus's hatred surged in his chest, and his psionic flames danced uncontrollably around him.

When the truth of history unfolded before him, everything became clear: the emperor and his foolish brothers were the ones who were wrong.

And he, Magnus, the Crimson King, is always right!

"How about it?"

Magnus leaned slightly forward and asked, seeking an answer from his brother.

"If what you say is true."

Mortarian nodded in agreement, his words filled with hostility.

“I will forge a weapon for you. Romulus murdered his brother and became king, so it is fitting to end this with a murder.”

'Ah, so his sons have been killing each other since ancient times.'

Recalling the story of Romulus, the Pale King sneered inwardly.

The corruption of plague is the most convenient, and the benevolent father happens to be good at it. As for the carriers that can carry the toxins, they are not hard to find.

He didn't say who the weapons would ultimately be aimed at, nor did he bother to say so. Let whoever wants to fight Romulus do it; he's not going to get involved.

If only those four were so easy to deal with. The loving father warned them early on not to try to do things they couldn't do, and the loving father's primary target was never them.

Now that we know the weaknesses of Ryan and Guilliman, instead of fighting the still elusive Dawnwings, it would be better to direct our efforts towards a more tangible target.

"That would be perfect."

Magnus replied with a smile.

He didn't say who he would stab with the dagger, as long as he had it in his hands when needed.

Having observed for so long, and with Peturabo already dead, he must have lost his mind to confront those four directly.

In places unnoticed by many, the gods' strategic focus has begun to gradually shift.

"This is a contract."

Mortarian stretched out his decaying claws.

"Pleasant to work with."

Magnus suppressed his nausea, extended his palm, and then suppressed the series of plans that were rising in his mind.

He also needs to keep a close eye on Vashtor, the 'machine god' who has been collecting fragments of Caliban. He might as well find an opportunity to stab Ryan in the back then.

Deep in the wasteland, Khorne, who was peering through the blood mist at the transaction, let out a disdainful snort.

His crimson eyes swept over Angron, who was still slaughtering madly on the battlefield. He could do nothing but kill the artifacts. His hot breath gushed out, and finally he chose to close his eyes.

endure.
-
In the subspace, in the unknown Eldar world of the old woman, in Fabius Bayer's research lab.

"Bail, are you playing me?"

In the reception room, a heavily made-up Fogrem was looking at Ryan in a petri dish, hands on his hips, scolding his son.

I think you're just playing me!

Fabius Bayer retorted.

Compared to Fogrim, whose face was radiant and who seemed unaffected by his recent defeat, the old Chinese medicine doctor looked much worse.

It all started when this benevolent father, who had just given away 20,000 imperial princes, brought Arthur's blood sample.

Fugrim claimed that he had personally wielded the sword to obtain it, and that he had almost lost his life for it.

Fabius studied this all night, but no matter how he tried to replicate it, he could only replicate Ryan.

At first, he thought there was a problem somewhere, but after a long comparison, and even risking an attack on the dark angels who lived in the Chaos War Gang to extract their genetic seeds for detailed comparison, he realized that he seemed to have been tricked by his unreliable father again.

"That shouldn't be! I took that blood with my own hands."

Foghrim gazed at the face in the petri dish, and thanks to his ever-increasing consumer demand, Fabius Bayer's skills became increasingly refined.

Majestic, handsome, and with an air of aloof arrogance.

He is clearly a unique demigod, no ordinary being.

but--

Why doesn't he resemble Arthur at all?

Where is the gentleness hidden beneath the cold exterior? Where is the unreserved attention towards everyone? Where is the restraint that remains even after releasing emotions?
Why is there none at all?
This face doesn't resemble his at all; he's not as good-looking as Arthur!

"I think you're hallucinating."

The old Chinese medicine doctor spoke up from the side, smoothing his dwindling hair.

"Impossible, absolutely impossible. Although I've forgotten everything else, this is the only thing I remember very clearly."

Fugrim quickly waved his hand.

Bayer looked incredulous, thinking that the serpent had gone mad.

"."

"Forget it."

The two sides were briefly locked in a stalemate, which ultimately ended with Forgrim's defeat.

"You continue your research. I hope to see something that satisfies me next time I come. I'm busy, so I'll be going now."

Slaanesh's restoration was not without cost; at least the Third Princess, who had been slacking off, had to get busy creating value for her master to restore himself.

Forgrim waved his hand dismissively, then left with the culture jar in one hand.

Using Ryan to deal with it for now isn't a bad idea.

　P.S.: The Roman wolf is indeed from the original text, but it doesn't say it's a female wolf. However, the origin of the Roman wolf totem is the female wolf that fed the Romulus brothers.
　　
　
(End of this chapter)