This is our Warhammer journey

Chapter 541 Not a single poet—

The Tomb World of Gidrem, Tomb-class Tomb Ship, Banquet Hall.

Zandreuk's absurd decision ultimately failed to materialize due to the condemnation of his courtiers.

Faced with the vehement remonstrations from all sides, he first glanced at the agitated ministers, his gaze finally settling on the unusually tall guard, who was far larger than any ordinary space undead.

The loyal guard Obiron watched as his master, Zandrek, went on and on about the past, emphasizing that wars between dynasties were a struggle of wills and a struggle of strategies, all for the future of the dynasty.

The exchange of ideas is of paramount importance; resorting to force is merely a necessary measure to be taken when ideological differences cannot be bridged.

A war without a will to honor is meaningless, and their attitude clearly means they have forgotten this.

'But my lord, whether it's the Fearless who raises Tyrannical beasts, or the Fearless who likes to build cathedrals, the Fearless who uses psionic powers, the green-looking Fearless, or even us robots, none of us are actually Fearless.'

Obi-Long wanted to roll his eyes, indicating that the exact amount of death-fearing among those present was a question worth considering.

Then he told Zandrek that he wanted to throw away the cup in his hand to prevent this black liquid, which came from some unknown planet and was called an alcoholic beverage but was no different from sulfuric acid, from corroding his skeleton, which needed to be kept in a state of constant combat readiness.

Unfortunately, Obi-Long no longer has the ability to roll his eyes, nor can he make Zandrek, who suffers from space necromancy, dementia, and nearsightedness, realize that the target of his diplomatic mission is not the Dreadbearer dynasty, which is skilled at breeding war beasts, but a barbaric species from outside the galaxy with no intelligence.

Faced with the old general's incessant chatter, all Obi-Long could do was turn off his radio and respond with the same action he had always taken since he had served Zandrek for a time long enough to annihilate a star.

"Ah."

Obi-Long nodded.

He hummed.

"Ok."

Seeing that Obi-Long was refusing, Zandreuk chose to compromise.

He muttered.

“Well—maybe I should reconsider. After all, not all dynasties are suitable to be treated with courtesy. The infectious diseases spreading among us are too dangerous. Perhaps other dynasties have their own problems to face.”

He held the struggling Tyrannosaurus Rex in his arms, looking quite dejected, and even his eating movements slowed down considerably.

Wow~
Seeing that the old general was no longer paying attention to him, Obi-Long quietly poured out the corrosive liquid.

"He actually tried to make diplomacy with those savage and incomprehensible monsters like Tyrion."

A voice from the courtiers he was monitoring entered his sensory system.

"I told you he wasn't suited to lead Gidrem."

Another sentence.

Obi-Long pulled his attention away from the old general's incessant chatter.

He kept his phase weapon activated and looked at the group of metal skulls huddled together not far away.

The leader was a lord, whom Obi-Long had a deep impression of.

Lord Batif, commander of the ground corps, firmly believes that he lost his handsome appearance and charismatic leadership during the Great Slumber due to an accident, which has made him extremely irritable.

Although Obi-Long was certain that Bartif had never possessed these two excellent qualities since the time of the Fear of the Dead, the ordinary yet confident lord still longed day and night for Zandrek to die so that he could take over the position.

And when necessary, he will choose to push this process forward.

Such as now.

Upon confirming that Zandreuk's latest blunder had infuriated his courtiers, Lord Batif immediately used his keen political instincts to rally a group of colleagues who were equally furious at Zandreuk's lack of leadership qualities.

“Our dynasty needs a truly strong and clear-headed leader.”

Lord Batif slammed his fist on the table.

"Instead of a madman who clearly possesses immense power but forces us to play his childish games every day!"

"Yeah yeah!"

The crowd echoed this sentiment once again.

"We need a plan."

Seeing that everyone present was a person of great ambition, Batif nodded in satisfaction.

"Overthrow him! Overthrow this damned tyrant!"

Obi-Long listened intently to the other party's conspiracy.

"A military coup!"

"Kill him!"

"Kick him off the throne!"

"Glory to Lord Batif—"

The various suggestions from the crowd all boiled down to nothing more than resorting to war.

Batif listened with increasing satisfaction, paying particular attention to the guard who shouted "Honor!"

Amidst the chorus of agreement, one voice stood out as somewhat out of place.

"I think you guys are too extreme."

Many sharp gazes immediately focused on the ceremonial officer who had just been furious at Zandrek's unpredictable behavior.

"A military remonstrance violates the noble agreement between those who fear death and is an act of treason by rebellious ministers and traitors."

Although he was already exhausted by Zandreuk's unpredictable actions and wished he could throw this damned client into a star, the official still cautiously replied out of respect for a lord.

“He is very old, we can simply wait for him to die of old age.”

He offered a rather constructive suggestion.

A satisfied expression appeared on Obi-Long's face as he removed this man from the category of traitors and rebels.

"Do not."

Lord Batef responded with a look that suggested he was a fool.

"Zandreik's lifespan is at least three more primordial stellar years."

he emphasized.

"By the time he dies of old age, we'll all be old. Are we just going to waste our prime years playing house with an old madman?"

"I cannot bear this kind of life, not even for a second. My friend, I cannot accept that those aliens can accept the courtesy shown to us, the great fearers of the dead!"

Batif slammed his fist on the table.

"That's right!"

"Overthrow him!"

"We can't waste our lives like this anymore."

The crowd around them was in a state of high spirits.

Aubiron, who was extremely satisfied with the mental state of the various space undead, withdrew his gaze.

The courtiers, oblivious to this, discussed among themselves and ultimately chose to use the methods of those who fear death.

Impeachment and assassination.

Because no one present could defeat that loyal guard.

When their gaze fell upon the guard who was half a body taller than any of the space undead, even someone as stubborn as Batif, who was always committed to rebellion, had to adopt a conservative approach.

Amidst the rustling and whispering, the ministers' plot to usurp the throne began to brew.

A can of organic toxins from what the human world calls the world of Katachon.

A poisoning scheme that bypasses all drug testers.

Anyway, that old man Zandrej is always throwing parties. The probability of bypassing a poison tester's detection is 0.0013% according to everyone's careful calculations. As long as they try 100,000 times, the success rate of poisoning will be 130%!

They have unlimited lifespans and will surely be able to make Zandreuk die with dignity before he dies of old age!

"."

"None of my pain boys are this crazy."

Seeing this, a green-skinned warboss muttered under his breath.

But no one responded.

"The golden candlelight that shines upon all spirits, the merciful eyes that listen to all prayers and murmurs, the wings of wrath that burn eternally in the heavens."

"Eternal angel, please hear our report—"

The only response to its mutterings was a prayer.

Having already realized after numerous beatings that he couldn't just fight anyone, Warboss looked towards the source of the voice. The speaker was a well-dressed nun; the holy silver color on her body and the silver-white rose blooming beneath the Dawn Emblem undoubtedly confirmed her identity.

The Holy Rosary Order.

Under the leadership of Saint Arabella, who accompanied the Primarch through the beginning of that great history, the Holy Rose not only maintains its devout faith in the Emperor and the Angels, but has also changed its passive approach and begun to actively participate in the construction of the Empire.

Respond to the angels' call, go to the bottom of the hive, go to the factories, go to the edge of the galaxy.

I will use the knowledge and skills I have cultivated in a privileged environment to pass on to more people, enabling them to live better in the galaxy, and to witness, through the eyes of an angel, the better life that every human being can pursue.

Therefore, on the borders of the empire, one can often see these silver-armored nuns assisting in the construction of local human settlements and passing on the technology and knowledge that should have benefited every human being.

Unfortunately, this nun was leading a team to build this world, which was also a tomb world for the undead in space.

The story that follows is a familiar tale in the galaxy.

The tomb world awakens and goes to war with humanity. The war deteriorates into chaos, which eventually draws the attention of Zandrek, who received a plea for help.

Zandreik refused the local overlord's demand to exterminate the Xenomorphs, declaring that as defeated colonists who were also protecting their own, they should receive the respect due to them after their defeat in the war, and chose to bring them to Gidrem.

During this time, the surviving high nun led the remaining humans and reported her miraculous experiences to Hengzhuotian in periodic reports, and communicated with the Seraphim under their guidance.

The angels not only cared for the souls but also provided food, allowing the humans on the alien ship to maintain a semblance of dignity.

Zandreuk tacitly accepted all of this.

This is a kind of composure.

The ease that exists between the two parties.

After a brief report to Hengzhuotian, the High Nun and the group of human prisoners did not focus on the food that appeared on their plates, which was far more abundant than the food provided by the space undead. Instead, they raised their hands and handed over their requests to the dejected Zandrek.

Zander responded immediately.

I could kill you or humiliate you, but I choose to treat you with courtesy.

I may despise you, ignore you, and hate you, but I can also respond to your courtesy with the same attitude as I do, in accordance with the instructions of the adults, the protection they provide, and the way they make humanity better.

Facing the 'Legal Emperors' who, despite being far away, are still able to serve their people and regulate their behavior.

Zanderley gave it extremely high praise.

He broke free from his rambling, seemingly idiotic ramblings and, with utmost formality, engaged in a conversation with the High Sister, who had finished her work report before the meal and had come forward, restraining her own aversion, and presenting the Primarch's will to him with sufficient courtesy.

Zanderrick likes this approach.

He prefers to communicate with one or a group of people who are equally armed with excellent qualities, strong enough to maintain their actions, and able to restrain their actions, so that their interactions are not limited to dialogues between beings in absolute conflict.

As for whether this approach can simplify the stories that should focus on war—

Let them wait and see.

Faced with the High Priestess's respectful yet assertive communication and the transmission of her will from the Primarch, Zandrek gladly chose to accept it.

He praised the etiquette of his fellow undead in space and expressed his anticipation of meeting the ruler of the human empire.

The elder sister then returned to her seat, began to eat, and devoutly prayed in a low voice in this area where most warp forces could not manifest, reporting to the gods everything she currently possessed.

They are not afraid of death.

They won't die either.

They believed their actions would help the Primarch and guide humanity toward a better future.

"O eternally burning angel—"

Amidst the cacophony of prayers, each offering its own interpretation, Warboss, his expression somewhat wooden, chose to ignore these shrimps and looked to the other side, to the spot belonging to the bean sprouts.

"The eternally burning angel—"

A Dark Elven Nightmare, whose armor had been removed and who looked somewhat dejected, followed up with a statement.

"."

Warboss's expression remained blank.

"wrong."

The Ark Eldar pirates on the side gave a serious reminder.

"Don't be misled by the declaration of your fellow humans. Lord Karna does not concern himself with the matter of recruiting new members."

Nightmare's expression changed, but she continued to listen attentively.

Thanks to Zandrek's selection process, those who were invited by him and remained at the banquet for so long could not possibly be vicious and baseless individuals, even if they were as wicked as the Dark Eldar.

The old general was simply willing to give more people a face, and if that person didn't want it, he wouldn't mind having peace forever on his face.

"What you need to sing is the formless and signless Lord."

"It is the formless, indeterminate radiance, the holder of sacred values, the balance of promised costs and blessings, and the master of the formless heavens and the invisible sea of ​​light."

"The Eldar pirate said in a low voice."

“Sing His name, then dissect yourself, then entrust everything to the formless and intangible Lord, and let Him judge your worth.”

Nightmare nodded cautiously, mimicking his actions.

Although he was not very skilled at prayer, he still needed someone to guide him, but fortunately, the Eldar's still considerable psychic talent, even in its degeneration, allowed him to clearly sense the uncertain light wandering in the warp.

Nightmare's eyes widened.

He could sense a veil-like light covering his soul, and everything he revealed under guidance was being carefully observed by countless eyes.

Nightmare felt a strange familiarity with this.

It's like a group of conspirators judging the value of a shipment.

Time passed in the blink of an eye.

Nightmare can see the pathways she has mastered in Comoros, she can see herself training madly to survive in the Tribal Temple, she can see the secrets between the governors she glimpses in one operation after another, and she can see herself gripping a sword not long after she was born.

One's knowledge, skills, secrets, and life experience are quantified, absorbed, and traded.

Then came the feedback.

Thump, thump thump~

My heart is pounding with anxiety.

"Suck--"

Nightmare took a deep breath and pressed his hand to his chest.

He could hear his own heartbeat.

My senses became clearer.

The weakness caused by Salamu's prolonged lack of nourishment began to recede.

This blessing will not last long.

You contribute value, I provide protection.

The protection will naturally end once this value is exhausted.

As for whether this protection can last, it depends on whether one party can continue to provide value and whether the other party is willing to accept it.

fair enough.

Nightmare's face lit up with joy, and he prayed even more devoutly, revealing everything he possessed.

The Eldar pirate nodded in satisfaction, a pleased smile spreading across his face as he celebrated his improved KPIs.

And so the bizarre banquet proceeded.

This was beyond the expectations of almost everyone in the know.

Because of certain constraints, strict transactions, a bit of skill, and a simple pursuit that the world shouldn't be just like this.

In a sense, the Dawnwings have a much clearer understanding of the conditions of the various races than most of them do.

In this bizarre world, conflict is restrained, and various races coexist in an extremely delicate atmosphere.

"."

do not know why.

Warboss curled up in his seat, his small, scarlet eyes scanning his surroundings.

At that moment, it felt a sense of despair, as if it were the only one who truly belonged.

"They've gone mad. They've all gone mad."

(End of this chapter)