Warhammer: Filial Piety Makes Power

Chapter 141: Someone Always Carries the Burden

"Oh, Your Highness, please don't! I really know I was wrong, Father, General! Why are you just standing by and watching?"

Hmph hmph hmph—Ahhhhh!

OMO,omo
Accompanied by the stench and howling, all the Holy Blood Angels who were frantically shoving ash on the construction site shuddered, a hint of pity flashing in their eyes, but no one dared to provoke them, and could only watch Radolon suffer there.

Instead of punching the unnamed savage in the head like some barbarian would, Guilliman chose a more humane way to punish this man who spoke ill of him behind his back.

Wearing only a loincloth, Ladoron was tied to a pillar, while his two sweaty feet were coated with salt water. The sheep, attracted by the smell, immediately came over and slowly licked the slippery surface. It was such a vivid picture of life.

Even Saint Gilles didn't say much, after all, it was his own offspring who had made the mistake first. The old farmers of Baal were quite happy, as they could save on feeding costs. They just didn't know if their noble angel had athlete's foot.

As is well known, Space Marines are cyborgs, so they certainly don't have minor ailments like athlete's foot. However, due to their excessive physical activity, their sweat glands are highly developed, and their nerves are extremely sensitive.

An itchy sole can be tolerated, but being publicly shamed is unbearable. With so many people watching at the construction site, Radoron felt like he wanted to die.

As a planet riddled with radiation and severely desertified, the construction team's primary task was to remove the radiation, which was not a problem at all given the Empire's environmental modification technology.

Thanks to Atlas's powerful transport capacity, the Baal farmers were gathered in one place and put on a part-time, part-time pay system in exchange for their daily necessities.

The incident in Terran taught Mordred a good lesson. The saying "bad people come from poor and remote places" is no exaggeration. If you want to eat, you have to work. If you don't work, you can forget about eating porridge.

This is where the benefits of the Imperials' low quality of life become apparent.

If you dare to disobey, the Dog-Man Terrorist Mobile Squad will show you what it means to have six blows per second—that's not their limit, but that you can only withstand two blows.

One blow shatters the soul of a worthless wretch; two blows and I am an imperial citizen. I can never repay the kindness of the War Commander in this lifetime!

Looking at the vibrant life around them, as if all things were vying for growth, the three leaders of the Second Empire, who had set up their parasols and were enjoying a peaceful afternoon in the sunshine, clinked glasses and laughed heartily.

"Brothers, our business is really booming! Before long, Baal will become the core hub of the surrounding star sectors. Ninth Brother, you're really going to take off this time!"

Upon hearing this, the archangel, who was showing off his fruit platter, looked up, his eyes revealing an infinite longing for a better life:

"Forget about taking off, we're all brothers here. Come and try our Balte red wine, I guarantee you'll never forget it!"

After downing a glass of red wine, Guilliman and Mordred disagreed with its bizarre taste, taking only a small sip before putting down their glasses and starting to drink their respective favorite coconut milk and orange juice.

The archangel, who had just joined the small group, was still somewhat unaware of the situation. Seeing his people working hard under the scorching sun, he couldn't help but feel a little guilty.
"Second brother, isn't it a bit inappropriate for us to eat and drink so much here?"

"Not good? Why not? They eat my food, drink my water, and do some work, what's wrong with that?"
Atlas strictly enforces a ten-hour workday, provides three meals a day, a lunch break, and two days off per week on a rotating shift basis. They even get a nice treat in the morning. I think you're just being overly compassionate and bored!

“Yes! Yes!” Guilliman picked up an apple and pointed to the bright red fruit, saying:
"Ninth Brother, you are still too young and don't understand what management is. In terms of personal strength, I may be evenly matched with you, and in terms of troop deployment, I am not as good as Ferus. But when it comes to farming and management, I know a lot about it."

"As a monarch, mere benevolence is meaningless. You must give your people hope. As long as hope remains and you bring order to everyone, they will respect you as their master."

The archangel thought about it and realized he was being a bit sentimental, but he quickly seized on the blind spot: why should Guilliman be evenly matched with him?

But since they were guests from afar, and he was eating and using their food, and even asking them to come and dust him off, Saint-Gilles couldn't say much.

But as the three chatted, the topic gradually veered off course, from Baal's transformation to Primarch gossip, then from Primarch gossip to the Emperor's privacy, and finally, inevitably, to the current state of the Empire. Hearing this, Mordred was no longer sleepy. She immediately raised her glass, drinking and gesturing wildly, delivering a heartfelt speech:

"My two younger brothers, to be honest, I bought my position as the commander of the army. I'm not afraid you'll laugh at me, but my purpose was to make money."

The veterans who were acting as Primarch's guards quickly turned their heads away. How could they possibly listen to such words? They didn't want to end up being shot eight times and committing suicide.

"Second Brother, your Atlas is already so wealthy, why do you still want to make more money?"

"Good question!" Mordred exclaimed, tears welling in his eyes, as he grasped the hands of Guilliman and Saint Gerales.

"You don't know this, but ever since I became the war commander, I've been living in constant fear. Only glittering gold can soothe my soul. Even so, I still have to randomly kill a few insects every day to cultivate my character."

And all of this is for my grand plan!

"A grand plan?" The Primarch Guard took two steps back, while only Guilliman and Saint Gerales moved closer to Mordred, wanting to hear what their brother's so-called grand plan was.

"Ninth Brother, you came back late and may not know, but Guilliman will definitely understand what I'm saying. Everything I've done is in preparation for war."

I've already taken care of Chemos's Fogg, Fenris's Ruth, and Olympia's Pepe.

Once we unite as one, with the strength of our six legions forming a pincer movement, any force that wants to enter the Solar Starfield will have to get past us first.

You might not believe it, but this Second Empire sounds like a bunch of traitors, but in reality, Old Man Huang knows better than anyone that even Makado, that troublemaker, was involved.

Brother, I'm suffering. Don't be fooled by the glamorous appearance; all the profits have actually been invested in infrastructure to build this impenetrable defense line.

Once the defense line is built, we can step in and become the true saviors should any unexpected situation arise!
Remember, our work is righteous, everything is for the Empire, and there are always those who bear the burden, and those are us.

Seeing Mordred's righteous and indignant demeanor, the two big men believed him without a doubt, secretly marveling that he was indeed their father, shrewd and calculating. No wonder their second brother, who was such a scoundrel, could become a war commander.

"Second Brother is tall, the Empire is tough, and Old Man Huang is both tall and tough!"

"Hahaha! Brothers, I will not keep this glory to myself. With one heart and one mind, the empire will live on forever! Cheers!"

The three burly men, in their extreme excitement, were unaware that while they were feasting, Mordred's supposedly impenetrable defenses were completely ineffective.

The aliens did not break through from the extreme star field at all. Instead, they broke through the First Legion's defenses and marched straight into the hazy star field, attacking the border of the solar star field.

Gazing at the distant space graveyard, now reduced to ruins and littered with ship fragments, the Knight Lord's face darkened, his previous sunny disposition gone.

"Zabriel, I told you to call for reinforcements, why haven't they arrived yet? Who did you call?"

“Father, I did call the nearest legions, three of them. They should have received the distress signal long ago!”

"What about them?"

　There's one more tonight, but it'll probably be very late. *cough*

　　
　
(End of this chapter)