Warhammer: Filial Piety Makes Power

Chapter 251 Rambo: You, you weasel, can sit on this golden throne, but my boss can't?
"Rambo, are you hiding something from me?"

"No, boss, you know me. I've been following you since I was a puppy. I'm waiting for you to let me inherit the Atlas clan."

Boss, what makes you say that?

Looking at the large black dog, which resembled a wall of flesh, and especially lingering for a moment on its ear with a broken corner, Mordred finally patted its head and asked:

"It's nothing, it's just that seeing you loafing around at home all day like a good-for-nothing makes me feel hopeless about your future, so I wanted to find you a good family to go out and explore."

So, what do you think of Guilliman?

“Guilliman? A master of feigning ignorance when he knows the truth, and an ambitious one at that. I don’t want to go.”

As a true native of Tranquil, although he is a lazy dog-man who likes to slack off, Rambo, like all Tranquil people, looks down on those outsiders.

In terms of public welfare, the Tranquil 50 world completely surpasses all the Imperial worlds, including the Holy Terra. It single-handedly supplied 20% of the Imperial frontline with weapons and equipment, and its environment has not been damaged.

While everyone in other foundry worlds works 20 hours a day like oxen, even in the most tranquil and arduous foundry world of Angustrom, they adhere to a 10-hour workday, with five days on and two days off, and holidays calculated separately.

In terms of advanced technology, Atlas certainly can't compare to the Mechanicus. If we narrow down the scope, it can't even compare to the Dark Angels, the Empire's own son, or the Iron Hand, which is like a father and son to the Mechanicus.

If this were in other legions or among tech enthusiasts, it could take a very long time for a new type of equipment to be approved before it could be put into production.

Even in the best-case scenario, more often than not, they simply won't share their technology and will keep it all hidden.

But Atlas is different. They perfectly filled the lower-tier market, picking and choosing from a bunch of junk and using everything that was usable.

Instead of producing large Titans, we'll produce cheap, reliable Warhounds with decent firepower, driving down the price of God Machines so that every legion can play with Titans.

Giant warships are expensive to build, so Atlas Starport is desperately building Luna-class cruisers, enough to overwhelm the enemy.

If you say there's a lack of firepower on the ground battlefield, how about a nuclear rocket launcher that can wipe out Leman Russ with a single shot? Or suicide drones? We'll guarantee a large quantity to satisfy everyone.

It's not that we lack the capacity to produce even stronger and larger steel behemoths; Atlas does produce them, but they're unused and a complete waste.

Mordred, a former warlord, knew that unless something drastic could be achieved, what the Imperial soldiers needed most was reliable and durable equipment.

The Empire's equipment system is severely lacking. Even though tech-savvy soldiers can manufacture nanochips by hand, its anti-missile capabilities are incredibly weak, and it doesn't even provide basic infantry with missiles.

If it really comes down to needing an Emperor-class Titan to hold the line, it would mean a complete loss of air superiority. Rather than fighting a bloody war, it would be better to just issue an extermination order.

It is precisely because of this concept, coupled with its own powerful logistics system, that Atlas has no worries about selling its weapons and equipment, has ample resources to build its own territory, and even its mortal auxiliary troops have mechanical exoskeletons.

In addition, its geographical location is excellent, perfectly situated in the center of the empire's territory, right in the second ring of the capital.

Now that he's heard his boss say he's going to send him out, Rambo Wayne, as the captain of the Violent Terrorist Mobile Squad and the sole heir of the Atlas Clan, is definitely unwilling to leave, even though he's a fairly capable Ultra Warrior.

But seeing Mordred's slightly bewildered expression, Rumble had never seen his boss like this before:
"Boss, why do I feel like you're making your final arrangements?"

"How could that be? I just feel like we've been having a bit too easy, so easy that I've overlooked the fact that this is a cesspool."

"Rambo, do you remember the dog-man myth that old Thomas told us?"

Rambo nodded, stuck out his tongue to moisten his nose, and said, "Of course I remember. Old Thomas said that our dog-man race was once glorious, and we built a dog-man empire that spanned the stars."

Unfortunately, the family fortunes declined later, and it has become what it is now.

"Yes, no monarchy lasts forever. The empire that is currently at its zenith may soon experience a sudden rebellion and be crippled. Even I, the boss, may not be spared."

"Can't you?"

"Hard to say."

Mordred doesn't believe in prophecies. After all, prophecies are such a rip-off. Back then, Black Sprout went mad after prophesying that Angron would destroy them, and sent out slave hunters to hunt them down relentlessly.

In reality, it was because they sent out slave-hunting teams to relentlessly pursue and kill them that they met their demise. Not only was Angron smashing the dog's head with a stone, but the young man also harbored a grudge against these black bean sprouts.

Now, whenever the World Eaters see black bean sprouts, they attack them like mad dogs. The same goes for Vulcan, who was also tricked by these bean sprouts, turning the fire salamander into a professional bean sprout barbecue enthusiast.

Mordred didn't take Horus's prophecy seriously before, thinking that this father-obsessed gay man was mentally ill. But how do you explain the scene where Rambo possessed Guilliman just now?

Past, future, present—an invisible net enveloped Mordred's thoughts. If Rambo hadn't lost his mind, then this damned net was something he had created himself.

So what should I do? Who will betray me? And who can betray me?
Mordred's plan was that even if the four peddlers forced Horus to drink, he wouldn't be afraid. Although Horus was nominally the Warmaster, everyone knew that the position of Warmaster had already been split in two, one half in his hands and the other half in mine.

As for the others, the Death Guard was extremely loyal, and Karas had become his lackey. Mortarion had complete control over the Legion and had no disagreements with Old Man Huang, even sending him wine every year.

Although this Barbalus specialty wine tastes no different from poison, Mortarian is loyal! Could it be Angron?

Mordred thought it was impossible. The 12th of the Seven Deadly Sins, which evolved from the wet version of Butcher's Spike into the Spike of Angron, could be said to be the one most harmed by Chaos after Magnus, the Snow Eater.

Anglon would rather commit suicide than compromise his principles.

Recalling the great rebellion in his memory, Mordred's mind raced. He remembered the loving mother and the son he had raised like his own, and the elimination of Koz, who had become the second prince of Macragge.

This poor kid is now hopelessly addicted to bathing and massage, his mind is completely on the four little ones. Although he's a bit disappointing, Mrs. Euton's worth is undeniable.

Needless to say, Little Horse is eating shit to his heart's content, and he has formed a Primal Inner Ring with Dorn and himself. Even if his extraordinary wisdom comes out, he is now tied to Holy Terra and does not even have a chance to make a phone call.

After counting them all, Mordred then turned his attention to Peturabo, the MVP of the rebel side, which was even more absurd.

Although Pepe still looks like a little devil, she has been secretly corresponding with Morey, cursing the weasel for being inhuman.

They keep assigning her dirty and tiring work, and she thinks it's a compliment. Do they really think I'm stupid? Now she can only frantically issue extermination orders.

Anyway, the world has been conquered, so don't worry about how it was conquered, just tell me whether it was conquered or not.
The only one Mordred was worried about was Forgrim, but according to Guts, the dog-man he sent, the Emperor's Son did not fight the Thorns; those delicious-tasting aliens were fighting the Iron Hand.

Even Killie Man Mordred had considered this, but Mrs. Euton was alive and well, and with the life-extending surgery, she could live for at least several hundred more years.

Mordred even had a plan: when the life-extending surgery was performed, he would personally operate on it, secretly replacing it with a Space Marine modification surgery, stuffing it with all sorts of heavy stuff, so that Mrs. Yotton and Guilliman could become even closer, and living for ten thousand years or so would be no problem.

Who could it be?
Hydra? A bunch of crazy kids with left-brain attacks, right-brain and cerebellum taking over thinking, and brainstem spinning at high speed?

You think you can be a secret investigator and then become the MVP of a major rebellion? You don't have the ability!

If you bring over the twins Alfa and Omega, even if Mordred were to tie his own hands, he could still stomp those two little things into a pulp, make them kneel on the ground and sing "Great Tranquility is My Hometown," and if they sing off-key, he'd have to kick them again.

Despite the absurdly low compatibility rate of the Atlas gene seed, aside from non-combat casualties that led to their own stupid deaths, the number of personnel has been steadily increasing, now reaching 8.

Add to that 30 Spartan warriors, 200 million carefully selected Oglin giants who can understand basic commands, 4000 million upgraded mortal support troops, and an endless swarm of lizardmen and beastmen hunters.

Even if someone wanted to rebel, Mordred had the ability to seize him, subdue him instantly, and beat him to his knees, humiliating him mercilessly.

Not to mention that Atlas is in the arms trade; they lack everything except weapons and equipment.

More than a century of repeated cultivation, although it cannot generate troops from nothing like the world of Altera 500, where losing 15 Ultramarines can turn around and generate 20 Smurfs, Morered can generate at least 20 Spartans.

Don't underestimate the power of a bean bun; Spartan warriors are super soldiers too, and that doesn't even include the Abominations that the Burning Legion and Mordred haven't really put their sights on developing.

In one-on-one combat, Mordred is second to none. You could send them all at once and still hold them off, all thanks to her hard work, sweat, and those negligible stats.

When it comes to legion battles, Atlas's enormous size wasn't for nothing; when Huang Laohan designed the Second Legion, he initially named it the Destroyer.

One legion isn't enough; at least five legions are needed.

"My Great Atlas is strong and well-equipped, possessing the advantages of timing, location, and popular support. From top to bottom, everyone is my man. It's all about power. Who can fight me?"

Thinking of this, Mordred gestured for Rambo to come closer, and once he was close, he grabbed Rambo's ear and twisted it.

"Rambo, now it's your turn to share my burdens. Tell me, if one of the Empire's 19 legions were to rebel, who would pose the greatest threat?"
Or to be more precise, which of those four good-for-nothings will they choose as their pawn?

"Oh, boss, do you really want to hear the truth?"

"Isn't that obvious? Just say it all. Speak freely and say whatever you want. That's what I want: your unpolluted brain."

Upon hearing this, Rambo replied without hesitation:

"Of course, it's our Atlas. Our Great Atlas is strong and well-equipped, with favorable timing, location, and popular support. Everyone from top to bottom is on our side."

"Master, I've long disliked that weasel! Why don't you seize his throne and become emperor? Then I'll be the first in line to inherit it!"

"I've already planned it all out. On the 1st, 3rd, and 5th of each month, I'll sunbathe in front of the palace gates, and on the 2nd, 4th, and 6th, I'll sneak into the palace to eat. No, I'm the Crown Prince now, so the palace is mine. I'll eat openly."

Last time I went to Holy Terra, I saw a huge, golden throne, but unfortunately, before I could sit on it, Makado knocked me unconscious with a single blow.

This must be a wonderful treasure. As long as you, Master, nod your head, I will lead the entire dog-man clan to carry you to sit on this golden throne.

"Huh? Master, what are you looking for? Do you need me, the Crown Prince, to help you find it?"

(End of this chapter)