Warhammer: Filial Piety Makes Power

Chapter 352 Want to die? Not so easy!

"No, no, I don't agree, I don't want to sit on a golden toilet!"

When Gabriel draped the yellow robe over Mordred's shoulders, Mordred was initially stunned. After 0.1 nanoseconds, Mordred felt overjoyed, after all, wearing a yellow robe was every boy's dream.

But after another 0.1 nanoseconds, Mordred regretted it, because he suddenly felt his scalp tingle and, in a daze, saw a corpse smiling at him.

For other people, becoming the King of Terra might seem awesome, but it's not like that at all.

Back in the day, during the Great Expedition, the Empire was a powder keg ready to explode at any moment, but on the surface it was still relatively human. No matter how bad or abstract it was, at least it was pleasing to the eye.

If you asked Mordred to don the imperial robes back then, he might have hesitated, but not now. The Empire is a cesspool now, and a cesspool that's been submerged for a full 1 years.

No, that's not an accurate description; it's not nearly as clean as it seems.

And in this cesspool, the most smelly and indescribable thing is the Holy Terra. Heaven knows what kind of abstract and horrific things Terra has done in the past ten thousand years.
Putting everything else aside, less than six hours after returning to Terra, Mordred saw countless skulls and wronged souls.

More abstractly, this sacred Terra, which could be considered a mass grave even in the Warp, contains a large number of demons within its resentment.

Human vengeful spirits are one thing, but a fifth of the resentful aggregates of Holy Terra are demons. Who knows why this happened?

Even a political creature like Guilliman became withdrawn and played single-player games by himself after returning to Terra. Mordred must be out of his mind to take over this mess.

"No, that's not right. I'm not the King of Terra. I'm just a chicken farmer. I don't have unfilial children like you!"

"Father, what nonsense are you talking about? Look how alike we are, we're practically cut from the same mold."

"picture?"

Mordred then had time to observe his surroundings, and he saw Mordred, the Black Templar, who looked more like an orc than a human; Gabriel, the Blood Raven, who was only a little over two meters tall; Angel, the Iron Hand, who was even more of a scrawny fellow than a motorist and had very little flesh on his body; and Morlock, the Tauren, who was nearly 4 meters tall and a head taller than himself.

"No, I tolerated the first three, but who are you, you big dummy? You're not my offspring at all!"

For a Primarch, with a Geneseed as a medium, it is easy to tell whether the person in front of them is their offspring or not, unless they encounter a bastard like Atlas.

The problem is that Mordred is the best of the best. Others might mistake Atlas, but he would never mistake him. Even someone as skinny as Angel, who could barely make a stir-fry, could tell them apart.

But as the saying goes, I'm afraid my brothers will suffer, and I'm also afraid my brothers will drive Land Rovers. The four of us have already raised an army in rebellion. My good brother has won back his own father, so he can't leave me out.

The Tauren Chapter has survived this long without being killed because they bully the weak and fear the strong, and they have flexible bottom lines. Before, there was nothing we could do, but now I want to be your son:
“Father, I am truly your son. Don’t be fooled by my height; it’s just because I’m well-nourished. I’m only 18 years old this year.”

"18 years old! Are you kidding me? With your stubble and muscular face, I'd believe you if you said you were 1800. Zhuang Sen is a young man compared to you."

In order to curry favor with him, Morlock was shameless. No matter how Mordred refused, he insisted that he was Atlas.

The other three, who had flattered Mordred to the point of making a fool of themselves, refused to give up and clung to Mordred's leg. Even the Astartes who had been slacking off earlier surrounded him, calling him "Dad" repeatedly.

As for how many of these 15,000 Space Marines were Atlas, even Mordred couldn't tell for a moment. The scene was in complete chaos, with even a member of the Custodian Guard mixed in.

"The Imperial Guard? No, that wise look in your eyes, that familiar scent... Rambo, is that you?"

"Boss!"

As soon as he finished speaking, a golden figure flew out from the crowd, happily claiming a private room as a "leg accessory." He immediately took off his helmet, revealing his signature big black dog head.

With his filial sons and grandsons gathered together, Mordred smiled with relief, and immediately reached out and pressed his hand on Rambo's head, pulling his soul out of Trajan's body.

Perhaps without Lambo driving, Trajan finally reverted to his true colors, and upon meeting his gaze, his old face suddenly felt incredibly awkward:

"Your Highness, I am truly not your son!"

"..."

"Stop, all of you, stop arguing. I see now, you're all on our side. So who's the enemy?" The Lion King's roar drew everyone's attention. He hated these double agents the most. Luckily, they weren't his own offspring, or he would be in real trouble.

Seeing that someone had finally spoken to them, the four little pendants immediately shook off their good father and pounced on the lion king's leg. Whether their father was dead or alive was not important; what mattered was that the credit belonged to them.

"Your Highness, to be honest, all the high-ranking councilors have been tied up and are being held in the government hall. This is all thanks to us. Aren't you cold? We have another robe here!"

At this moment, Zhuang Sen, who had been deeply moved by filial piety, realized that there wasn't a single normal person in his sight, making him feel so out of place that he even suspected that this world might be a fiction, with an invisible hand silently manipulating everything.

But none of that matters. What matters is that the High Lord Councilors have all been captured, and the rest is simple.

The three Primarchs stepped forward first: the Lion King was majestic and imposing, Guilliman was shrewd and composed, and Mordred was incredibly stylish, with a black dog's head floating on her shoulder.

As for the people behind them, they were a mixed bag, a motley crew acting as a kind of atmosphere-building group.

He kicked open the door and, seeing the nine councilors beaten to their knees and bound in the hall, Mordred leaped over them:

"Hey, who's this? Why the long face? I love your expressions. Weren't you all so arrogant? Why aren't you jumping around?"

Jumping was out of the question, and even moving around was impossible. These nine councilors were bound hand and foot with chains, looking like people, but in reality, they were a piece of cake. With such a huge contribution right in front of them, no one would let them escape easily.

As for why there are nine councilors, it's because the forged general is too large, a complete behemoth unit, and he can't escape even if you ignore him.

"Traitors and traitors, I knew you were no good, you're all monsters. Now that you've won, kill us!"

"Kill you? You must be joking."

Grabbing the senator's head, whose name he didn't even recognize, Mordred squatted down and said, word by word:

"Do you all consider yourselves loyal? Selfless servants of the empire? Believing loyalty is everything? Bullshit!"

"Come on, you can fool others, but don't fool yourself. It is your obsession with power that has turned the already inefficient empire into a cesspool."

Every one of you is a sinner. You don't want to die, but you know that something more terrifying than death awaits you.

Let me tell you what will happen next: your family, everything about you, and anyone or anything connected to you will be investigated.

But please rest assured, Atlas is a professional, and countless people will soon be coming to accompany you.

Your names will be infamous for eternity, etched forever on the pillar of shame. Death is not your final destination; eternal torment awaits you.

"Want to die? It's not that simple. I have plenty of ways and means!"

"No, no, you can't do this! I need to see His Majesty!"

"Your Majesty? You can't wait until you're about to die to call for Your Majesty. The weasel can't save you, I'm telling you!"

"Cheer up, don't lose points."

"Azmodai, quickly escort these gentlemen away and serve them well, make them feel at home."

Azmodai beamed when his name was called. He loved doing this kind of thing and immediately said, "Second Uncle, don't worry. I will not only make them feel at home, but also make them feel like they are at home."

Meanwhile, as Azmodari was interrogating the nine-headed insect, pondering how to dismantle and disassemble the forged general,...

The raiding squad, composed of Atlas, Dark Angels, and Ultramarines, also began its operation, carrying out a comprehensive purge from top to bottom, starting with the Spire of the Nest City.

Ten thousand years later, the imperial officials recalled the days when they were dominated by fear, and this time no one could save them.

(End of this chapter)