Warhammer: Filial Piety Makes Power

Chapter 358 Xi, can we make peace?
Soul Drinker, a name Mordred was quite familiar with, but in this day and age, very few people knew that Soul Drinker was the predecessor of Atlas.

But Mordred's eyes sharpened as she looked at this group of short, tiny creatures who, even in their power armor, were only 2.2 meters tall.

After all, he'd seen plenty of big guys, but this one was the only one this short. Especially since the Soul Drinker's paint job was quite unique. While everyone else was either black, red, or a variety of colors, this guy went for a macho pink.

Moreover, this group of people were covered in all sorts of odds and ends, just like roadside vendors, as if they were afraid that others wouldn't see them.

"Name?"

"Camus, 240 years old, is the leader of the Soul Drinker Chapter!"

"Good, very energetic! Tell me your dream, is it to reunite with relatives or to come and freeload?"

"Your Highness, we are neither here to claim kinship nor to beg for money, but to seek medical treatment."

Having been through countless bizarre battles, Mordred was practically unmoved, but to ask her about healing was truly a first for him.

"Guilliman, what do you think?"

"Whatever, I don't care anymore. In the end, it will all come down to the Holy Scripture. It's all my doing, I did everything."

You're all saying I deliberately delayed the rebellion for nine hours, that I had ulterior motives, I'll admit it all. Bring it on, the evidence is irrefutable, I admit it all.

"And not only am I ambitious, I also used your Atlas legacy to build planetary engines—it was all my doing."

If Mordred was exhausted by this family reunion, then Guilliman was numb. After all, even a Primarch would feel numb after round after round of veiled insults.

In just a few days, Guilliman had mastered the art of shirking responsibility without any instruction. With a shrug and a bite of dessert, he would answer any question with "Oh, right, right!"
Even Guilliman couldn't do anything about it. Although he wrote the Astartes, he also wrote that it was for reference only. It's you descendants who don't respect that, taking an encyclopedia as gospel and immediately declaring that ancestral laws cannot be changed.

People tend to give up when they're extremely frustrated, and that's exactly what Guilliman is doing right now.

However, Guilliman was wrong this time. Instead of denouncing the Astartes, the other party praised it as a rare and extraordinary book. He had not come for that, but because he really wanted to cure his illness.

If the Weeping Ones are unlucky, possessed by a supernatural curse, and the unluckiest among the empire's unluckiest, then the Soul Drinkers would rank second, and remain second for eternity.

However, their misfortune was not innate, but acquired; it was caused by human error!
According to Camus, the Soul Drinkers are not a new chapter; their history dates back to the three founding periods, and they are a sub-chapter that split off from the Imperial Fist.

The term "three foundings of the army" is a bit obscure, but if you say it's a curse on the founding of the army, then everyone can understand it.

As a dark stain that no one wants to mention, the Curse of the Army can be said to be a key point that made the already tense warband structure even more chaotic.

From then on, the sacredness of the gene seed was greatly diminished, and many great sages of biology began to act recklessly, trying to challenge the Emperor's genetic creation with their extraordinary wisdom.

But that's not quite accurate, since the group's initial intentions were good; they wanted to solve the genetic defects of the Space Marines.

Take the Weepers, for example. They are a product of the cursed army, with the aim of eliminating the blood thirst passed down through generations of Holy Blood Angels, making the angelic offspring, who are not picky about soldiers, the most cost-effective ultimate beings.

Abstractly speaking, the Weeping Ones did indeed solve the thirst for blood to some extent, to the point that for a period of time they became a role model for all the angelic offspring, and even led to the idea of ​​using Weeping One seeds to improve the genes of the warbands.

But the proposal was quickly rejected, because while the thirst was relieved, the weeping person was afflicted with a supernatural bad luck.

If you want to use the Weeping One's gene seed, you'll be in trouble; if you don't, you'll face Blood Thirst. It's like being stuck in one direction and ending up with nothing.

Such examples abound. A large number of warbands were hastily established, and then various strange problems arose. Many of the problematic warbands today were created during this special period.

As for what became of these warbands?
Adhering to the imperial tradition of being utterly immoral, the mechanical teachers only taught and cared for students, not their upbringing. They directly severed ties with the divine division and then continued to conduct reckless biological experiments, contributing to the chaos of the war gang.

As for the Soul Drinkers, their flaws are not as particularly unlucky as the Weepers. Of course, they are indeed unlucky to be in such a miserable state, but what is more prominent is their low presence. Things like genetic mutations are minor issues.

Having a low profile might not seem like a big deal, but it becomes terrifying when this characteristic reaches a mystical level.

For example, calls for support are ignored, joint operations are overwhelmed by friendly fire, or even the fighting is forgotten.

The initial Soul Drinkers were painted gray, and the chapter was not called Soul Drinkers, but Gray Patch Chapter.

"What? Lacquer putty! That's a bit of a mockery. Why don't you just call yourselves concrete?"

"If only it were concrete, at least people would still know us. We've been forgotten by everyone."

After saying that, Camus drew his combat dagger and, in front of Mordred and Guilliman, scraped the gauntlet back and forth, revealing the dull gray paint underneath.

Although very faint, Mordred could feel something interfering with his thinking, trying to make him ignore the rather conspicuous patch.

This is really strange. You know, Mordred has high-dimensional resistance. Unless he is willing, no evil god can corrupt him unless a powerful force is poured into him. But even that can only make him stop thinking and be dominated by instinct.

“I understand. You possess a peculiar power that makes people subconsciously ignore your presence. Moreover, this power is not malicious; it is merely passive. This is why you dress so conspicuously.” “Yes, Your Highness, it is this curse that has brought us to such a miserable state.”

"What are you talking about? I don't understand!"

Guilliman's eyes were vacant and blank, his gaze clear but filled with stupidity, completely oblivious to what the two were talking about.

"Shut up. Even I, an outsider, can see it. How can you, a local psionic Muggle, not see it? You're a disgrace to the Primarchs. Didn't you notice something was wrong with them?"

Without much explanation, Mordred grabbed Camus's hand and bit down on it.

“No, something’s nine-tenths off. You are definitely not my offspring. I noticed that before. As for Ah Fa, although you also have the ability to make others subconsciously ignore yourselves, something’s not right.”

"A very strange gene sequence, and more than one. You smell of Angron, but that's not all."

Watching Mordred, who was biting his hand and licking it back and forth, looking more like a dog than a genetic prototype, Camus had mixed feelings. He felt a little ashamed, a little confused, but mostly afraid—afraid that he had contracted some kind of rabies virus.

He was even more frightened after discovering that this Primarch not only bit people, but also used its four arms and tail to bind him tightly like an octopus.

"Your Excellency, Your Highness, Regent, why are you just standing there watching? Please save me!"

Mordred didn't care about that. What he wanted to know most right now was why this canned kid was so peculiar. This was no ordinary canned kid; he had to be thoroughly investigated.

Mordred's form began to change drastically, and a large number of fine tentacles emerged from her mouth, burrowing into Camus's body through the wound to perform high-intensity decoding.

Puffs of hot steam shot out from the heat dissipation vents on the back, carrying away the waste heat generated during the cell cluster's computation, and amidst Atlas's cry of "Oh no!", the computational power of the offspring's brain was invoked through the mental network.

Fine, liquid-like emerald lightning surged repeatedly, distorting the surrounding physical laws under Mordred's manipulation, providing him with an even better computing environment.

With this groundbreaking computing power, Mordred quickly decoded all the gene fragments and finally arrived at the rather ingenious core code.

"Damn, no wonder this is so weird."

Seeing Mordred transform back into human form, a sweating Camus hurriedly asked, "Your Highness, is there any result? Can my illness be cured?"

"It can't be cured. This is something you were born with. But I may have been wrong before. You are indeed related to me, but you are not my offspring. You are just godsons."

This is an ethical issue! I'm afraid you might not be able to handle it if I told you."

"Your Highness, please say so. I can hold on!"

Mordred sighed, his tone becoming hesitant: "This isn't an illness, it's not some kind of weird curse. You have to believe in science; it's due to the genetic seed."

Your gene seed contains elements of Dorn, mine, and Angron, but the most important element is another Primarch, your Gene Father.

Mordred paused for a moment, then added, "Or perhaps it should be the Mother of Genes!"

"What? I have a mother?" Camus's eyes darted around, his mouth opening and closing. He had only come to see a doctor, so how did he suddenly end up having a mother?

Combining this with a rumor he'd heard from the Ultramarines, and what the Primarch had just said, Camus suddenly had a bold guess:
"Could it be that my mother is..."

"That must be Luo Jia."

“That’s right, it’s… wait, what nonsense is Guilliman making up? If you keep talking nonsense, believe me, I’ll beat you up?”

"Hmph, Second Brother, stop pretending. Don't think I don't know. Forgrim learned this from you. Like father, like son." Facing Mordred's threat, Guilliman remained unfazed, indicating that the truth cannot be killed.

"I heard it all. Luo Jia keeps running over to you all the time, and there are always strange noises coming from there. I don't even want to talk about the way she came out. You're despicable!"

Upon hearing this, Mordred was so angry she laughed. She'd spent her whole life spreading rumors about others, and now it was their turn to spread rumors about her. She grabbed Guilliman's blond hair and pinned him to the ground, giving him a good beating.

"You ungrateful brat! I was kind enough not to beat the shit out of you last time, but if I don't beat the shit out of you this time, I'll take your surname."

Luo Jia is a perverted masochist. I beat her up, and she actually felt good about it. In the end, I had to blow her up with a Titan to heal her. I blew her up twice. I have absolutely no interest in humans.

You gossipy Guilliman, no wonder Johnson was looking at me like that! So it was you who did this.

"Samel, Samel, where the hell have you been? Go to the palace and bring those three gay bastards here!"

"Second brother, please! Can we make up?"

"Are you kidding me?"

(End of this chapter)