Warhammer: Filial Piety Makes Power

Chapter 364 This is called numerology (two-in-one)

"Wow! It's so big!"

"Yes, I don't know how it grew so big. Someone come quickly and replace the fully charged Emperor Spirit."

Constantly check the remaining peanut butter consumption and ensure everything proceeds according to plan.

"Roger that!"

Upon receiving their orders, the oilers took their posts according to the manual. Some stayed near the core energy nodes to make minor adjustments, while others used their flutes to play strange tunes to seduce the Emperor Spirit.

The last group squatted beside the fel furnace connected to Mordred, sealing fel crystals.

According to Mordred's operating manual, once the Imperial Spirit under the black glass grows to half a meter tall, it should be replaced immediately by inserting a new Imperial Spirit to recharge it.

The Emperor drains waste, Mordred consumes it all, and the Emperor's spirit charges, achieving a perfect cycle of three-stage dilution and pressure relief.

In this cycle, Mordred, who acts as the septic tank, purification device, and crematorium, has the heaviest task: he must purify this chaotic and filthy divine power.

After all, even new energy electric vehicles need to be charged with clean, pollution-free green electricity. Thermal power is not environmentally friendly and could explode if used for charging. Just like electronic payments might result in receiving counterfeit money, it must be thoroughly purified before it can be used to charge these vehicles.

However, it was all worth it. The more you put in, the more you gain. The emperor may not have much else, but he has a lot of impurities.

It contained all sorts of things, like fragments of souls, remnants of faith, and a jumble of other oddities, which Mordred filtered and burned into fel crystals.

As the black glass began to charge, a large amount of impurities in the Emperor's body were rapidly expelled and transferred through Mordred, a pressure relief valve, filtering them into golden psionic energy which was then poured into the yellow-skinned rat's body.

Watching the tiny yellow mouse, which was only the size of a palm when it was put in, emerge as a half-meter-tall yellow mouse that could even fly and generate electricity with its hands, the group of motor enthusiasts shouted in unison, "This must be the power of Omnisaya!"

Especially after discovering that the Fel Crystals, which the Empire had once pursued so desperately, were actually produced in this way, these guys became even more devout to the Emperor.

This isn't an emperor's hook; it's an untapped treasure.

It may sound unscientific, but it's actually not scientific at all.

If you zoom out, you'll see that the entire underground palace is filled with candles, and next to each candle is an Astartes kneeling and worshipping, holding 13 biscuits.

Thirteen candles, thirteen Astartes, and 169 scones per group, arranged in thirteen circles around the Golden Throne, for a total of thirteen circles.

Each group was surrounded by a demonic magic circle, totaling 2179 magic circles and 28561 Astartes, to perform this so-called soul-summoning ritual.

Coupled with the spontaneous addition of motor enthusiasts and state religious believers chanting scriptures, it looked like a cult ritual no matter how you looked at it. In particular, Mordred, the chief designer, had a rather heretical appearance, with four arms, a long tail, and sharp horns on his head, looking like a giant, cunning chicken.

At first, Guilliman asked Mordred what he was trying to do and why the number 13 was always mentioned. Mordred replied that it was none of his business, that this was the way of the universe, numerology.

"Numerology? Don't tell me it's toilet paper written by that bastard Mortalian."

“It means exactly what it says!” Mordred explained.

He even dragged over a small blackboard and started giving a lesson to Guilliman, this Muggle, while also bringing over Sisyphus, this scoundrel. As for Johnson, there was no need to call him; the old cat would secretly watch.

Following the order, Master Mo wrote five symbols and five numbers on the blackboard, which were then transformed into five colors: purple, green, red, blue, and gold.

"These numbers correspond to the five peddlers in the subspace. The first four are Softskin Snake, Green Fat Man, Kobold, and Blue Gugu, and the last one is Yellow Weasel."

Through their connection to these numbers, they can more easily influence the content and things containing those numbers, and more easily corrupt or, in other words, bless them.

Johnson was born in Caliban, a world steeped in chivalry, while Sisyphus grew up in Terra, the holy land of the state religion, and thus had a strong belief in Mordred's theories.

But for Guilliman, who had been pampered by his mother and father since childhood and was the son of a consul, this was somewhat incomprehensible.

"I acknowledge the existence of psionic energy and warp demons, but I firmly believe that this is just a natural phenomenon, like electricity in a battery or fire started by firewood. At least it is something that can be seen, touched, and gradually understood."

Guilliman, a staunch believer in materialism, grew increasingly distraught, stating that numerology was nothing but feudal superstition, a foolish fantasy born from the corn-eating of that old Barbarosian farmer, Mortalian.

Second brother, you're a scientist, or at the very least a wizard. You can't just believe in Mortarion's crooked and evil ways!
A closer analysis reveals that Guilliman is attacking the right brain with the left brain. He believes Mordred is both a scientist and a wizard, but he denies the existence of numerology and doesn't believe in idealism.

This actually deviates from the original intention of materialism, but that's just how Guilliman's thought process works.

To make the thirteenth prince face reality, Mordred could only continue his explanation:

"Let me give you an example. Look at this number 6, which represents the Pure Land. If you look closely, you'll find that the contents related to spiritual development in the files related to the number 6 are particularly easy to be corrupted."

File number 7 is likely to involve epidemics and stagnation, while file number 8 is mostly related to war. As for file number 9, it's bound to be a bunch of abstract and ruthless stuff that no one can understand.

"So 13 represents our father?"

"That's right, 13 is the sacred number of the weasel, which can maximize the connection with Old Man Huang and protect these things from being corrupted."

Mordred spoke with such seriousness that the members of the Church of England nodded frequently, and even Johnson and Sisyphus seemed to agree, to the point that Guilliman was somewhat convinced, but he still felt it was unreasonable.

"This is feudal superstition."

"No, this is empiricism, the experience accumulated by the imperial people over thousands of years. You may not believe what I say, but you must believe the data."

Behind every outrageous rule lies a bloody lesson.

That being said, Guilliman still thought it was absurd to try to understand things with numbers, and if there really was any numerology, then he, Guilliman, would be the 13th, and wouldn't he be born to be an emperor?

If that's the case, then Guilliman should be the chosen one, the savior. Even if he knows nothing about psychic powers, he should still be able to use the Emperor's power.

Why didn't my father give me any guidance? Why didn't he unleash his Hellfire technique when I faced Magnus? In the end, only my good brother Rambo helped me.

Mordred was speechless at Guilliman's rebuttal, thinking to himself, "If it weren't for my appearance, your guess might very well be true. As for the price? Hard to say!"

It's impossible for things to stay this comfortable as they are now. You'll be squeezed into a hopeless, living cog by the cesspool that is the Empire, emitting a sharp, explosive sound like farts.

But Guilliman was quickly proven wrong, because after Johnson pulled the lever, those Astartes who strictly adhered to the number 13 were radiant.

The ordinary peanut butter and scones began to ignite with golden flames, and for the first time, Guilliman clearly felt that he was seeing the Emperor.

Through the mysteriously disappearing food, he heard the roar of souls, saw aimless skeletons, indifferent eyes, painful wails, and the ominous black sun hanging high in the sea of ​​souls.

"Number 13!"

"Lord of Alteramar!"

"hope."

“Very ambitious.”

"The traitor."

"A little girl from the Spirit Clan."

"Why don't you answer my call?"

"Guilliman!"

"..."

Guilliman fell silent. He felt that his father might have misunderstood him. He and Evelynn were just business partners, but none of that mattered. What mattered was that this damn numerology was actually true.

Seeing his brother, who was lying on the black glass, panting and growing rapidly, Guilliman inexplicably came to the Golden Throne and picked up the Imperial Sword, which he believed had more political significance than practical use.

The flames were raging, and with just a slight touch, the blade would burst into flames, becoming a flaming straight sword. It could even cancel the recovery animation, which was absolutely terrifying!

As a plume of smoke rose, Guilliman, his left hand holding a flaming straight sword and his right a dog-head cigarette, collapsed to the ground, utterly bewildered. "I don't understand!" (Macurag accent)

"Thinking back to the Great Expedition, so full of life, like all things flourishing, everyone, like me, now wakes up talking about psionic energy."

Everyone else has mastered the "Super Power" skill, making me feel like I'm a whole version behind.

Father, I really can't tell!

Although the divine opportunity for enlightenment in Longchang occurred in prison, wasn't this underground palace also a prison? Guilliman began his self-enlightenment, but what he would gain from it, no one knew.

Time passed slowly, and batches of Imperial Spirits inflated and swelled. By the thirteenth day, all 114514 Imperial Spirits had been fully charged, and Mordred finally couldn't hold on any longer.

"Stop, stop, stop, Zhuang Sen, pull the lever down quickly, I can't hold on any longer."

"What did you say?"

"I said I can't take it anymore, let go! My fel energy reserves are all gone, I'm going to explode if I eat any more!"

Under the intense snow-eating, Mordred, who was beginning to take on a human form, had lost all humanity. She could no longer maintain her human form, and even her beast form couldn't withstand this kind of feeding.

The gluttonous dragon, fifty meters long, fifty meters wide, and fifty meters high, lay limp on the ground. The once majestic dragon had been reduced to a cube. It didn't even need makeup; it could easily pass for a local if taken to the MC crew next door.

Overconfident, Mordred never imagined he would end up like this. Luckily, his tail was flexible enough to stay firmly stuck in the black glass until Zhuang Sen pressed the emergency stop switch.

Looking at the giant, swaying block in front of them, which they tried to climb up by holding onto the wall but couldn't reach because their arms were too short, the three siblings laughed rather unkindly:

"Good brother, we're here to help you!"

"Hurry up, I'm stuck and can't get up."

Faced with this colossal creature comparable to a Titan of the Warlord level, even if the three of them could lift it, they couldn't hold it. After realizing that haphazardly exerting force would only tear off Mordred's carapace, they simply chose to give up.

They then brought in three heavy-duty cranes to carry out the engineering work, which finally allowed them to flip Mordred over.

"Ugh, I'm so full! I feel like even my farts smell like peanut butter."

Although the process was a bit abstract, it was all worth it. After 13 days of intense filtering, Old Huang was noticeably more relaxed, and his bones even looked brighter.

Dragging their heavy bodies forward a few more times, the four siblings arrived before the golden throne once more. But looking at the weasel still babbling incoherently, they were at a loss:

"Second brother, why does Father still look like he has dementia?"

"That shouldn't be the case. According to my calculations, the weasel should at least regain some of its senses. Wait a minute."

Thanks to his size advantage, Mordred was at least 50 meters tall even when he was lying down. He thought he just saw the weasel move and rummage around for something to stuff under its butt.

With their eyes locked, Mordred's three pairs of compound eyes stared intently at the weasel in front of him.

"Hey, second brother, it seems your treatment plan is really working. Father is sweating."

"..."

"Hmm~ How come the sweat is gone again?"

Sisyphus, having hidden in the underground palace for so long, had never seen her father sweat before. Reminded of this, Guilliman and Johnson also gathered around.

"That's right, this is sweat."

The two brothers, one on each side, lifted their father's hand bones and examined them closely. Sure enough, they saw that the bone structure was sweating profusely.

Young Sisyphus was still puzzled, but Guilliman and Johnson seemed to realize something, their eyes flashing with a strange light. They slowly backed away and eventually stood next to Mordred.

"Second brother, (second brother)."

"Hmm, it seems that our good father is terminally ill. This is no longer an ordinary illness, and we must take strong measures."

"So that means?"

"I think it's pretty close to the truth. Do you remember what the weasel often said to us?"

The two shook their heads, indicating that they had forgotten, but remembered the phrase "seek truth from facts," and suggested they try it out themselves.

Seeing the three of them standing there clueless, the simple-minded Sisyphus thought the Emperor was really dying, so he quickly grabbed Mordred's claws, hoping his second brother could think of another way.

This scene reminded Zhuang Sen of Peturabo, who was equally hardworking and simple-minded, and who would deliberately seek out dirty work that no one else wanted to do in order to receive a compliment he would never receive.

"When I think about how my father was that kind of person, I feel like I was a fool back then, even vying with Horus for the title of war commander. Speaking of Horus, I feel like he was even more miserable."

"Who says otherwise? By the way, where the hell is Horus?"

"Inside my holy sword, it's just that the holy sword is lost."

"No, what are you three doing? Father is in this state, and you're still chatting about these trivial things." Sisyphus was furious; perhaps of the four, she was the one most concerned about the Emperor's health.

But it is precisely because of this that the weasel appears to be extremely wicked.

Mordred flicked off her fingernail and handed it to Sisyphus, indicating that he had already thought of a solution:

"Old Huang's body went numb from sitting, which caused damage to his trigeminal nerve, leading to high blood pressure, high cholesterol, and coronary heart disease. How could someone with so little flesh on his body get these kinds of illnesses? Well, don't worry about that, I'm the doctor."

As for how to treat him, it's as simple as possible. Just take my claws and slap him hard; it's a long-standing form of physical therapy.

"Really? I'm not very educated, you're not trying to fool me!"

“Really, physics is also based on reason.” Johnson and Guilliman said that this is the most scientific treatment plan. You don’t want your father to suffer from pain, do you? Let’s get started!

Driven by unparalleled filial piety, Sisyphus swung his claws and smashed them hard against the emperor's torso.

"Uh~"

"Father spoke!"

"That's right, continue."

Under the watchful eyes of his three brothers, Sisyphus did not hesitate at all. His claws flew up and down as he struck his father repeatedly.

The child may be simple-minded, but he is incredibly strong. His claws, which are taller than a person, are covered and swung fiercely. In just a few seconds, he struck more than 300 times.

Perhaps this filial piety moved the heavens, for just as Sisyphus was about to strike the emperor's head with his claws, a golden light struck and seized Sisyphus's arm.

"what!"

“Leon, Mordred, Guilliman, and my Sisyphus, Father, I’m back.”

The emperor spoke, and his words were so clear and fluent that they instantly drew cheers from the surrounding crowd. However, the three brothers did not move at all, staring intently at the emperor before them.

"My sons, why are you all silent?"

"..."

"Sisyphus, step aside, or I'll splash you with bone fragments."

"I am your father!"
"Aaaaaahhhhhh—(Yellow-skinned scream)"

(End of this chapter)