Warhammer: Filial Piety Makes Power

Chapter 367 Fel Energy is the Bond, Strangling Generation After Generation (Part 2)

Sunlight bathed the earth, dispelling the lingering chill of last night and illuminating one life after another.

The world will not change because of one person, nor will it stop turning because of one person. It goes on and on, in endless cycles, and that is reality.

The giant, squatting in front of the palace gate, looked up at the sky and at the endless crowds of people all around, like ants.

Soldiers, civilians, officials, nobles, workers—everyone has their own tasks to do, and everyone has to strive for their own livelihood.

Mordred's extraordinary senses, surpassing those of ordinary humans, allow him to see the world from a different perspective, and through the network of minds, every Atlas becomes his eye.

The Dark Angels are slaughtering, Atlas is wiping out, and the Ultramarines are tallying up file after file and cargo after cargo.

Despite the fact that they were committing acts of slaughter, the surrounding people were used to it, and their numb eyes were chilling. This was Holy Terra, the core hub of the Empire.

Guilliman was exhausted, but he couldn't stop. If the Empire was a decaying giant, then Guilliman was the healthiest brain in the world.

The purge of Holy Terra continues, and it cannot be resolved overnight, but fortunately, the Lion is the Empire's sharpest blade.

One is literary, the other is martial; the two are combined.

The Imperial Guards, dormant for millennia, were mobilized, swept out amidst the emperor's shouts and curses, and forced to don gleaming golden armor as penance.

Yes, the Imperial Guard is atoning for their sins. As the ultimate beings created by the Emperor at great expense, they have spent ten thousand years hiding in the palace partying. Only after retiring will they become the Emperor's Eye and do something meaningful.

Training a member of the Royal Guard is very expensive, so much so that even someone like Mordred, who possesses the complete manufacturing technology and has ample resources, would hesitate due to the cost-effectiveness.

These are the seeds left by the emperor, a precious and valuable legacy. Every member of the Imperial Guard is a polymath, capable of fighting on horseback, governing the country on foot, and even proficient in art and culture.

But these very same precious troops, which came at a high cost, were confined to the imperial palace for ten thousand years, and the reason given was to protect the emperor.

They can't protect anything. The palace is a sieve; anyone with a modicum of influence can get in. The only ones who can be considered useful are outsourced interns like the dog-man, at least their dog noses are sharp enough.

Holy Terra was an even bigger mess. After the last Primarch, Dorn, disappeared, the Guardians not only failed to fulfill their duties as the Kingsguard, but also allowed the Highlords to become the de facto rulers of the Empire.

But things are different now. Guilliman will not let these born cattle and horses sit idle and pretend to be dead. The debts they owed must be repaid. If you cannot resolve the assigned political affairs, then you are not worthy to serve as a member of the Imperial Guard, and you will not be able to sneak out to fight.

With the Imperial Guard and Ultramarines in place, Holy Terra, after a brief hiatus, resumed its rapid operation and, under the discerning eye of the incompetent Sisyphus, selected the most suitable new blood to fill the void.

Sisyphus wasn't stupid; on the contrary, this little guy was very clever, and most importantly, he was cowardly enough. This wasn't a flaw, but rather a strength.

As a Primarch of a new era, she is perhaps the one who understands the current state of the Empire best than the old guard like Mordred, Guilliman, and Johnsen.

She's cowardly in just the right way, kind without being pedantic, and all her skill points are focused on survival and thrift – exactly the missing piece in the genetic makeup of the average person.

Terra remained as dry as ever, with the sun warming you on your skin, a stark contrast to the humid climate of Tranquility. Dogs could be seen everywhere, basking in the sun in corners.

Mordred loves sunbathing; it's a habit he developed since childhood. Finding a dry, cool place, waiting for the sun to dispel the moisture from his body, and then enjoying a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice before taking a nice nap is the life that all peaceful people love most.

A month has passed since the weasel revealed the truth, and Mordred has gone nowhere, spending the entire month sunbathing in front of the palace.

No one disturbed him, and no one dared to disturb him.

A month was enough time for Mordred to digest that energy. The Burner fragments were very helpful, the biomass from the Leviathan swarm was very filling, and with the corrupt psionic energy within the Emperor's body, Mordred completely recovered from her period of weakness.

The restoration of his power did not bring him joy; instead, he felt a strange mix of relief and pride, but mostly a sense of loneliness and loss.

The weasel was not lying. The 55555 Atlas were never coerced. They were all volunteers, willingly offering themselves as fuel to embark on the five-thousand-year-old path of passing on the fire.

Mordred's departure took everything with him; even the gods could not remember his name, including the emperor and his offspring.

Looking back, it feels like that damn stupid fate played a joke on me.

Mordred was lost, but he felt he shouldn't be lost, that he shouldn't be so cowardly and indecisive, yet he felt an emptiness inside.

He knew this was the right choice. The useless weasel couldn't hold on any longer, and Atlas was the only antidote. His offspring possessed extraordinary energy resistance, and only they could cleanse the contamination at that stage.

His own experience has already proven everything, and Luo Jia's experience has once again confirmed that if the Emperor loses control, then a divine calamity even more severe than his own will erupt.

Atlas made the right decision. Mordred would have made the same choice. So why my offspring?
The sunlight is no longer warm, it has become repulsive. Everything I see is bought with the corpses of my own children. It is you who have made it so that I will never see my children again.

One figure after another appeared before him, densely packed throughout the square, and Mordred could easily pronounce each one's name.

No matter how he called out, these figures could not respond; they just stared blankly at their genetic father.

Powerlessness breeds anger, and anger breeds hatred. Mordred wants to vent, wants to crush everything. What bullshit empire, what bullshit future, what do your lives have to do with me?
"Father, Father! Please answer me!"

Mordred paused, the corpses before her vanished, leaving only an Atlas standing before her:
"Sefro?"

"What's wrong, Father? I just heard you screeching and yelling. I thought you'd gone crazy from the sun. Look at this toaster I confiscated from the house. It's made of pure gold. These insects are really rich. I just wonder if bread baked with this thing will taste better."

"Father, if you pass away someday, could you please make a will leaving this toaster to me? I promise I'll burn incense for you every year."

"..."

Upon hearing this, Mordred's initial anger vanished instantly, and he grabbed the rebellious son and pinned him to the ground.

"You're even making a will? You dog! The legion hasn't even been rebuilt yet and you're already thinking about dividing up the inheritance. I'm not going to die. This toaster isn't yours; it's public property. It's all going to the legion."

"But I've already decided to burn incense for you."

Mordred was already in a bad mood, and then this bastard cursed me to death, which made him so angry that he slapped him across the face.

Thankfully, he held back, otherwise Severo's head would have been blown off. Even so, his helmet was dented, and he wobbled and sat down on the ground.

"Take off your helmet!"

Upon hearing the order, Severo, who was physically dizzy, instinctively reached for the helmet. However, because the helmet had been dented, no matter how hard he tried, it remained stuck on his head.

This scene made Mordred laugh in anger. He even began to doubt whether this fool was his own offspring. But to his dismay, Severo was indeed his offspring, and he himself had performed the modification surgery.

A flash of emerald green lightning caused ripples to appear on the surface of the helmet. The originally sturdy and wear-resistant ceramic steel flowed rapidly like liquid, instantly restoring the helmet to its original shape.

With his wise eyes, stubble, and that inexplicably cool punk hairstyle, in just a few years, this new recruit, selected through the Dark Angels' recruit selection and personally modified by Mordred, has completely lost his resemblance to a Caliban descendant and has been thoroughly assimilated by Atlas.

Looking at this rebellious son whom he had named one of the Thirteen Protectors, Mordred sighed helplessly.

Perhaps it was Atlas's powerful healing ability that cured Severo's concussion, or perhaps it was just Severo's nature, but upon hearing his beloved father sighing, he asked without thinking, "Father, are you really going to die?"

"..."

"No, I won't die. Even if I do, I won't make a will for you. I'm just feeling a little uneasy."

"Hey, isn't this a coincidence? To tell you the truth, Father, even though I'm a heavy gunner now, I actually aimed to be a warband cleric during my recruit selection back then."

"I, Sefero, have never been good at fighting, only at solving problems. It's a pity I failed the psionic test; they said I was disloyal, and then I was disposed of and handed over to you. Otherwise, I would have become a warband priest long ago."

"What? That son of a bitch Zhuang Sen said he would give me a batch of the best candidates, and he actually dared to lie to me. I said, why are you 13 people all acting so strangely? So what was the reason you were rejected?"

Severo chuckled and whispered in Mordred's ear, "Because I browsed illegal websites and even collected a set of Jogris Yu's photo album."

"Ah, that's only natural. Young people have their own preferences, and I've been young too, so I totally understand! Just from her name, Sister Qiaogelisi Yu sounds like a wild beauty."

"Okay, that's a good idea. The environment in Choglis is very pleasant. My father went there years ago, and the beef and lamb there were delicious."

"Of course, but the instructors insisted I was a heretic and kicked me out. They were just jealous. Father, look, this is my treasured photo album."

Severo swiped out an electronic photo album, and after just a glance, Mordred's eyes widened. He finally asked the question he most wanted to know:

Where is the beauty you're talking about?

"Is that all?" Following Severo's finger, Mordred indeed saw a beautiful woman, though she wasn't quite what he'd imagined. "Kid, remember to send something to your former instructor sometime. He's been really good to you. If it were me, I would have shot you long ago. You can't, at least you shouldn't, but this is a horse!"

"What's wrong with horses? I love horses. My dream is to be a outlaw. Look at those muscles, look at that mane, he's the horse of my dreams."

"Caliban is nothing but a rocky wasteland, nothing but rocks, not even a blade of grass. My greatest dream is to ride a warhorse and gallop freely across the plains."

Mordred was a bit numb. Anyone would be numb in this situation. Atlas was already abstract enough, and now, before the Legion had even been reorganized, Fury had appeared. The future looked bleak.

But as a parent who never spoils the fun, Mordred didn't criticize too much. At least the Red Dead Redemption enthusiast wasn't a prostitute; he was still considered a normal human being.

"Good, that's ambitious. Our legion's home planet, Tranquility, may not have much else, but it has plenty of grasslands. When we rebuild our home planet, I'll let you be the first to go to the grasslands to herd chickens."

"Raising chickens?" Severo felt that his father seemed to have misunderstood something. What he liked was the thrill of running wild and surviving dangerous situations. Otherwise, he wouldn't have charged at the Zergling Tyrant with a heavy machine gun.

As for raising chickens, what's so special about raising chickens? Aren't they just a bunch of little pieces of meat that can run around?

“Father, I don’t want to raise chickens. I want to do something more exciting, but I also like plants.”

If a new recruit dared to be so picky about the Primarch, he would probably not have a good ending, but Mordred was so approachable that she immediately said, "Yes, yes, I was just worried about not having anyone to choose from."

"My child, you don't know this, but our Atlas has a long history. Although our numbers have never been large, our individual soldiers are definitely the best."

The Dark Angels emphasize teamwork, while Atlas emphasizes the arrival of powerful warriors from the sky. The secret to this lies in a training base world called Katachon.

That world was wonderful, with mountains, rivers, forests, and all sorts of rare and exotic beasts for people to train. It was once Atlas's most important overseas research institute and training base.

Since you like plants, why don't you go to Qatar and become a recruit instructor? You can catch up on any missed courses while you're there, making it a good way to work and study at the same time.

After saying that, Mordred took out a terminal and projected an image of the planet Catachan. The lush greenery emanating from it was very pleasing to the eye, and he looked at Severo with great delight.

“But Father, I’m just a sergeant.”

"Forget about being a non-commissioned officer or not, if I say you can do it, then you can do it."

I saw your performance in the previous Battle of Baal. You had the highest kill count in the entire legion, and your head was glowing red. You fired 888 rounds from a 50-round machine gun ammo box. If you had died, I was afraid you would have been resurrected as a demon.

After the legion is reorganized, there will definitely be a large-scale recruitment. You people are the backbone and will be promoted. With your combat achievements, becoming a company commander will not be a problem.

The only thing you lack is experience. I'll pair you with a true veteran of countless battles, and then you'll…”

Mordred paused for a moment, then subconsciously looked at the scarf in her hand. After guiding the remaining 3304 Atlas, the relic had regained its crimson color.

Old Man Huang said he wasn't a god, but as long as he wasn't blind, he could see the giant black sun suspended in subspace. That thing was even more terrifying than the evil god's domain; it was a complete evil god's ditch.

The battlefield of Atlas is right there. 5000 years of intense wear and tear has reduced Atlas to less than one-tenth. Only the most resilient souls have survived to this day. As for those who have already departed, they have no chance of resurrection and have been completely and utterly annihilated.

"Father, what am I?"

"It's nothing. I'll find a veteran who's best suited to mentor you, and he's one of my proudest sons."

Severo didn't know who Mordred was referring to, but he could sense the strain in the Father of Genetics' voice. The undisguised sorrow troubled him, and in the end, he suppressed his primal urges and put down the toaster.
"Heh heh, I haven't let the Legion down! Father, I'm off to continue raiding their property."

"Wait, here's your loot."

"Father, you can keep it and play with it. I'll find something better."

"But you still lack a toaster."

Severo stopped. He was now certain that his father was truly troubled, and it was definitely not because of the toaster.

Their eyes met, and after a moment of silence, Mordred finally spoke: "I have a friend."

"Father, why don't you be more explicit? Could your friend be you?"

Mordred was now certain that the gene seed Severo used was definitely passed down from the Seventh Company. His way of speaking, which could put others into an awkward silence with just one sentence, was just like Riviel's.

"It's your father, me. I'm feeling a bit irritable right now, as you may have noticed. I'm not like the other Primarchs in terms of ambition."

"Including His Highness Sisyphus?" Severus asked.

"No, I'm a bit better than that idiot. At least I won't be fooled into becoming a fool."

"It's hard to tell!"

"..."

Grabbing the unpleasant, rebellious son by the nose, Mordred rubbed his white hair and pinched his head, saying, "If you interrupt me again, I'll... never mind, I'll leave you with something to look forward to."

Actually, I'm a little confused. You passed the Dark Angels' recruit test, so you should know the Primarch's origins.

Like Zhuang Sen, he plays Monster Hunter, while I play Grassland Conquest. I even have to fight chickens because the trees in my hometown can bite.

When I first opened my eyes, I saw an old dog-headed man with a slightly rough drawing style but quite muscular, who is now lying next to us sunbathing.

That old man was Thomas, my adoptive father. He taught me so much, and he's the kind of person I truly call father. He's more than a hundred times better than that weasel. No, a thousand times better.

Seeing that Severo was about to speak again, Mordred quickly grabbed his head to stop him from interrupting and continued:

"But old Thomas was too old. He passed away after raising me to adulthood. However, before he left, I successfully completed the trial and unified the grassland tribes in just eight years, becoming the Great Chief of the Atlas Clan and acquiring 88 surnames."

You might think that unifying a savage tribe would be easy, but quite the opposite, without the aid of modern technology, it was the toughest battle I've ever fought, and I wiped out half of the dogmen.

But that was also my proudest moment. Before Thomas left, I let him witness the Dogmen's reunification. He said I was his proudest offspring and would lead everyone to a better life.

If things continue like this, I'll likely become just an ordinary native.

"And then the Emperor arrived?"

“Yes!” Mordred sighed. “He gave me an offer I couldn’t refuse: the Dogmen would become legitimate demi-humans of the Empire, Tranquility would join the Empire, and I would become the Primarch of the Second Legion, Atlas.”

He brought me the truth of the world, binding me tightly with one bond after another.

I did not betray his trust in me. Atlas is definitely the legion that has conquered the fewest people in the world, but during the Great Crusade, the Empire can always rely on Atlas's ability to provide support.

Then we gamblers decided to go all in. I became the Divine Calamity, Horus became the Vengeful Spirit, and the Weasel became a toilet ornament.

Ten thousand years later, my brothers treated me like a wild beast that could go out of control at any moment, my offspring were burned to ashes, and my homeland vanished into the green tide.

Aside from the fact that Guilliman, that idiot, released the talents that Atlas had painstakingly nurtured, I can accept everything else. I don't even blame the yellow-skinned man. It was Atlas's own choice, and he also gave my offspring a sense of honor.

But that sentence really bothered me; it was what you just said.

"To live up to the Legion's expectations?"

Mordred nodded, indicating that it was just a joke, a slogan he had casually come up with years ago, but those fools actually believed it. This one joke ultimately became a recurring theme in Atlas's life.

"Then what are you worrying about, Father? They succeeded. They successfully prevented a disaster from happening. You should feel gratified and proud of them. They did not disappoint you. Even if they forgot everything, they did not forget their mission."

That's how the world is. Sacrifice is the cornerstone of an empire. You can't protect us forever. You've done enough. As for the future, only God knows.

So what if it's death? We've lived enough, we've gained glory, we've accomplished feats that no one else could achieve in their entire lives. If they saw you like this, they would definitely laugh at you.

So come back. We are all waiting for your return to the Legion. You still have us, and your descendants who are still waiting for your return.

Severo left, and before he left, he not only took the toaster but also two packs of cigarettes from Mordred.

As the last rays of sunlight faded and night fell, the golden-haired giant, lost in his own anguish, was no longer present at the palace gates.

(End of this chapter)