Warhammer: Filial Piety Makes Power

Chapter 368 Imperial and Legion Holy Scripture

"Hey bro, when will this hell of a life ever end?"

"You can't take it after a month? Keep going!"

Inside the Ministry of the Interior building, in a pitch-black, undetectable chamber, two Gene Primarchs, one large and one small, were slacking off.

It was pitch black, and no one could see anything clearly. No one knew why the room had appeared. Even the Primarch could not see through this supernatural darkness; he could only see two pairs of white teeth.

The older one is Zhuang Sen, and the younger one is Sisyphus. These two people, who should have no connection whatsoever, have come together to sit in this secret room and slack off.

It's not that the two were lazy; it was entirely because Guilliman was irresponsible, or rather, Mordred was just slacking off.

In the original plan, the three brothers actually had their own division of labor: Guilliman was in charge of political affairs, Lion King was in charge of internal cleanup, and Mordred was in charge of internal affairs, technology, logistics, and communications.

This division of labor is very reasonable. It was discussed by the three brothers before they went to Holy Terra. With the addition of Sisyphus, it can be said to be a perfect start.

But when Mordred started to slack off, his part of the work came to a complete standstill. Guilliman was already being brainwashed by the Imperial government, and now the burden was entirely on him. Even Johnson and Sisyphus were given a lot of work.

If the Ultramarines are the brain and the Dark Angels are the white blood cells, then Atlas is the blood vessels. They were born to do this job, but now Mordred is giving up and Atlas is giving up too, so these jobs can only be done by the Dark Angels and Soul Drinkers.

As for how well they've done? Well, in the past month, just connecting with Mars's casting production and restarting the internal transportation routes of the solar system has almost driven the two of them crazy.

It's not that I can't figure it out, nor that anyone would dare to deceive their superiors. In this era when Holy Terra is under the complete control of the military government, no one would be foolish enough to court death, especially since the Great Purge is not over yet.

The important thing is that I don't have that ability.

It's the same old question: aside from man-made disasters, why can't human empires develop?

Although the empire is weak, it is not incompetent. Its overall technological strength may seem low, but that is only in appearance, after all, its ancestors expanded it.

Take the Leman Rustank, which is highly praised by the Astragalus Army, for example. This thing looks clumsy, big, and rough, much like the style of the first war on Ancient Terra. It is a big iron box with two tracks that can fire cannons.

However, the technological level of this device is not low. Even the Tu clan craftsmen of the Tau planet, who are already at war with the Empire, cannot understand why such a bizarre thing exists.

First, there's the armor. The Leman Russ's armor alloy is both light and strong, and the Astartes' 75mm caliber explosive shells simply can't penetrate it. You either have to use plasma, thermal melting, or bombard it with tubes, or cut it with powered weapons.

After all, Lemanrus has been used for a full 1 years. If it were unreliable, it wouldn't have lasted 1 years. Ordinary individual weapons simply can't penetrate it. But if you're talking about explosive weapons or gravity cannons, that's a different story.

This old tank is incredibly durable, has thick armor, decent firepower, and is highly versatile. Its chassis has been modified countless times, and it can even move while you're taking a piss after the engine runs out of fuel.

In terms of combat function, the Leman Rus is comparable to the Titanic Hammerhead main battle tank. If you compare these two, you will realize that they are not products of the same era at all.

But the result was that in the Battle of Damocles, the casualty ratio between the two sides was one to four. This clumsy, ugly thing could pound the hammerhead sharks of the Tau people to the ground.

At this point, some people might say, "Our Tau Empire has the best technology in the world. Even a soldier's railgun can take down a Terminator. We even assassinated the Raven Guard commander."

Then let me ask you this: the cunning cult's hydraulic shears can chop up the Imperial Guard, the green-skinned big iron pipes can pierce through the Astartes, armor and all, and throwing asteroids on the ground can crush a Primarch half to death.

In other words, the hydraulic clamps are more technologically advanced than the Atreus armor of the Imperial Guard, the green-skinned boy's iron pipes are harder than ceramic steel, and the asteroid completely crushes the Primarch?

That's not how it's calculated!

Individual cases are just individual cases. Although the assassination of the Dark Raven Guard commander by Tately is indeed a bit abstract, and the Damocles Expedition made a series of blunders and the Empire fought terribly, we still need to look at the actual situation.

The Raven Guards were completely reckless, trying to raid the home planet of Tau in a Luna-class cruiser, and almost succeeded in doing so, before being overwhelmed by sheer numbers.

The Damocles Expedition was another story altogether, marked by a change of commanders on the eve of battle, internal strife, factional wariness, brutal warp maneuvers, and the Imperial Navy's ever-reliable sacrifice.

They said they'd send me 20 army groups, but only four actually arrived. The other eight arrived a year ago. They said the weapons and ammunition would arrive in nine hours. I've already pissed myself into the tanks to use as fuel, and you still say nine hours?

Once the front lines collapse, they'll say, "We said nine months, who told you to start the war early?"

Even if you were a commander parachuted in, you'd go crazy under such a stack of negative buffs.

Although it's just a glimpse, written in a somewhat subtle style, it effectively reflects why the empire became what it is today: communication and transportation.

The saying "If you want to get rich, build roads first" applies to any era. Otherwise, the yellow weasel wouldn't have staked everything on the Internet Project. It's just too tempting, so tempting that you'd even be willing to write a letter and act as a postman within the Internet.

When it comes to communication, it becomes even more abstract. The yellow weasel went all in on the network, and Mordred went all in on the divine seal. Before the divine seal could cover the entire solar star field, Mordred sent it, and eventually it returned to the mainstream star language communication.

So the question is, is Star Language Communication any good or bad? The answer is yes, it's good, but not that great.

As the name suggests, interstellar communication, like warp travel, relies on the warp. Therefore, you must at least be an interstellar speaker, which is a stable and legitimate psionicist who has undergone special training.

Anything related to psionics is highly idealistic. A statement like "Terren infection has occurred in this world, and the planetary governor is fighting the enemy and requesting support" can eventually turn into "The planetary governor is forcibly attacking the Tyranids, come and join the feast."

Upon receiving this message, the military affairs department was completely bewildered. If there really was such a planetary governor, should they call the Inquisition or the Imperial Navy?
Forget it, even the emperor can't stand the appearance of such a divine being. Let's just issue an extermination order.

That explains why Mordred didn't go on a killing spree after attacking the Star Language Court. Star Language speakers who can translate the extremely abstract Star Language into roughly accurate terms are incredibly valuable; it's a job that combines experience and skill.

"Ugh, that bastard Guilliman is rushing me. After I finish this cup of tea, I have to get back to work."

“Brother, I don’t want to work. I haven’t slept a wink for a month. I just lay down when Guilliman pulled me up and said how could I sleep at my age. Now I feel nauseous just looking at parchment.”

That proves you haven't been doing enough; you haven't grasped the technique of the left brain sleeping while the right brain works.

Sisyphus picked up a piece of pastry and grumbled, “If my left brain is sleeping and my right brain is doing double the work, then it’s the same as me not sleeping at all.”
Besides, why should Mordred get to sunbathe there? This is his job, why do I have to do it? Johnson, aren't you the boss? You should exercise your rights as the big brother.

Go and beat up that inherently evil Mo Lao Er. Strip him naked, hang him on the flagpole, and whip him for three days and three nights. Make him get back to work, so we don't have to sneak around for rest now, and even getting a sip of water gets us yelled at. Brother, say something, will you?!

Why don't you have a sip of orange juice to perk yourself up?

Taking the offered flask, Sisyphus flicked it open with his fingernail, and with a series of satisfying burps, he let out a contented burp.

"Ah, refreshing! It's even chilled! The bottle looks familiar though, like..."

Sisyphus dared not speak, for she suddenly felt a hand on her shoulder and a pair of golden eyes slowly peering out from behind her.

Guilliman's pupils are blue, and Johnson's pupils are green. Johnson and I are separated by an entire table, which means…

Without any hesitation, Sisyphus fell to the ground, turned around and grabbed the leg of the person behind him, shouting:

"Second brother, Guilliman is exploiting me, you have to stand up for me!"

Mordred was quite pleased with their shamelessness; they were clearly promising candidates for the Titan training method. She immediately helped the two siblings out of the room.

"You figured it out?"

“I’ve figured it out. Atlas has not perished, and my offspring are not alone. Since they have chosen this path, I will never betray their trust in me.”

Seeing that Mordred had returned to normal, Zhuang Sen didn't say much. He was not a man of many words. Perhaps the Lord of Knights had many problems, but he always believed in his brother.

After all these years, he has come to understand a lot. He is no longer the unpleasant brute who only knew how to brandish knives and guns. He is no longer that barbarian Russ.

As for Sisyphus, that good-for-nothing, Mordred didn't bother with him much. She wasn't a petty person; he knew she'd make him regret it later.

"Let's go. The visible infestations on Holy Terra have been mostly cleared out. The Great Cleansing must continue, but there's no need to expand it further at this stage."

Our next focus is the Solar Star Region. This core of the empire must be firmly in our grasp. It's time to launch our grand plan 2.0.

"Oh! You have another plan?"

"Of course! I'm the idea king among us brothers. I already have a preliminary idea, but I still need to talk to Guilliman about it. The four of us are a group full of hot blood!"

"For the grand plan!"

"A grand plan!!"

Seeing two gazes descending from above, Sisyphus, quite pragmatically, uttered the words "Let's do something big," even though she had no idea what the so-called grand plan was.

However, just as the three of them pushed open the door of the government hall, ready to discuss the next steps with Guilliman, Guilliman was not there. Calga said that his father had gone out to eat and would be back in a while.

Since they'd be back soon, they figured they'd just wait a bit. But as they waited, the three noticed something amiss: they saw a book on Guilliman's desk.

"The Codex of the Astartes???"

The name alone was enough to send chills down one's spine. They had switched from Warband to Legion. The three of them looked at each other, and finally opened this mysterious and impressive Legion Bible.

Sure enough, even though it wasn't at the same time or in the same place, his familiar recipe was still unforgettable. Just a quick glance at it made one want to sit on the toilet.

What's even more surprising is that, perhaps having learned from his previous experience, Guilliman went to extreme lengths this time, adding Mordred, Johnson, Sisyphus, and even a completely fabricated Saint Gilles to the title page.

The archangel was unlucky; not only did he gain an extra ten thousand years of life for no reason, but he also couldn't escape the fate of becoming toilet paper. But to be fair, this Legion's Holy Scripture is clearly well-made.

Perhaps because he had written a piece of unofficial history before, Guilliman went completely off the rails, not only coming up with some crazy tactic of moving the machine gun position forward by 5 meters, but also starting to fabricate history.

Most of them are quite realistic, providing basic profiles for the 10.5 legions, including their characteristics, representative tactics, and battle examples.

Basically, as long as you understand this book, you will have a relatively clear understanding of the Imperial Legion.

But what came next was not right. Guilliman actually created a rather abstract relationship diagram for all the chapters, making up a lot of sons for them out of thin air.

The three were furious, not because Guilliman's writing was unrealistic; quite the opposite, it was too realistic. He wrote everything down, even creating a strategy guide that treated all warbands and legions as hypothetical enemies.

Sisyphus was alright; she just felt that Guilliman was badmouthing her, and that her offspring hadn't told her these things. But Mordred and Johnson were different; it was written in black and white on this document, revealing their dark past.

Perhaps they were so engrossed in watching that the three of them forgot the time.

When Guilliman pushed open the door and saw his good brothers and sisters gathered together, discussing his masterpiece and even gesturing excitedly, he immediately puffed out his chest with pride.

"Brothers, come quick! I packed some local specialty desserts from my hometown for you guys, come and have some!"

"You dare bring us snacks? What kind of food is that?"

"Coconut Heart Pop!"

"Alright, it truly lives up to its name, Guilliman, I'll let you eat your fill."

Seeing Mordred teleporting behind and blocking the gate, Johnson emerging from the mist and pressing down on his shoulder, and Sisyphus taking the dessert and pulling out his whip, even Guilliman, if he were slow to react, could sense that something was wrong.

"You're still coming! Didn't my masterpiece satisfy you? I've had enough of you lunatics. Don't think I'm afraid of you just because there are more of you. I have a temper too."

"what--"

(End of this chapter)