Warhammer, I'm a nanny, not your father!

“Don’t try to understand how they exist, try to understand why they exist.”

“How to exist is knowledge, why to exist is meaning.”

“Knowledge can tell you how high the wall is, but it cannot make you understand the reason for its existence.”

If everything is to be understood using deconstructionism, then human beings are just organic aggregates composed of more than 60 chemical elements.

This mechanical disassembly will only make deconstructionists ignore the meaning of human existence, lose their reverence for life, and eventually completely strip away their humanity.

This is complete alienation!

So Wop never liked deconstructionism, but Perturabo was a natural deconstructionist.

Perturabo was born with knowledge. Perhaps he was originally able to understand the deeper meaning of the existence of things, rather than just staying at the cold level of deconstruction.

However, Perturabo suffered amnesia.

What is now presented before his eyes is only a fragmented world that has been thoroughly analyzed and deconstructed by reason.

“Thinking about the meaning?”

Perturabo gazed up at the palace that towered over the city.

The towering and magnificent dome gleams with the luster of molten gold in the morning light, and every intricately carved column speaks of the supreme authority of its owner.

This building dominates the entire city with an almost arrogant attitude. The intricate patterns are just a concrete expression of power, and the magnificent size is essentially just a material carrier of the desire for domination.

Is this the meaning of its existence?

On the other side of this fertile land, he saw the thorny plateau he had climbed, and the vast sky stretched out in the morning mist, with mineral dust and mist intertwined into a hazy, melancholy blue.

Looking into the distance, the rugged mountains rise into the clouds, and the morning glow covers them with a flowing veil of molten gold.

Wop: "What did you see?"

Perturabo gazed at the distant city-states, his eyes reflecting the morning light. "I see the grandeur of the world. Is this its meaning?"

“As long as you let go of deconstruction, everything in the world will reveal its unique meaning to you.”

“The end of deconstruction is cold nothingness, but the pursuit of meaning is endless.”

"Look." Wop pointed to a cluster of wild flowers blooming stubbornly in the cracks of the palace wall.

Morning dew flows on the lavender petals, and the slender and tender stems form a sharp contrast with the cold and hard city walls.

"This wild flower can grow tenaciously in these barren rocks, seeking nutrients from the sun. To me, this is the meaning of its existence."

"But everyone has their own unique face. Perhaps in the eyes of others, its existence has other meanings."

Perturabo seemed to be lost in thought, but Miltiades frowned.

How can we allow weeds to grow on the walls of Rocks? This is really a disgrace to the city of Rocks!

Those responsible must be severely punished!

“Squeak—!”

The huge gate made of gold and silver slowly opened, and the palace revealed its magnificent interior to him.

Warriors in gold and white armor stood solemnly in the marble hall like statues, their formations filling every inch of space between the towering stone pillars.

The gazes from beneath their helmets were sharp as knives. The dancing orange of the torches and the cold white of the electric light tubes wrestled in the air, but were ultimately swallowed up by the light pouring down from the dome.

Two huge human statues stand majestically on both sides of the throne, their outstretched right arms showing almost realistic muscle texture, making them look lifelike.

The two giant statues hold totems tightly in their left hands, with golden laurel wreaths on their heads. Their heroic bodies are draped in exquisitely crafted metal robes, and every fold of the robes has been carefully carved and polished by craftsmen.

On the throne guarded by two giant statues, the tyrant of Rocks was sitting in a lazy and majestic posture.

He was a short, middle-aged man wearing a uniquely shaped iron crown of thorns, with a pair of golden scepters resting casually in his arms.

He seemed to be nonchalant about the power he held.

Perturabo paused at the steps to the throne, examining the languid ruler without hesitation.

His slender limbs were wrapped in a purple robe, and his round abdomen was clearly outlined under the gorgeous clothes.

The sparse black hair was carefully combed into a few thin strands, and each strand was arranged neatly, like a carefully manipulated feather decoration, trying to cover up the increasingly barren hairline.

But he was still full of majesty.

It does not come from appearance, but from the tempering of power.

"Long live Damex!" The herald stepped forward, his voice clear and beautiful. "Damecus VIII, Tyrant of Locus, Third of the Council of Twelve Tyrants, Lord of Erechtheion, Croitan, and Dominicus, and the Seven Lords of the Holy Land. Long live Damex!"

Wop's voice was a little teasing, "Classic dish naming session."

"What's the point?" Perturabo asked.

The rude and impolite behavior of the foreigners frightened Miltiades. The deputy elector and his three men had already knelt on one knee, his lowered head almost touching the ground, and cold sweat dripped down his temples.

"Ha ha!"

Dammecus burst into a resounding laugh, his round belly trembling slightly with the sound. "Perhaps it's to demonstrate my authority. I can't think of any other meaning for now. What do you think?"

Dammecus showed no sign of annoyance at the foreigner's offense. Instead, he looked at the unique boy in front of him with interest.

"It also hints at the noble bloodline and deep foundation of the Dammecus family's rule," Perturabo reasoned. "As the eighth heir, your bloodline can be traced back seven generations."

"This naming method is a very sophisticated political rhetoric. By binding individuals to family history, it not only inherits the political legacy of their predecessors, but the numerical sequence can also effectively strengthen the subjects' recognition of the continuity of rule."

"Since it has been passed down for eight generations, it is only natural that it will continue to be passed down for the ninth and tenth generations."

"Look, what a smart kid!"

Dammecus laughed heartily and turned to the nobles standing on both sides, and the ministers echoed his words.

The tyrant stood up from the throne calmly, his luxurious purple robe falling like water.

He walked up to Perturabo, a look of wonder on his face. "You must be the boy who wandered the highlands of Cardice. I don't understand why it couldn't be you. You are even more remarkable than the legends say."

His voice was light and gentle, but it still couldn't conceal the majesty and arrogance of a superior.

Perturabo was keenly aware that the expression in Dammecus's eyes, hidden behind his smile lines, was not simply admiration, but an almost greedy possessiveness, as if he was assessing the value of a rare treasure.

Perturabo: "I don't know if you're talking about me. I have no memory before yesterday."

Dammex turned his gaze to Wop, his voice full of obvious temptation, "And you, stranger? Are you the father of this child?"

Wop: "I am his mentor."

Dammekos looked down and asked Perturabo, "Is he?"

Perturabo frowned deeply. Wop had never explicitly asked him to be his mentor, and his teaching methods were really annoying.

Also, why does it have to be a mentor?

What does Dammecus want?

Wop: "I think I am."

"You are quite interesting, stranger."

Dammecus's face was filled with a warm smile, but his voice was no longer as gentle as before, but still maintained a lazy and calm tone.

He could tolerate Perturabo's offense, after all, he was just an ignorant child and a legendary hero who killed monsters.

But the outsider was neither a child nor famous, so how could he dare to be so presumptuous?

Dammecus: "Where are you from, stranger?"

"Tyra."

Dammecus asked in confusion, "Which city-state?"

Wop: "Tyra doesn't belong to Olympia, but this kind of topic is so boring that I guess you don't need to ask any more."

Dammecus' smile completely faded, his expression as cold as if covered with frost.

The surrounding warriors all clenched their weapons tightly. With just a glance from the tyrant, they would kill this rude foreigner on the spot!

Perturabo yawned lazily and turned his head away deliberately, appearing to be indifferent to the tense atmosphere.

Dammecus keenly grasped this detail. If Perturabo showed dependence on Wop, he might consider sparing the stranger's life as a bargaining chip, but at this moment...

Wop raised his eyebrows. "Perturabo, won't you say a word for me?"

Perturabo rolled his eyes. "Need it?"

Since Wop could easily manipulate him, it would be even easier for him to deal with these mortals.

"You will regret this."

Wop raised his hand nonchalantly, and the weapons in the warriors' hands broke free from their master's control as if pulled by invisible threads, gathering into a circle and dancing in the air in the hall.

The warriors in golden and white armor suddenly knelt on the ground as if they were crushed by a heavy burden.

Their knees slammed heavily onto the marble floor.

The harsh sound of armor rubbing against the ground was mixed with the soldiers' painful groans.

And those warriors in gold and white armor all knelt on the ground under the pressure of an invisible force.

"What should I say?" Perturabo frowned, keenly aware of a sense of disharmony.

"You should say that I am the Primarch."

"Then do it again."

"You will regret this!"

"I am the Primarch!"

The two of them recited their dialogue as if no one was around, but the surroundings fell into deathly silence, and everyone was silent.

They lowered their heads and even breathed cautiously.

Dammex's expression also changed from anger to shock, and his eyes became much clearer.

The tyrant was the only one left standing besides Wop and Perturabo, and Wop gave him some respect.

"You, who are you..." Dammex's voice suddenly dropped, and the majesty he had just had disappeared.

"Wop, I am Perturabo's mentor."

"I haven't acknowledged you yet!"

Perturabo's voice suddenly rose. He may not necessarily want a mentor, but he hated Wop's condescending charity!

Wop raised his chin. "You don't have to admit it. I'm a stubborn person by nature. I don't like to be rejected."

"I object!"

"Opposition is useless. I'm a stubborn person. The more you object, the more it proves that I'm doing the right thing."

A vein popped up on Perturabo's forehead. "You're not just being stubborn!"

There was a hint of amusement in Wop's voice: "If you are not a twisted person, how dare you assert that this is not the twist of a twisted person like me?"

Perturabo's thoughts suddenly fell into a quagmire. Yes, he is not a twisted person, how could he understand what twisted is?

That's right, he is not a twisted person.

Wop is a twisted person. Whatever he says is twisted is twisted.

"Am I right?"

"Yes." Perturabo frowned.

The logic is sound, and that is indeed the point of the argument.

But he always felt that there was something wrong.

Wop's voice, with a hint of joking, reached Perturabo's ears. "Then what are you so upset about?"

"I'm not twisted!" Perturabo was furious. There were two kinds of people he hated the most in his life.

One is a twisted person, and the other is someone who says he is twisted. Wop is both!

What qualifications do you, a twisted person, have to call me twisted?

Wop: "If I say you're twisted, you're twisted."

Perturabo's eyes blazed with anger. "You're the twisted one!"

"I admitted that I am a twisted person, but you didn't admit it. So I am a twisted person who is not twisted, and you are a twisted twisted person."

"I'm not a twisted person!"