Warhammer Cultivation: Cultivating the Tao Te Ching in the 40K Universe

Makado's words were like a compassionate thunderclap!

Why should I be confused about a "past" that has already failed?

Why should I use a predetermined "ending" to bind my current "choices"?

On this brand-new, iron-blooded road belonging to the empire, I will use my "wisdom" to forge a completely new "future" that has never been trodden before!

"I understand."

Hector slowly, deeply exhaled a breath of stale air. That breath carried away the last trace of confusion and fear in his heart. Under the personal "enlightenment" of that living legend, his Dao heart finally, completely and utterly achieved perfect harmony.

In his dark pupils, all the turmoil had subsided, leaving only an absolute tranquility born of profound enlightenment.

“Very good.” Macado looked at him, a relieved smile appearing on his ancient face. “It seems you are ready.”

"Get ready for... a new storm."

He stood up, walked to the edge of the pavilion, and his gaze seemed to pierce through the layers of walls of the imperial palace, past the Daoist guards protecting the academy, and look towards that distant sea of ​​stars, filled with glory and danger.

“Just yesterday, I received a top-secret intelligence report from the Third Legion.” Makado’s voice turned cold and heavy again. “Their chief apothecary, a genius named Fabius Bayer, who is obsessed with ‘evolution’ in a dangerous way, received a… ‘gift’ from an alien race called ‘Ral’ that had long been exterminated by the Empire.”

“That was a sword. A… a cursed sword that was said to ‘catalyze’ the genes of Space Marines, making them more ‘perfect’.”

Hector's heart sank.

The Ragnaros Sword! That... the most deadly key that ultimately dragged the perfect son, Forgrim, into the abyss of Slaanesh!

"And now, the first 'symptom' of that ancient plague has appeared. Forgrim, the child who most pursued 'perfection,' his heart that sought 'beauty' is being corrupted by a more extreme, 'morbid' passion. But this corruption does not originate from psionic energy, nor from genes. It originates from 'pride,' from 'obsession'—the most primal desire that has destroyed countless civilizations. This is something my Custodians cannot detect, something my Star Speakers cannot perceive… a cancer of the soul."

He slowly turned around, his ancient, all-knowing eyes fixed on Hector.

“And you, Hector Kane. Your path is that of the only physician in the entire Empire capable of 'diagnosing' this ailment…”

“I need you. Take your Dao Guard and set off immediately for the Third Legion’s flagship, the Pride of the Emperor.” Makado’s voice was like a final command. “Your role is as the head of the Dao Academy, serving as the psionic representative of the ‘Art and Philosophy Exchange Mission’ sent by the Imperial Regent, under the guise of ‘examining the Legion’s cultural and artistic achievements,’ to approach Fulgrim.”

“Go, child. Use your ‘art’ to see the true nature of that sword. Use your ‘way of silence’ to heal the heart of that proud Primarch, which is about to be driven mad by ‘perfection’…”

"...The next dose of strong medicine."

Chapter 73 Son of Glory

As the assault ship, named "Seeker" and gifted to him by Loka, carrying Hector and his party, silently slid into the Third Legion's "Son of the Emperor" fleet assembly point, the countless optical sensors of the Mechanicus sage Alcana emitted a slight hum, signifying "confusion," due to the overloaded data stream.

“Logic…is paradoxical.” His cold, electronic voice rang out in Hector’s private communication channel. “According to all the publicly available records about the Third Legion in the database, their aesthetic standards should be based on the absolute rationality of the ‘golden ratio’ and ‘symmetry and harmony.’ But the ‘harmony’ of this fleet before me makes my logic engine, which is responsible for aesthetic calculations, feel uneasy.”

Hector stood before the enormous holographic porthole on the bridge, gazing silently at the magnificent, almost dreamlike steel forest before him, composed of pure white, bright purple, and gold.

Alkan is right.

The fleet of the Emperor's Son is a work of art.

Each warship has smooth, elegant lines, as if it were not cast from cold steel, but meticulously carved by a deity from a single piece of huge white marble.

Unlike other legions, their ships do not have external weapon hardpoints that exude a murderous aura. All the cannons are cleverly hidden beneath the smooth deck, only to bloom like deadly petals when needed.

Countless eagle statues, crafted from gold and silver and symbolizing the glory of the empire, stand atop the prows of every warship. Their postures are so perfect that even the texture of each feather is clearly visible.

The entire fleet exuded a suffocating aura of "perfection".

However, it was precisely beneath this ultimate perfection that Hector's already activated "aura-reading" revealed a completely different scene, one filled with ominousness and crisis.

He observed that the fleet's "aura," though bright and brilliant like the midday sun, was not warm in nature, but rather a scorching, expressive "fiery" intensity.

It wasn't the anger that stemmed from battle, but rather a kind of almost pathological "excitement" born from an excessive pursuit of external approval.

He could even "smell" a strange, sweet and alluring fragrance emanating from the magnificent fleet.

It wasn't any known spice, but rather more like... the dangerous, acrid aroma of a soul being roasted over the flames of desire.

“Sage,” Hector replied calmly, “because the ‘harmony’ you see does not stem from ‘balance,’ but from the most thorough ‘erasure’ of all ‘imperfections.’ It is an aesthetic built on ‘rejection,’ not ‘inclusion.’ Therefore, it appears perfect, but is actually extremely fragile.”

Just then, a flagship, more ornate and larger than any of the other warships, slowly emerged from the center of the fleet and sent them a guiding signal.

That was the glory of the Third Legion, the Primarch Vograim's mobile palace—the "Son of Glory".

When Hector, with his thirty cold-faced, statue-like guards, stepped onto the hangar deck of the Son of Glory, paved with a single, massive, mirror-smooth white marble slab, he felt as if he had instantly stepped from a war-torn universe filled with iron and blood into a golden age filled with art and luxury.

The air here is filled with a calming incense extracted from exotic flowers.

A melodious symphony, played on some ancient stringed instrument, flowed slowly from the amplified text embedded in the wall. Its pitch and rhythm were so perfect that it seemed to be directly output by a logic engine. Every note was impeccable, but Hector could not hear a single trace of "emotion" belonging to a living being, not even a flaw.

On both sides of the corridor stood life-size statues of Space Marines carved from gold and ivory.

They documented every glorious victory of the Third Legion since its inception. The composition and technique perfectly followed the golden ratio of ancient Terra, but the faces of the Space Marines in the paintings possessed an unsettling, androgynous beauty; their eyes were empty, as if they had long since lost their souls.

They were not greeted by ordinary Space Marines, but by a Glory Guard dressed in purple and gold, like ceremonial officers.

Their postures were upright, their armor spotless, and every movement was meticulously calculated and imbued with a sense of ritual. However, when their gaze swept over the thirty Dao Guards behind Hector, for the first time, an undisguised crack appeared beneath their perfect elegance.

The Dao Guardians are the most jarring and glaring gray patch on this perfect canvas.

When a soldier from the Glory Guard saw Dao Wei's combat boots, which were covered in the dust of interstellar travel, his eyebrows furrowed almost imperceptibly, and his disgust for 'imperfection' flashed by.

The leader of the Dao Guards, Barrow, who was closest to him and had a hideous scar on his face, seemed completely oblivious. He simply stared back at him calmly with his lifeless, abyss-like eyes. The 'stillness' that came from extreme pain made the proud son of the emperor unconsciously look away.

They wore the simplest, unadorned grey monk robes, and on their feet were equally dark combat boots.

Their faces bore neither the joy of victors nor the piety of pilgrims, only a deathly stillness forged from the ashes of Monakia, like ancient ice. They followed Hector silently, like thirty lifeless stone statues, but the aura of stillness emanating from them, born of extreme pain and hatred, was like an invisible black hole, greedily absorbing all the light and heat around them. This made the emperor's sons, accustomed to being the center of attention, feel an unprecedented, profound unease and... a sense of offense from the depths of their souls.

Leading the group was a tall, handsome company commander whose appearance would put any Terran noble to shame. He tried to maintain a smile, but deep within his purple eyes flashed an undisguised disgust for these "vulgar" followers.

“Welcome aboard the Son of Glory, messenger from Terra.” He gave Hector an impeccable, courtly gesture of respect, his voice elegant and magnetic. “My lord, Lord of the Phoenix, Primarch Vograim, awaits your arrival in the Hall of Seven Strings.”

Chapter 74 The Hall of Seven Strings and the Palace of Ten Thousand Mirrors

Hector calmly returned the salute, and then followed him into the deepest part of the warship.

Along the way, he saw too many "perfect" things.

A corridor as perfect as a mirror, weapons as perfect as works of art, warriors as perfect as sculptures...

But Hector's heart grew heavier and heavier.

Because beneath this ultimate perfection, he felt a suffocating "emptiness".

Here, there is not a trace of human presence. There is no smell of sweat from soldiers training, no "heartbeat" of engine oil and metal from the warship, and not even a trace of human error.

This place doesn't resemble a warship; it's more like a massive, cold tomb, used to display perfect works of art.

The "Hall of Seven Strings" was Foghrem's private reception room and a sanctuary where he appreciated music and poetry.

The acoustic design here has reached the limits of physics. Any noise is completely absorbed by the invisible microstructures on the walls. This makes the piano sound pure, but the 'silence' between notes is so profound that it is heart-wrenching, as if the sound is swallowed up in an instant.

Light streams down from the crystal array in the dome, perfectly illuminating each artwork with the most precise calculations, yet casting not a single natural, soft shadow on the ground.

When the door, crafted from moonstone and gold and adorned with reliefs of the seven Muses, slid open silently, Hector finally met the legendary Primarch, the one who sought perfection above all else.

Fugrim sat alone on a magnificent couch covered with white velvet.

He wasn't wearing his magnificent purple and gold power armor, but only a simple, loose-fitting white robe made of the finest silk. His long, silvery-white hair, like a flowing waterfall of moonlight, cascaded casually over his shoulders. His face was so handsome it surpassed the limits of mortal imagination, as if the emperor, in creating him, had bestowed upon him all the concepts of "beauty" without reservation.

In his hand, he held a simple, ancient-looking seven-stringed zither made of an unknown wood. His fingers gently plucked the strings.

A clear, melodious, and harmonious piano note instantly resonated throughout the hall. The sound seemed to possess a magical power, capable of instantly soothing all the anxiety and unease in people's hearts.

“Welcome, Mr. ‘Dean’ from Terra.” Forgrim slowly raised his head, his violet eyes, like the purest gemstones, falling on Hector. His gaze was not one of scrutiny, but rather like that of someone appreciating a novel work of art.

"Has that old stonemason, Makado, finally decided to share his dusty ancient books with others?" His voice was magnetic and charming, with a touch of languid elegance. "He spent his entire life 'repairing' and 'maintaining,' but forgot that true greatness lies in 'creation.' I hope your trip can bring some inspiration for my dull ark—inspiration that truly belongs to 'beauty,' beyond rules and conspiracies."

Hector bowed slightly: "Greetings, Lord of the Phoenix. The Regent sent me here to learn and appreciate. He said that the cultural and artistic achievements of the Third Legion are the most brilliant pearls of the entire Empire, and the newly established 'Intercepting Sect Academy' should come to learn from them."

“Well said.” Forgrim smiled with satisfaction. He stood up, and his tall, harmonious, and powerful body exuded a demigod-like charm that was impossible to look directly at.

But under Hector's "aura-reading" technique, he saw a completely different scene.

He saw that Fugrim's "aura" was an incomparably bright, dazzling, purplish-gold flame. That flame was filled with "creation," "passion," and the ultimate pursuit of "beauty." But at the core of this seemingly perfect flame, there existed an extremely subtle, yet ever-expanding... black void.

That emptiness does not stem from evil, but from "dissatisfaction".

A perpetual, insatiable thirst for self-perfection.

This was the most fatal "gap" in his soul.

“Come, Hector Cain.” Forgrim was unaware that the deepest secrets of his soul had been laid bare before this mortal. He opened his arms warmly, like an artist showing off his collection to a friend, “Tonight, I will host the grandest welcome banquet for you, for the entire Legion. You will witness firsthand what… true 'perfection' truly is.”

The banquet was held in the Hall of a Thousand Mirrors, the most magnificent room on the Son of Glory, large enough to accommodate tens of thousands of Space Marines at the same time.

As its name suggests, the walls of this grand hall are constructed from a single, massive piece of mirrored metal that perfectly reflects images, making the space appear boundless. Yet these mirrors possess a strange, cold quality; they perfectly reflect every scratch on armor and every fold in robes, but seem unable to capture any trace of life's warmth or emotion. Being within them feels like being surrounded by countless perfect, soulless 'reflections'.

Above the dome hangs a massive chandelier composed of countless crystal prisms, illuminating the entire hall as if it were daytime. The walls are constructed from a single, enormous piece of mirrored metal that perfectly reflects images, making the space appear boundless.

When Hector stepped into this place, he felt as if he had entered a labyrinth of light, shadow and illusion.

The main characters at the banquet were not the high-ranking Primarchs and Company Commanders, but art itself.

The symphony being played in the banquet hall was so perfect in pitch and rhythm that it seemed to be directly output by a logic engine. Every note was impeccable, but Hector could not hear a single trace of "emotion" belonging to a living being, not even a flaw.

On the dining table are alien fruits, meticulously cultivated using genetic technology, exhibiting perfect geometric shapes. Their flavors are like the most precisely calculated chemical formulas, with sweetness, sourness, aroma, and mellowness all in perfect balance, yet they lack a touch of the natural, rough "authenticity."

Even the ordinary servants standing by, dressed in magnificent robes, had appearances, figures, and even the angles of their smiles that seemed to have undergone the most rigorous selection and training, making them as perfect as lifeless sculptures.

Hector sat in the seat reserved for "honored guests," while his guards stood behind him like thirty silent, incongruous gray statues against the backdrop of this opulent setting. They refused all the wines and delicacies offered by the servants, ignoring the melodious music and magnificent scenery around them.

They stood silently, like thirty stubborn stones from the ruins of Monaco. Their very existence was the most silent, yet most piercing, indictment of this "perfect" feast.

Hector simply sipped the glass of wine before him, which resembled liquid starlight, and then waited quietly.

He knew that this banquet was not simply a welcome.

Chapter 75 Private Art Gallery

This was Fulgrim demonstrating to him, and to the entire Empire, the "Way of Perfection" he believed in.

This is also the perfect stage for another "protagonist" to make their appearance.

Sure enough, as the atmosphere of the banquet reached its climax with an impromptu heroic epic praising the glory of the empire, a figure slowly emerged from one side of the hall.

He wore a pristine white research robe, like that of a pharmacist. Although the robe was spotless, there were a few dried, unidentified chemical stains on the hem, which stood out starkly in the 'Hall of a Thousand Mirrors' where not a speck of dust could be tolerated.

His face, pale from excessive thinking, stood out starkly against the handsome faces of the emperor's sons around him. But his eyes shone with an astonishing brilliance, filled with a fervent passion for knowledge and a fervent enthusiasm for creation—a passion even purer and more... reckless than that of Fugrim's artistic zeal.

He was Fabius Bayer, the chief apothecary of the Third Legion, who regarded genetic modification as the ultimate art.

In Hector's eyes, his "aura" was a gray-green "mist of wisdom" filled with contradictions, constantly proliferating and becoming cancerous. Within it lay both scientific rigor and a blatant disregard for life.

“My lord!” Fabius stepped forward to Vograim, bowed deeply, and his voice was filled with barely suppressed excitement. “In your most glorious moment, please allow me, for you and for the entire Legion, to offer a gift that will usher in a new era!”

After saying that, he turned to the side.

A Space Marine, clad in perfectly polished, mirror-smooth purple power armor, strode steadily, with steps that seemed meticulously calculated, to the center of the hall.

He is the "masterpiece" that Fabius spoke of.

He removed his helmet, revealing a face so handsome it was almost otherworldly. Every movement he made, every breath he took, was filled with a powerful and harmonious beauty.

“This is Lucius, our Legion’s champion swordsman.” Fabius’s voice was like that of the most fervent missionary, “But now, he is a completely new species! A ‘perfect specimen’ that surpasses Astartes!”

“I used my latest genetic alchemy to remove all redundant segments from his genetic seed that could cause ‘defects.’ I enhanced his neural reaction speed and optimized his muscle fiber structure. Now he is the embodiment of ‘perfection’!”

Fabius's words drew thunderous cheers from the entire stadium!

Hector's gaze, however, calmly fell upon the "perfect sample" named Lucius.

He activated his "Aura Observation Technique," and instantly, the scene before him was completely overturned.

He saw that Lucius's soul fire was indeed incredibly bright, like the midday sun, radiating boundless light.

The flames were burning too brightly!

It was no longer a warm, vibrant gold, but a... glaring, deathly white, filled with the feeling of "consumption"! The edges of the flames were covered with countless wildly leaping, ominous purple halos, like electric arcs!

The feeling was like a logic engine that had been forcibly overclocked to its limit and was about to burn out!

His "qi," though powerful, is extremely unstable! That seemingly perfect "harmony" is built upon the most cruel "exploitation" of his own life essence!

“This is not evolution.” Hector sighed softly to himself. “This is burning.”

Just then, Fabius, as if the show wasn't exciting enough, dropped an even more tempting bombshell.

He took a magnificent obsidian sword case filled with ancient runes from one of his attendants.

He slowly opened the sword case.