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

Isn't 'perfection' about always being at the forefront of everyone else?

These words, precise and malicious, struck at the deepest, most hidden thorn in Forgrim's heart—Nicaea.

Hector could clearly "see" that Fugrim's brilliant, purplish-gold "aura" suddenly contracted.

That Primarch's pride made him unable to tolerate being compared to those uncouth "savages" (like Riemann Nuss) whom he despised from the bottom of his heart.

However, before his wavering heart could completely turn to Fabius, Hector's voice, as calm as an ancient, icy pool, rang out once more.

"Your Excellency Fabius, you are right."

This unexpected affirmation instantly choked Fabius's prepared, even more vehement words.

"Evolution is indeed a law of the universe."

Hector nodded slowly, his gaze calmly meeting Fabius's aggressive stare. "But you seem to have forgotten one thing. Any star, at its most brilliant and intense peak, inevitably contains within it the most terrifying 'gravity' capable of tearing itself apart completely."

Light and darkness, life and death, creation and destruction… they are never opposites, but rather two sides of the same coin. This is the true meaning of 'harmony'.

He turned away, no longer looking at the mad scientist who had become trapped in his own logical loop. His gaze, however, calmly fell upon Forgrim.

"Lord of the Phoenix," his voice softened, yet carried a power that struck straight to the heart, "you are a great artist, a true 'creator.' So, please allow me to ask you a question."

When you are sculpting a perfect statue, are you constantly adding something to that rough stone, or are you constantly subtracting something?

Forgrim's body jolted violently!

This question struck him like a bolt of lightning, piercing his mind, which was bewildered by the grand blueprint of "enhancement" and "evolution"!

The essence of carving is not "addition," but "reduction"! It is about constantly and precisely removing all the excess and disharmonious stone, so that the most perfect form, which was already hidden in the raw jade, can be "presented"!

How similar this is to Hector's saying, "The Way diminishes daily"!

“I…” A genuine, philosophical confusion surfaced in Forgrim’s violet eyes.

He felt as if he were standing at a crossroads, with two paths leading to the summit called "perfection." One was the path of "addition," as Fabius described it, of constantly climbing upwards and constantly acquiring; the other was the path of "subtraction," as Hector described it, of constantly seeking inwards and constantly giving up.

Where should he go?

Seeing the struggle on the Primarch's face, Fabius knew that he had to use the most direct and irrefutable method to completely shatter Hector's ethereal "philosophy".

"Enough!" he growled impatiently, interrupting what he saw as a pointless metaphysical debate.

"Words are the least efficient tool! Truth is never determined through debate, but through practice!"

He turned abruptly, knelt on one knee before Forgrim, and, in a tone filled with fervor and confidence, loudly petitioned:

"My lord! Please allow me, for you and for the entire legion, to give a 'perfect duel demonstration'!"

Let us use the clash of steel, the evolution of genes, and the most irrefutable facts to prove whether this sword is truly the 'key' to greatness, or merely the laughable 'failure' in the mouth of this mortal!

This suggestion struck Fogrem like a thunderbolt.

His artist's heart was instantly ignited!

Yes! Practice! A most sacred demonstration of the definition of "perfection"!

He yearned for the limitless "evolution" promised by Fabius, yet was deeply attracted by Hector's "Tao" of "harmony" and "balance." He hoped to find the answer that could guide him and the entire legion towards ultimate perfection in this most direct collision.

“Very good.” A smile full of expectation and determination appeared on Forgrim’s face.

He felt like an audience member about to witness a drama full of conflict and passion, co-directed by two of the greatest playwrights in the universe.

He looked at Hector with a questioning look in his eyes.

Hector knew he couldn't refuse, nor did he need to. Because some principles only reveal their true value when confronted with the most brutal techniques.

“‘Practice is the sole criterion for testing truth.’ I completely agree with His Excellency Fabius, Lord of the Phoenix.”

Chapter 79 Phoenix Nest

Hector bowed slightly, first affirming the other party, then changed the subject: "But I also believe that a perfect demonstration should not only be judged by whether its 'starting stance' is gorgeous, but also by whether its 'closing stance' is still 'harmonious'."

Otherwise, even the most magnificent musical movement, if it ends with a jarring snap of a broken string, can only be called a failed performance.

"Well said!" Forgrim clapped his hands and laughed. He felt he had never been so close to the true meaning of "perfection." "It's settled then!"

He stood up, and his unquestionable majesty, belonging to the Primal, instantly enveloped the entire art gallery.

"Relay my orders!" His voice echoed throughout the entire "Son of Glory" via the invisible communication network. "Three days from now, a final demonstration of 'evolution' and 'perfection' will be held in the Legion's arena, 'Phoenix's Nest'! All high-ranking officers in the entire army must attend!"

He paused, his gaze falling on Fabius, his eyes filled with expectation.

“Fabius, I entrust this demonstration entirely to you. Do not disappoint me. Show me, and the entire legion, the future you promised…”

Then, his gaze turned to the perfect, yet empty, statue of Lucius.

"As for the 'actors' who performed this demonstration..."

A slight smile appeared on Forgrim's face.

"...Let my champion, Lucius, personally wield this 'Perfect Sword'."

To wield the most powerful weapon with the most perfect warrior—that in itself is an impeccable…art.

This decision brought an uncontrollable, triumphant elation to Fabius's face.

Hector, however, simply sighed softly in his heart.

He knew that the string that was about to break had been placed on the zither by the Phoenix Lord himself.

And that pathetic champion named Lucius may become the first...note to be sacrificed for this magnificent self-destruction.

For the next three days, the entire Son of Glory was engulfed in an unprecedented uproar filled with anticipation and fervor.

Fugram locked himself in his private studio, trying to use his paintbrush to sort out his conflicted emotions.

At times, he would unleash a futuristic warrior, brimming with Fabius's concept of 'evolution,' characterized by frenzied colors and distorted lines; at other times, on another canvas, he would use the most serene brushstrokes to depict the 'perfect yet flawed' freehand calligraphy that Hector spoke of, leaving room for endless imagination.

Two completely different aesthetics were battling fiercely in his soul, causing his heart, which pursued absolute perfection, to feel a tearing pain.

The news that the Primarch would personally preside over a sacred ceremony concerning the future of the Legion spread like wildfire throughout every corner of the warship.

Every son of an emperor regarded this as an unmissable pilgrimage. They meticulously polished their already spotless armor, recited poems praising perfection, and made the most devout preparations for the "miracle" that was about to take place.

At the center of this storm, Legion Champion Lucius completely secluded himself in his private training room.

He was the most perfect warrior in the Third Legion, the embodiment of swordsmanship. His confidence, like the power sword in his hand, forged by a legendary craftsman, was sharp and pure.

When Fabius handed him the exotic sword of Ral, he accepted it without hesitation.

In his view, this was not a blessing, but... an inevitability.

The most perfect warrior should wield the most powerful weapon. This is the simplest and most harmonious truth in the universe.

He could feel an unprecedented surge of warmth, brimming with power and potential, instantly coursing through his entire body as his hand gripped the cold hilt of the sword! He felt that his swordsmanship, which had long since reached its limit, was once again seeing the dawn of a breakthrough!

He regarded Hector's ominous "art commentary" as the ridiculous jealousy and slander of an outsider who knew nothing about swordsmanship towards a supreme divine weapon.

He will become the first Astartes to surpass the limits set by the Emperor.

He even started practicing his expression in front of the mirror in the training room when receiving cheers from the entire army, ensuring that every angle was impeccable.

He will present his father, the father of his genes, and the entire legion with... the most perfect sword dance, worthy of being recorded in history.

He was completely unaware that, as he was immersed in this fantasy about the future, the silver light flowing across the blade of the sword of Ral, which was leaning against him, was shimmering slightly in a rhythm that matched his heartbeat.

The calm before the storm is so sweet, so... full of hope.

Ultimately, Fugrim gave up thinking.

He transformed his inner struggles into an even more extreme form of control over the outside world.

He personally went to the 'Phoenix Nest', using a geometric logic ruler to measure the angle of each marble slab and a pitch calibrator to adjust the frequency of each amplified note, attempting to forcibly 'unify' the two conflicting 'Tao' within himself through an external, absolutely perfect ceremony.

His pursuit of perfection ultimately swayed towards the more direct and alluring future of 'evolution'. Hector's advice, like ice crystals thrown into a volcano, not only failed to extinguish the flames but instead stirred up even more intense steam, pushing his desire for 'the ultimate' to an unprecedented peak.

Only Hector Kane, and the thirty silent Dao Guards behind him, stood like a lonely island in this frenzied ocean, quietly waiting.

He did not offer any further advice.

Because he knew that for a mad musician who had placed all his hopes on that last string, any words would be superfluous.

All he could do was create a black and white artwork as his final effort.

At the same time, we are also waiting.

Waiting for that string to snap with a bang after playing its most magnificent melody... that moment.

"Son of Glory", Legion Arena - "Phoenix Nest".

This is the sacred place where the Third Legion hone their skills and engage in glorious duels, and it is also one of Forgrim's most prized architectural masterpieces.

It wasn't the typical Space Marine Legion's rough, blood-soaked gladiatorial pits, but rather a... miniaturized, perfectly crafted ancient Terra amphitheater.

Just like the one in Rome.

The entire arena was carved from a single, enormous piece of moon-white crystal mined from a long-extinct art planet.

Tens of thousands of seats, like ring-shaped mountains, extend upwards in perfect golden ratio, eventually merging into a dome composed of transparent force fields that simulates the eternal twilight.

Chapter 80 The Evolution of Astartes

The ground was as smooth as a mirror, yet it was so cold and lifeless that it seemed to freeze one's soul.

The incense in the air perfectly neutralized the ozone, but also erased all the 'real' smells.

The perfection here is a 'sterile' beauty achieved by eliminating all impurities, rather than a 'harmonious' beauty that encompasses all things. The air is filled with a strange, carefully blended scent of noble incense and ozone, a scent that provides just the right amount of soothing to the Space Marines' modified, perpetually war-torn nerves.

Everything here is perfect. Perfect like a dream, a fragile dream about to be shattered by the cruelest reality.

At this moment, all the tens of thousands of seats were already occupied.

All the high-ranking officers of the Third Legion atop the flagship—company commanders, centurions, elites of the Glory Guard, terminators of the Phoenix Guard… all the elite among the Emperor’s sons have gathered here.

They sat upright, clad in their most magnificent and meticulously maintained purple and gold power armor, as if attending the most sacred coronation ceremony. Their faces bore a identical, feverish expression of anticipation and pride.

They were about to witness a miracle. An "evolutionary" miracle... spearheaded by their chief apothecary, that would propel the Astartes species to entirely new heights.

In the Primarch's highest chamber, which resembled a throne of a god, the Phoenix Lord Forgrim stood by the railing, wearing a magnificent purple robe embroidered with golden phoenix patterns.

His face wore a smile of confidence and anticipation, like that of an artist about to unveil their masterpiece.

His violet eyes reflected the perfect image of his legion below, filled with the satisfaction of being the "creator."

Chief Pharmacist Fabius Bayer stood behind him, his face, slightly pale from fanaticism, bearing a hint of the arrogance of a scientist with a clear understanding of the situation.

His gaze, like the most precise scalpel, swept across the empty stage below, as if he were examining the most perfect surgery he was about to perform.

On the other side, in the area shrouded in the shadow of the building, was Hector Kane and the Dao Guard behind him.

They were the only discordant note in this frenzied feast.

Hector's face was expressionless.

He simply calmly activated his "Aura Observation" technique and gazed at the seemingly perfect stage.

In his vision, the entire "Phoenix Nest" was shrouded in an incomparably dazzling yet intensely "fiery" purple-gold "exhilarating aura." That "aura" was so intense, so exclusive, as if it wanted to drag the entire universe into an endless carnival about "perfection."

But beneath this sea of ​​revelry, Hector clearly "saw" wisps and strands of a morbid, pinkish-purple "aura of desire" filled with "sweetness" and "decay."

Like an invisible venomous snake, it quietly sprouts from the cracks in the souls of every emperor's son, born of excessive pride, and then slowly converges towards the center of the stage.

Slaanesh...understands human desires best.

That was the eye of the storm.

That is where the altar is located.

A clear, resonant chime, like the shattering of crystal, echoed throughout the arena.

All the noise instantly fell silent.

Tens of thousands of imperial sons, as if controlled by an invisible hand, held their breath.

Their gazes, like those of the most devout believers, were focused on the magnificent, pure gold gate of the arena, which was slowly opening.

Then, he arrived.

Legion Champion, Lucius.

Unlike the champions of other legions, he didn't enter the arena amidst war drums and roars. He simply... quietly walked out.

He wore a purple power armor, personally crafted for him by Fabius, that perfectly conformed to every inch of his muscle lines and was as smooth as a mirror.