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

The atmosphere that once inspired awe with its ultimate perfection has now turned into a suffocating, deathly silence, like that of a funeral.

Tens of thousands of sons of emperors, the proudest and most elegant space warriors in the galaxy, seemed to have had their souls ripped out overnight.

They continued to fulfill their duties, keeping their armor spotless and maintaining impeccable ritual in every movement.

But that once heartfelt passion and pride for "perfection" has completely vanished.

Instead, there was a sense of... bewilderment.

After a belief collapses, there is a deep-seated sense of bewilderment, not knowing where to go.

They were like a group of exquisitely crafted puppets who had lost all their strings, walking through the magnificent tomb they had built themselves, a tomb called "Perfection".

They dared not speak of the extreme ugliness they witnessed that day, for it would be tantamount to examining their own equally broken hearts.

They remained silent, using an almost self-destructive, even more rigorous discipline to try to cover up the enormous, irreparable rift that had long existed in the soul of the legion.

At the eye of the storm of this plague, the Phoenix Lord, Primarch Vograim, completely exiled himself to the most perfect prison he had ever built.

His private art gallery.

That sacred place, which houses collections of beauty from hundreds of civilizations and represents the pinnacle of "beauty," has now become a hell of self-torture for him.

He locked himself inside, refusing all audiences—whether it was the worried company commander or the followers of Fabius Bayer who tried to "cure" him with more radical theories.

He wandered silently, alone, day after day, in that hall filled with perfect works of art.

He once thought these immortal masterpieces were his ultimate bulwark against all the chaos and ugliness in the universe. But now, all he sees in these ultimate perfections is... lies.

Looking at the lifelike alien bird sculpted from living metal, he no longer saw its vibrant life force poised to take flight, but rather the eternal, unchanging coldness of its metallic core, belonging to death.

Looking at the perfectly replicated star map drawn from millions of grains of sand, what he saw was no longer the vastness and magnificence of the universe, but a forcibly frozen, lifeless, and false "moment."

He even saw... on the statue of Apollo, carved from pure white marble and symbolizing the most perfect form of humanity.

Lucius's face was melting, contorting, filled with extreme pain and ecstasy.

Everything he pursued, everything he cherished, everything he gave the soul of an entire legion for... all proved on that day to be an incredibly magnificent, yet incredibly... tragic self-destruction.

His art seems to have died.

What difference is there between a god who has lost his faith and a cold stone?

His pursuit of perfection has been completely emptied. The realm that was once filled with endless creative desire and passion is now nothing more than an ever-expanding black void called "nothingness," capable of devouring all light and hope.

He didn't know where he should go. He even began to doubt whether his very existence was... the greatest "imperfection".

In this absolute silence and despair that could make even demigods succumb, a figure was allowed to step into this forbidden land.

Hector Kane.

When the door, carved from purple crystal, slid silently open in front of him, this was the scene he saw.

Forgrim, the Lord of the Phoenix, was curled up helplessly on his magnificent couch covered with white velvet.

He wasn't wearing that gorgeous robe, but only a simple white silk garment that was slightly wrinkled from not being groomed for several days.

His long, silvery-white hair, flowing like a waterfall of moonlight, was disheveled and obscured his handsome, godlike face.

Hector did not speak, nor did he break the fragile tranquility that belonged to a Primarch. He simply walked silently into the art gallery, as if entering the study of an old friend.

He and the thirty Dao Guards behind him, who were like gray rocks, were the only unusual sight in this magnificent hall.

Their arrival brought no judgment or preaching, but only a "reality" born of extreme suffering that was incongruous with the morbid perfection around them.

Hector's gaze swept calmly over the priceless works of art around him. His eyes held neither the awe one would expect from a mortal, nor the disdain of an ascetic.

It was a kind of... equal, empathetic "appreciation".

He slowly walked to a painting hanging on the wall, dating back to the lost era of ancient Terra.

It was a piece of calligraphy that resembled cursive script.

Chapter 85: Leaving Blank Space

A piece of cursive script.

Black, vibrant ink, on the already yellowed, fragile silk, writes an ancient poem that is no longer recognizable, in a wild and unrestrained manner.

The handwriting, sometimes like a startled dragon plunging into the sea, sometimes like withered vines coiling around, was full of contradictions, yet it achieved a higher level of dynamic harmony.

“Lord of the Phoenix,” Hector’s voice was soft and gentle, like a breeze brushing against the strings of an ancient zither, slowly echoing in the deathly silent art gallery, “Do you think this work… is perfect?”

On the soft couch, the curled-up figure moved almost imperceptibly.

After a long while, a hoarse, weary voice came from beneath the silvery-white hair.

"……Do not."

Forgrim slowly raised his head. His eyes, which had once shone like violet gems, were now bloodshot.

"It is full of 'flaws'."

He looked at the cursive script and said in an almost self-destructive, art connoisseurly tone, "Look, this stroke, the brush tip is too fast, causing the ink to dry out and resulting in 'flying white' (a type of ink bleed). And this 'fold' (a turn) is too abrupt, causing the entire character's structure to lose its balance. As for this..."

He seemed to want to vent all his obsession with "perfection" on this innocent work.

Hector listened quietly until he finished speaking.

“You’re absolutely right, my Primarch.” Hector nodded in agreement. “From a ‘skill’ perspective, it is indeed…full of flaws.”

“But,” he changed the subject, extending a finger and lightly, almost imperceptibly, pointing to the large blank areas on the calligraphy work that were not covered by ink.

"Have you ever thought that it is precisely because of these 'flying white' strokes that the '捺' stroke is full of speed and power? It is precisely because of that 'unbalanced' turn that the whole piece of calligraphy is full of a vibrant life force that breaks free from constraints?"

“And most importantly,” he said, his fingers slowly tracing the seemingly “useless”, large expanses of blank space, “is here. It’s these… ‘blank spaces’.”

"Leave blank spaces?" A hint of confusion flashed in Forgrim's eyes.

“Yes, leave blank space.” Hector’s voice carried a gentle, persuasive quality, a quality that belonged to the “Tao.” “A painting is not necessarily a masterpiece the more colors it is filled with. Nor is an article necessarily a more profound one the more densely packed the words.”

“Lord of the Phoenix, look. It is precisely because of these large, seemingly empty ‘blank spaces’ that the unrestrained brushstrokes have room to ‘breathe’. It gives us, the viewers, room to ‘imagine’.”

“This ‘white’ is not ‘emptiness’. It is ‘energy’, it is ‘charm’, it is the most important ‘background’ that gives this work its soul.”

"If this calligrapher were to fill every corner of this silk with the most perfect brushstrokes, what we would get would no longer be a piece of calligraphy full of vitality."

It was merely a worthless piece of paper, completely stained with ink…

Forgrim's body jolted violently!

His heart, which had long been occupied by "nothingness," felt as if it had been gently pricked by a needle at this moment!

Breathing space...

There is room for imagination...

These words were so foreign to him, an artist who regarded "filling everything and pursuing the ultimate" as his ultimate goal, yet they carried a kind of... fatal, subversive attraction!

Hector saw a hint of unease in his eyes and knew the time was right. He slowly walked to the other side of the gallery, where a set of perfectly calibrated symphonic instruments, used by the greatest musicians of the Third Army, was on display.

"Music, too, is my original self."

Hector gently touched a beautifully designed instrument, like a golden harp, with his fingertips: "I was fortunate enough to hear your legion's symphony in the Hall of a Thousand Mirrors."

Every note was perfectly precise; every beat was flawless. It was a magnificent feast of technique.

“But,” he used that transition word again, “the music was too ‘full’.”

"It fills every gap in the listener's mind with endless, gorgeous melodies, leaving no room for them to catch their breath."

It uses its 'perfection' to forcibly drag the audience into the emotions it sets. That's not 'communication,' it's a kind of... the gentlest yet most domineering 'indoctrination.'

He paused, and in his mind, an image surfaced of ancient music from another time and space, music that belonged to Chinese civilization and was full of Zen.

“In the family’s lineage, there is an ancient musical instrument called the ‘guqin’.” Hector’s voice became distant and serene, as if describing a long-lost dream. “It has only seven strings. Its tone is far less magnificent than that of this golden harp.”

"But its most beautiful quality is not the 'sound' it produces."

"But rather... its 'silent' aspect."

"When a true master plucks a string and plays a note, he doesn't immediately move on to the next one. He... waits."

He would wait for the lingering echo of that first note to slowly spread and dissipate in the air... like the ripples that linger long after a stone is thrown into a calm lake.

And in that absolute silence before the ripples completely subside, only then can the listener's heart truly resonate with the music. That silence is the music's "blank space," its "breath," a true expression of "silence speaks louder than words."

“Lord of the Phoenix,” Hector turned around, his dark, abyss-like eyes gazing at the Primarch who was still sitting on the soft couch, but had unconsciously straightened his body.

"Is your pursuit of perfection like that overly ornate symphony, filled to the brim?"

"You fill every corner of your soul with endless conquest, endless creation, and endless pursuit of 'perfection,' leaving yourself no 'blank' space whatsoever. You consider that 'imperfect,' a 'flaw.'"

"But perhaps you've simply forgotten that 'emptiness,' that 'stillness,' is not nothingness."

"It is the sky that our souls rely on to 'breathe'..."

Fugrim sat there, stunned. Every word Hector uttered was like an invisible hammer made of the softest feathers, striking his already shattered heart with both fierceness and tenderness.

These words, for the first time, brought a touch of "gray" full of infinite possibilities to his black-and-white world, which was torn apart by the absolute opposition of "perfection" and "ugliness".

In the deepest recesses of his dull, ashen violet eyes, after that devastating tragedy, a spark of "reflection" was rekindled.

Hector knew that the first seed he had planted had begun to sprout. But he also knew that for a "perfect temple" like Forgrim that had already collapsed once, philosophical "enlightenment" alone was far from enough.

He needs a stronger, more substantial "pillar" to support the ruins that are about to be rebuilt.

He didn't continue the topic, but slowly walked to the huge Tai Chi diagram that was full of Eastern wisdom.

Chapter 86: The "Living Ones" are named "Flaws".

This painting, which he created himself and which contains the true meaning of "Tao," has been quietly hanging in the most prominent position in this art gallery ever since he presented it to Fogrim.

Although Forgrim was attracted by its profound artistic conception, he subconsciously avoided it because of its great conflict with his past aesthetic ideas.

"My Primarch." Hector's voice rang out again, this time with a hint of guidance.

“Look at this picture. It seems simple, with only black and white, but it contains the most fundamental secret of the universe about ‘creation’.”

Finally, Foghrim's gaze shifted from the wild cursive script to the yin-yang symbol, which was full of harmony and balance.

“Black represents yin, stillness, and restraint; it represents the ‘nothingness’ you are feeling right now,” Hector said, pointing to the deep black area.

"White represents Yang, movement, creation, and the 'perfection' you have pursued in the past."

"You see, they are not opposites, but interdependent and mutually transformative. Among the black fish, there are white eyes; among the white fish, there are black eyes. This is the principle of 'yin within yang, and yang within yin'."

In the deepest silence lies the seed of creation; and in the most fervent creation, the ultimate silence will inevitably follow.

"Your past mistake was not in pursuing 'white,' but in trying to completely erase 'black' from your world."

You are trying to create a world where there is only day and no night.

But you've forgotten, without the contrast of night, how could the light of day seem so precious?

Hector's voice, like the most patient mentor, dissected the root of the soul's ailment for this lost demigod, bit by bit.

"You deny beauty itself because of Lucius's 'ugliness'. You fear all creation because of the destruction of 'extreme'. This is going from one extreme to another. This is also a kind of... 'imbalance'."

He reached out, not pointing to the painting, but to Fugrim's own chest.

"When you can truly embrace the 'black' and 'white' within you, and let them dance harmoniously like the two fish in this painting, you will no longer need any external artwork to prove your 'perfection'."

"Because, at that time, you yourself will be the most unique, most harmonious, and most... perfect work of art in this universe."

Forgrim's body trembled violently. The spark of "contemplation" that had just ignited in his violet eyes, nourished by Hector's words filled with the true meaning of "the Way," instantly transformed into a raging inferno!

These words, like heavy hammers forged from the laws themselves, slammed down on his already shattered worldview!

He felt as if he had been thrown into an invisible furnace, where all the definitions of "beauty" and "perfection" he had built up over the past few centuries were melted and reshaped in the flames!

This process is painful.

But at the same time, it is also new.

"what should I do?"

After a long while, Forgrim finally asked the most crucial question.

Hector knew that this proud Lord of the Phoenix had finally, completely, laid down his last pride as a Primarch and reached out a hand for help toward a completely new and unknown path.

Hector did not answer immediately.

He slowly walked to the perfect, yet empty, statue of Apollo. He reached out and gently stroked the cold marble.