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

That warm, pure energy, brimming with the breath of life, flowed through his limbs and bones, eventually converging into his mind. Like a gentle spring breeze and nourishing rain, it slowly washed away the negative emotions that had arisen.

"Heaven moves in good health, and a gentleman strives to constantly strive for self-improvement."

Another sentence from the Book of Changes came to mind.

Hector slowly raised his head, the confusion and vulnerability in his eyes vanishing, replaced by an unprecedented determination.

He may fail, or all he does may be in vain. But so what?

He, Lin Chen, couldn't do nothing and watch that darkest future unfold!

Now that he has come to this world and possesses this unique power, he should not only accept his fate but also make the best of it.

We must do our best and leave the rest to fate!

Even if the final outcome cannot be changed, he still wants to tear a hole in this dark iron curtain, so that future generations will at least know that there was once a glimmer of... a different kind of light.

He sat cross-legged again, immersing himself in cultivation. This time, it wasn't to gain power, but to... find himself.

A few days later, when Hector had adjusted himself to his peak condition, an unexpected visitor interrupted his practice.

The newcomer was Hathor Matt, the lord of the Pavoni Temple of the Sons of the Thousand Sins, a think tank renowned for his mastery of flesh alchemy and shapeshifting illusions.

Unlike Ahriman's sharp and persistent scholarly temperament, Hathor Matt possessed an artist's elegance and melancholy. Instead of being as direct as Ahriman, he first offered Hector an impeccable courtesy and presented him with a gift—a blank scroll made of silk unique to Prospero.

“Mr. Kane, please forgive my intrusion.” Hathor Matt’s voice was as mellow as a cello. “I’m not here to ask anything of you. On the contrary, I’m here to… thank you.”

“Yes.” Hathor Matt’s blue eyes held a hint of sincerity. “During my meditation a few days ago, in that moment of silence, I felt a peace I had never experienced before. The art of shaping that I’m so proud of is essentially about change. I’ve always thought that by controlling infinite change, I could touch the truth of the universe. But at that moment, I vaguely understood that perhaps… at the end of all change, there is eternal 'unchanging'. That experience was far more profound than any psionic meditation I’ve ever had in the past hundred years.”

Hector was somewhat surprised. He hadn't expected that his theory would resonate so strangely with the Pavoni Temple, which specialized in "change" among the Sons of the Thousand Sins.

"Lord Matt, another ancestor of my family once had a famous dream." Hector decided to plant a different seed. "He dreamed that he had become a butterfly, fluttering freely among the flowers, completely forgetting that he was human. When he awoke, he couldn't help but wonder: did he dream of being a butterfly, or did the butterfly... dream of him?"

Hathor Matt's eyes lit up; he was completely captivated by this philosophically profound paradox.

“The moral of this story is ‘forgetting oneself and the external world,’” Hector explained. “When you are performing the art of shaping, if you still have the thought that ‘I’ am casting the spell, then what you create is ultimately a false ‘illusion.’ But if you can enter the ‘path of silence’ and reach the state of ‘forgetting oneself and the external world,’ then what you create will no longer be a simple illusion, but… another possibility of ‘reality.’ You will no longer be imitating forms, but… becoming ‘the Tao’ itself, to manifest the forms of all things.”

These words struck like a bolt of lightning, shattering a long-standing mental block in Hathor Matt's mind. He stood there, stunned, muttering to himself, "Not creating change, but... becoming change itself... I see... I see!"

He bowed deeply to Hector, said no more, and turned to leave. But Hector knew that the seed of "Zhuangzi's Butterfly Dream" had already been planted in his heart.

During the subsequent voyage, Hector could clearly sense that the atmosphere within the Sons of a Thousand Sins fleet was undergoing a subtle change.

Ahriman and his small circle of members became more composed and reserved. The psionic energy emanating from them was no longer as unrestrained and flamboyant as before, but instead possessed a refined quality born of restraint.

Hathor Matt, on the other hand, secluded himself in his temple all day long, and no one knew what he was doing. But occasionally, some high-level think tanks would sense a strange aura emanating from his temple that was both real and illusory.

Finally, after months of sailing, they arrived at the star system chosen by fate.

As the Tower of Light slowly sailed out of the subspace, what came into view was a magnificent sight that would leave any mortal speechless.

Hundreds, even thousands, of warships from different legions floated silently in the void, like a silent forest of steel and cannon fire.

Hector saw the Fourth Legion's "Iron Warriors," warships that were like mobile fortresses, filled with a cold, geometric beauty.

He saw the Fifth Army's "White Scars"—those razor-sharp, speed-filled assault cruisers.

He even saw the fleet of the Fourteenth Legion's "Death Guard," whose warships were undecorated, rough, and ugly, their hulls covered with battle scars and weathering marks, like ancient behemoths weathered by time, exuding a suffocating, tenacious, and stubborn aura.

The wills of different legions converge and collide here, filling the entire star field with a sense of impending doom and impending storm.

On the eve of the formal convening of parliament, Hector made one last effort.

He did not seek an audience with Magnus again, knowing it was futile. He simply handed a small data tablet to Ahriman, asking him to pass it on to the Primarch.

On the data board, there were no lengthy analyses, only four ancient Terran characters, full of Eastern wisdom.

"Great eloquence appears as taciturnity."

(The most eloquent speech can sound clumsy.)

Ahriman silently accepted the data panel, understanding the helplessness in Hector's eyes. He said softly, "I will give it to my father. But, Hector, you must know that no matter what happens to Nicaea, our 'Way,' our pursuit of 'Silence,' will never cease. This is the true future of our legion."

Hector's heart sank; he knew that his fate was now completely intertwined with that of another part of the legion.

That evening, the parliament's massive, open-air circular hall was ready. Under the soft moonlight of Nicaea, the rows of empty stone steps seemed to silently await the arrival of history.

Hector stood alone in the shadows of the highest level of the venue, overlooking the stage that would soon determine the future of the empire.

He saw those legendary figures appear one after another in the venue, conducting the final site survey.

Magnus, the Crimson King, remained as confident and proud as ever. The psychic fire burning in his single eye seemed to illuminate the entire night sky.

Not far from him was his "brother," his plaintiff, the Primarch of the Death Guard—Mortalian.

He wore a suit of power armor that had turned gray from the erosion of chemicals and the passage of time, and held his signature massive scythe, "Annihilation." He stood there silently, but the hatred and disdain for all psionic magic emanating from him was almost tangible.

On the other side, the Primarch of the Space Wolf, Lehman Ruth, also appeared. He was like a real giant wolf from the Fenris Icefield, wild and agile, with long golden hair fluttering in the night wind. His eyes were filled with undisguised, primal vigilance and killing intent.

On the platform at the highest point of the venue, a throne carved from white marble, seemingly simple yet incredibly majestic, lay empty.

It awaits its master, the emperor of mankind.

Hector stood in the shadows, feeling as if an invisible, giant net, woven from different ideas, wills, and destinies, was slowly tightening, threatening to annihilate everyone on the stage.

Subconsciously, he cast a final divination in his mind for the upcoming trial.

This time, he didn't even need nuts; the hexagram appeared clearly and directly on the surface of his mind.

It is no longer a "Tianshui lawsuit" or a "dispute".

Instead, it is a more intense and resolute hexagram.

"Fire and Thunder Devouring".

The upper trigram is Li (fire), and the lower trigram is Zhen (thunder). Li represents fire, light, and punishment; Zhen represents thunder, majesty, and shock. Lightning flashes and thunder roars, then a fiery punishment is inflicted, forcibly "biting off" and "crushing" the obstacle in the middle.

This is a hexagram representing "judgment" and "decision." It signifies that rotten flesh must be forcibly removed and order restored through violence and suffering.

It was unstoppable.

Hector slowly closed his eyes.

He knew that his mission as a "lobbyist" and "warner" was over.

Starting tomorrow, his role will transform into another identity.

In his eyes, the huge stone venue was no longer a stage for debate, but a... pyre about to be set ablaze.

He whispered to himself in his heart:

"When the trial is about to begin, fire will surely follow."

"My task is no longer to stop the flames from burning..."

"But after this great fire, to protect... the last embers for the long, inevitable winter that is destined to come."

Chapter 10 The Fire of Nicaea (Part 1)

The dawn of Nicaea arrives in a heavy, almost tangible silence.

This planet, personally chosen by the Emperor as the location of the Council, is a work of art in itself. It lacks the heavy historical and industrial imprint of Terra, and the exotic and bizarre atmosphere of Prospero.

Nicaea is pure; its sky is a soft, unpolluted azure, and its air is filled with the fragrance of grass and damp earth, like the Garden of Eden at the dawn of human civilization.

But this tranquility has now become the fuse for a giant powder keg.

Viewed from the planet's orbit, the sight was far more awe-inspiring than any war. Thousands of interstellar warships, like a silent forest of steel and myth, hovered quietly in the void.

They were not moored haphazardly, but rather formed distinct arrays by their respective legions, clearly defined and radiating the unique will of each legion.

The Death Guard's fleet, like ancient behemoths weathered by time, was covered in battle scars and traces of chemical corrosion. Unadorned, rough, and ugly, it exuded a suffocating, tenacious, and stubborn aura, as if even the vacuum of space around them had solidified because of their master's deep-seated hatred.

The Space Wolves' warships resemble a pack of wolves howling out of the Fenris ice plains, exuding a primal and wild beauty. Most of their prows are sculpted with ferocious wolf heads, and their hulls feature sharp lines, conveying a sense of speed and aggression, as if they are about to break free and tear apart any enemy in their path with their fangs.

On the other side, the fleet of the Sons of the Thousand Sins resembled a group of magical towers floating in space. The red, white, and gold paint scheme, the elegant streamlined hulls, and the intricate runes that emitted a soft psionic glow in the silent universe all showcased the pride and wisdom of their masters.

But at this moment, this magnificent fleet was shrouded in a sorrowful, impending silence.

Hector Kane was standing in the shadows on the top floor of the massive, open-air circular arena, large enough to accommodate a full legion of Space Marines.

He changed into the most inconspicuous gray monk's robe, hiding the badge representing the Macado Seal inside. He was like a grain of sand falling into the ocean, unremarkable, yet able to observe the entire sea area where the storm was about to break from a unique perspective.

His "silent domain" was completely contained, and the true essence within his body flowed slowly like an underground river, keeping his mind in a transcendent state of tranquility, almost at "absolute zero".

This allowed him to "see" things that others couldn't. He could sense that countless enormous, heavy, and conflicting wills were gathering above this seemingly calm meeting place.

Pride, hatred, worry, vigilance, compassion, indifference... these emotions originating from demigods collide wildly in this small space like an invisible storm, making even the foundation of reality tremble.

Then they arrived.

The first to enter the hall was Magnus, the Crimson King. He stood tall and proud, his magnificent red armor gleaming in the soft morning light of Nicaea, as if he himself were a source of light. He carried no weapons, for he believed his greatest weapons were his wisdom and truth.

His single eye on his forehead burned with pure psychic energy like a small star, scanning the entire room with an unquestionable pride befitting an embodiment of intellect. He was like a great philosopher about to step onto the debate stage, full of confidence, unaware that he was walking step by step toward the tragic stage that had already been set for him.

Following closely behind was Mortarion, the Lord of the Death Guard. His arrival seemed to bring with it a moving plague and decay.

His power armor, grayed by chemicals and the passage of time, creaked with every step. Leaning against his iconic massive scythe, "Annihilation," he silently walked towards his pedestal, as if the air around him had become tainted and heavy because of his deep-seated hatred for all "witchcraft." He didn't look at anyone, only bowed his head, as if scrutinizing the land he believed was about to be "purified."

At the other end of the hall, Riemann Russ appeared. Unlike the others who "walked" into the hall, he "paced" like a giant beast temporarily caged. His long, golden hair was wild and unruly, and his icy blue eyes were fixed on Magnus, filled with primal, undisguised hostility and murderous intent.

Beside him followed his most elite wolf guards, silent but their hands never leaving the battle axes at their waists. Ruth exuded pure, undisguised violence; he had come not for debate, but for… the hunt.

Amidst this atmosphere thick with tension, a heartbreaking yet sacred light appeared.

The Primarch of the Ninth Legion, the Great Angel, Saint Gilles.

He wore golden, work-of-art power armor, and his enormous, snow-white wings unfurled in the morning light, each feather seemingly composed of the purest light. His face was more beautiful than mortals could imagine, filled with compassion and nobility.

His arrival momentarily eased the suffocating tension in the room. But Hector saw, deep within his azure, sky-like eyes, an undisguised, profound worry and sorrow. He seemed to have foreseen the tragic consequences of this fratricidal conflict, yet was powerless to stop it.

Among them sat other Primarchs. The Perfect Son, Forgrim, remained as flawless as ever, and surprisingly maintained an artist's neutral, critical perspective on the events, as if everything before him were merely a drama about to unfold, full of conflict and passion.

Corax, the raven-guarded one, sat quietly in the most inconspicuous corner, like an embodiment of shadow, seemingly isolated from the entire world.

The gods are in place. The stage is set.

At that moment, the whole world seemed to be muted.

This is not a simple silence, but an absolute "deprivation of existence".

Leman Russ's wild heartbeat, Mortalian's hate-filled breath, and even the surging psychic thoughts in Magnus's mind, were all forcibly calmed and stilled in that instant by an overwhelming will. The wills of the demigods were as insignificant as dust before this power. Even the transmission of light and heat seemed to freeze. The dust in the air solidified in mid-air.

The entirety of Nicaea, along with the thousands of massive warships in its orbit, was transformed into a huge, static oil painting, sealed within amber.

All sounds—the wind, breathing, the rustling of armor—vanished in an instant. All movements, all thoughts, were instantly overwhelmed by a will so vast it defied description.

That wasn't just psychic pressure, but rather an absolute "covering" of "existence" itself. It was an unquestionable declaration originating from the very foundation of reality. It was as if an invisible hand had wiped away all the mottled colors from the vast canvas of the universe, and then forcibly painted a completely new, unique, golden base coat called "Emperor."

A golden light appeared at the highest point of the venue, on the empty, seemingly plain white marble throne.

That light did not come from any source; it was light itself. It was not dazzling, yet it was more brilliant than any star, because it contained the law of creation; it was not scorching, yet it was warmer than any lava, because it flowed with the rhythm of life.

It is as if it is order itself, hope itself, and the ultimate embodiment of all the beautiful visions of the human race after tens of thousands of years of darkness and depravity.

The light slowly faded, revealing a figure sitting upright on it.

The emperor of mankind.

He wasn't dressed in the overwhelming golden power armor symbolizing unparalleled strength depicted in the propaganda posters. Today, he wore only a simple, golden robe. But every thread of this robe seemed to be woven from solidified light and laws.

Upon closer inspection, the robe appears to have no patterns, yet it seems to flow with all the mysteries of the universe—the trajectory of stars, the spiral of genes, the axioms of mathematics, the long river of history… all of these are harmoniously unified on that seemingly simple robe.

His face is unrememberable to mortals. For his face is a mirror reflecting the soul of the observer.

Magnus saw in it the embodiment of the ultimate wisdom he had been pursuing all his life, and its profundity made him feel ashamed of his own abilities.

Leman Russ saw the unparalleled warlord and king to whom he served, and the majesty made him unconsciously lower his head.

Saint Gilles saw the lonely and compassionate father who bore the fate of the entire race, and he felt the weight of that burden deeply.

Mortarian, on the other hand, saw the ultimate tyrant he hated most, who wielded absolute power in the name of "truth," a power that made him unable to even muster the courage to look directly at him.

Everyone who sees him will see in him what they most desire and what they most revere.

But Hector, through his unique perspective of the "Way of Silence," saw much more. His state of mind, "attaining utmost emptiness and holding fast to stillness," was like an ancient mirror polished to its finest, clear and unobstructed. It was not misled by the sacred radiance, but instead revealed the unknown and profoundly heavy truth behind the light.

He saw, beneath that endless majesty and divine light, a kind of... a deep-seated, primordial weariness. It was not physical exhaustion, but an eternal burden originating from the soul.

He could "sense" that the Emperor's mind was processing hundreds of millions of different "threads" simultaneously at a speed that surpassed all logical engines. These threads, like endless galaxies composed of data and causality, permeated His consciousness.

Hector could "see" some of the blurry fragments:

On a planet located on the eastern ridge of the Milky Way, a mortal army is engaged in a fierce tug-of-war with some kind of crustacean alien, with thousands of lives being lost every second.

In Terra's executive council, a new bill on food rationing is sparking a fierce power struggle among several noble families, affecting the livelihoods of trillions of people.