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

Deep within the warp, an ancient evil god whispers greedy and blasphemous words at humanity's faith, while the Emperor's will, like an inextinguishable firewall, wages an eternal struggle against it on an invisible battlefield.

At the very depths of all those threads lies a magnificent, incredibly complex, and incredibly fragile project—the golden network leading to humanity's future is under unimaginable pressure, requiring him to constantly devote his attention to its maintenance…

The argument between the children that had so utterly disappointed him was merely a tiny, murky tributary in the vast, ever-flowing river of stars. It was insignificant, yet because it involved his most powerful creation, he had to personally intervene to clear it.

Hector even saw that beneath that golden, sacred radiance lay a trace of... the pain of a mortal father.

That pain was not an outward emotion, but a deep-seated, indelible undercurrent within the core of existence. It was like the eternal shadow beneath the golden throne, cold and lonely. He seemed to "see" the silent, cruel battle raging between the emperor's will as it examined Magnus—the king's disappointment with a "wrong instrument," and the father's sorrow for a "misguided son." He was to judge his son here, before everyone, for the future of the entire race.

This in itself is the most profound tragedy, surpassing all other wars.

The next moment, Hector suddenly felt a "stinging" pain in his eyes. This wasn't a real, intense light shining directly into his pupils, but rather a reaction from the psionic world. His unique perspective, derived from the "Path of Silence," allowed him to glimpse a trace of truth beneath the mask of the god, a truth whose weight was unbearable for a mortal body. The existence of the Emperor himself was the most powerful "Yang" and the ultimate "movement" in the universe.

Hector's "stillness," before this absolute existence, was as insignificant as a small boat in a vast ocean of stars. He felt his true essence almost instantly "evaporated" under the unconscious radiance of the Emperor's spiritual energy!

Hector was shocked and immediately severed all "sensations," completely immersing his mind in his dantian and guarding the last bit of clarity in his spiritual center. He dared not "see" or "think" anymore, but simply circulated the mental techniques of the Tao Te Ching, completely transforming himself into a stubborn rock and a piece of rotten wood, in order to resist the omnipresent, sacred "sense of presence."

A drop of cold sweat slowly dripped from his forehead, fell onto the stone steps, and shattered into eight pieces.

This was the first time Hector had felt such a profound emotional upheaval since beginning his practice of the Tao Te Ching. For the first time, he so clearly experienced the insurmountable chasm between mortals and "gods."

"This... is the true emperor." He murmured to himself, his voice filled with an uncontrollable sense of awe and...sorrow.

This is the one who carries the weight of all humanity on his shoulders, walking alone... a lonely tyrant and a desperate guardian.

Behind the Emperor, in the shadows, stood another gaunt figure. The Imperial Regent, Macardo. His face, too, was etched with heaviness.

The Emperor's gaze slowly swept across the entire arena. That gaze seemed to be the law of the universe. When it landed on Leman Ruth, Ruth's wild killing intent unconsciously subsided by a third; when it landed on Magnus, Magnus's burning psionic flames dimmed slightly for a moment.

Finally, his gaze fell on the center of the venue.

Then he spoke.

"let's start."

The Emperor's voice, though not loud, resonated clearly in the deepest recesses of the soul of every living being. That voice was the first syllable at the beginning of the universe, the first rhythm at the birth of all things.

It heralds the coming of judgment.

Chapter 11 The Fire of Nicaea (Part 2)

Chapter 11: The Fire of Nicaea (Part 2)

The Emperor's three concise words, like an invisible command, instantly broke the frozen time. The suffocating pressure in the hall lessened slightly, but it was replaced by a more acute and confrontational tension.

The first one to step forward was Mortarian.

With his enormous hand, clad in corroded iron-armored gloves, he slammed the handle of the "Silent" scythe heavily onto the ground, producing a dull thud like the tolling of a death knell.

He didn't give a passionate speech; instead, he calmly, yet with a deep-seated hatred, recounted the story of his home planet, "Barbarus," in his hoarse, sandpaper-like voice.

“In my world,” he began slowly, each word seeming to be squeezed from a tomb, “there is no sun, only an eternal twilight filled with poisonous fog. And ruling that fog are a group of aliens who call themselves ‘Monarchs.’ They are powerful and arrogant; they enslave us mortals, treating us as livestock, food, and experimental subjects. And the tool they use to enslave us is ‘witchcraft.’”

His voice trembled slightly, not from fear, but from anger that had been suppressed for hundreds of years.

"I have seen with my own eyes hundreds of men, women, and children from a village, who, having angered a monarch, were subjected to his witchcraft. Amidst their screams, their flesh melted, and their souls were extracted and made into wailing lanterns, which were hung above his castle and burned for an entire century. I have seen my bravest warriors, on the way to battle, have their bones twisted by an invisible curse, turning into the monsters they hate most, who then turn around and tear apart their own people."

He raised his head, and his eyes, hidden in the shadow of his hood, swept over Magnus with undisguised contempt.

"Power should be held in one's own hands! It should be of steel, tangible, and honest! It should come from arduous training, from unwavering will, from the indomitable heart within our chests! As for witchcraft, psychic powers, or whatever you may call it—it is a deception! It is a shortcut! It allows the user to obtain power that does not belong to them without paying an equal price! This power is corrupted from the very beginning! It will corrode the user's soul, making them arrogant, lazy, and ultimately, a slave to the power they believe they control!"

His words, though perhaps rough, were full of power, deeply piercing the hearts of countless soldiers from ordinary backgrounds and government officials present. They may not understand profound philosophy, but they knew that this invisible, intangible force, capable of easily robbing them of their lives, was evil.

Immediately afterwards, Leman Russ stepped forward. Unlike Motarrian, he didn't reason; he only spoke the facts, the bloody facts he had witnessed firsthand.

“My brother Magnus is a scholar,” he roared, his voice like a winter thunderclap in Fenris, echoing throughout the circular hall, “but he is also a reckless child! He plays with sparks recklessly in the powder keg of warp space! Just recently, on the expedition's course, one of my Legion's assault cruisers, the Icefang, encountered a warp storm, and one of the think tanks on board attempted to use his ‘power’ to calm the storm, and what was the result?”

A ferocious, beast-like expression appeared on Ruth's face.

"As a result, his mind was instantly torn apart! He became a gateway to hell! The entire warship, more than five thousand loyal Fenris citizens, my warriors, my family! Amidst screams, they were twisted into fleshy monsters by what poured out of that 'gate'! Eyes and mouths grew from the walls of the warship, wailing blasphemous words I couldn't understand! When I finally led my wolf guards onto that ship, it was no longer a warship, but a... living, breathing hell!"

He abruptly pointed a finger at Magnus, his anger almost tangible as flames: "I don't care how profound your philosophy is! I only know that this force is unstable and uncontrollable! It is a beast that must be caged, or even killed on the spot! Today, I, Lehman Russ, beg my father to issue the 'execution order'! For the safety of the Empire, eradicate this cancerous tumor of the think tank!"

The atmosphere in the hall became incredibly oppressive and tense under the accusations of the two Primarchs. The Legions supporting them let out low, approving roars, like rolling thunder.

Then it was Magnus's turn.

The Crimson King slowly rose to his feet. A pitying smile graced his face, like that of someone looking at a group of children unable to comprehend calculus. He was not provoked, for in his view, their arguments stemmed from fear, and fear stemmed from ignorance. He even found their accusations to be so…primitive, so…unimaginative.

“My brothers,” his voice was magnetic and persuasive, as if carrying a psychic melody that could soothe the heart and open the mind, “what you fear is not power itself, but your own ‘ignorance.’ You are like a group of people living in a cave who have seen fire for the first time. You do not understand its principles, you do not understand its value. You only see that it will burn your hands, and you cry out in terror to extinguish it completely.”

He shook his head, and in his single eye lay the helplessness of a wise man towards a mischievous child.

“Motalian, my brother, you hate witchcraft because you have only seen its ugliest and most evil side. But that’s like someone who has seen a drowning person claiming that all water is poisonous. Have you ever thought that it is this very power that you hate that can make barren planets grow bountiful crops, can completely eradicate deadly plagues in their infancy, and can make broken limbs grow back?”

His gaze then turned to Riemann Russ, and in that compassion, there was a hint of an elder brother's tolerance for his reckless younger brother.

"And you, Ruth. You are brave and loyal, the father's sharpest spear. But your eyes can only see what's right in front of you. You saw your think tank spiral out of control, your warriors die tragically, and you blame it all on that force. But that's like a general who, because a soldier fell to his death during training, orders the destruction of all weapons. The problem is never the tools, but the people who use them, and... how they are taught to use them! Your think tank is just groping in the dark; they have no map, no mentors. Their tragedy proves that what we need is not prohibition, but... a more systematic education and a deeper understanding!"

He opened his arms as if to embrace the entire venue, to embrace the entire universe.

"The sea is dangerous, but we cannot live on land forever, abandoning fishing boats and voyages. The sky is dangerous, but we cannot remain forever on the ground, abandoning our dreams of flight. Subspace, which we call the 'Great Ocean,' is indeed full of dangers, but it also contains boundless knowledge and endless possibilities!"

To prove his point, he gently raised his hand.

In an instant, a breathtakingly magnificent spectacle appeared in the sky above the entire venue. It was not a simple illusion, but a near-realistic vision of the future woven from pure psychic energy. The laws of reality were easily distorted and reshaped under Magnus's vast will.

They saw the fleet of the Thousand Sons silently hovering above a war-torn, poisonous world. Countless soft beams of psionic energy, like the breath of gods, enveloped the entire planet.

The highly toxic clouds, illuminated by this beam of light, were broken down and neutralized, transforming into pure oxygen and water. The parched earth became moist again, sprouting tender green shoots. This was a colossal, creation-level power that transcended any technology.

The scene shifts, and they find themselves in a bustling, modern-day Nest City. There, the most terrifying alien cult, known as the "Gene Thieves," is spreading in the shadows. But a group of Sons of a Thousand Sins think tank members simply walk silently through the crowd.

They needed no interrogation, no torture. Their powerful telepathy, like an invisible giant net, easily and accurately identified those infected, contaminated by alien genes and disguised as humans, from among millions. Without bloodshed, without panic, a catastrophe that could have overturned the entire world was thus averted.

Finally, the scene freezes on a magnificent, truly utopian city. In this city, the faces of the people radiate a heartfelt joy, filled with wisdom and peace. Their lifespans have been greatly extended, reaching the level of the "immortals" in ancient Terran mythology.

They no longer needed language; their minds, connected through a gentle, guided psionic network, shared knowledge, emotions, and dreams. There was no more suspicion, no more misunderstanding, no more loneliness. Humanity had truly become a harmonious, unified, and great race, stepping onto the threshold of divinity.

"Look!" Magnus's voice was filled with passion and dreams at this moment, his single eye burning with boundless aspirations for the future. "This is the future we can achieve! A truly great future illuminated by knowledge! And psionic energy is the torch that ignites this future! It is not a shortcut, but the only ladder leading to the ultimate ascension of our race! And now, are you going to extinguish this torch with your own hands for fear of burning your hands?"

His speech was flawless. The visuals he presented were breathtakingly beautiful.

But it was precisely this perfection, this unquestionable pride, and this powerful ability to easily distort reality and create illusions that caused him to completely lose this debate.

His brothers did not see a bright future. What they saw was a wizarding king, powerful and terrifying, who could easily manipulate their senses and turn falsehood into "reality."

Mortarian's contempt deepened, and he even subconsciously took a half-step back, as if avoiding some unseen plague.

What he saw was not a bright future, but the ultimate form of those alien monarchs on his home planet who used witchcraft to enslave mortals and distort reality.

Lehman Russ gripped his battle axe at his waist, a low growl escaping his throat. His hunter's keen intuition told him that everything before him was an illusion, a... masterful deception.

He felt like a wolf bewitched by magic, and the wizard was mocking his ignorance and rudeness in ways he couldn't comprehend.

Even Fugrim, who always appreciated art and beauty, had a complex look in his eyes. He was amazed by the perfection of Magnus's "masterpiece," but at the same time, he felt a hint of...unpleasant jealousy at being surpassed.

Hector closed his eyes in anguish in the shadows. He felt a chill run from the soles of his feet to the top of his head.

Magnus, with his most eloquent speech and most magnificent "proof," utterly and completely nailed himself to the pillar of shame as a "heretic" and a "monster." He dug his own grave.

The heated debate between the two sides lasted for the entire daylight of Terra. The emperor on the throne remained silent, his expression unchanged; his face, like a golden mask, revealed neither joy nor anger. But Hector could sense that the primordial weariness seemed to have deepened even further.

He seemed ready to speak and deliver the inevitable verdict.

Hector hesitated no longer. He knew this was the only, and last, chance. He emerged from the shadows of the highest level of the hall, his figure appearing particularly thin in the morning light. With a steady gait that seemed out of place with the tense atmosphere around him, he strode quickly down the stone steps and went straight to the area where Macardo stood.

“Your Excellency.” His voice was not loud, but it was exceptionally firm, like a pebble thrown into a noisy pond, clearly penetrating all the clamor and landing precisely in Macado’s ears.

Macardo slowly turned his head, his all-knowing eyes, seemingly bearing witness to tens of thousands of years of human history, looking at Hector. He didn't speak, but his gaze contained countless questions: Are you sure? Do you know what you're about to face? Do you know that a single word from you could shatter you to pieces?

“There is a third path.” Hector did not shy away from the scrutinizing gaze. His voice carried an undeniable certainty stemming from the “Tao.” “A path that is neither indulgence nor prohibition. A path… that allows the Empire to truly wield this power, rather than be destroyed by it. I implore you, give me a chance to present this to His Majesty the Emperor.”

Makado stared at him for a full ten seconds. In those ten seconds, countless possibilities flashed through the mind of this wise man who had lived for thousands of years. He saw in the young man's eyes an extraordinary stillness, a state of near-nothingness that did not belong to any of the psionic schools he knew.

He also saw that beneath that calm lay a resolute and heavy burden, seemingly carrying the fate of the entire world, a burden beyond his years. This reminded him of another lonely figure from long, long ago, also burdened with everything.

Macardo made his decision. He staked the future of the empire on this mysterious young man. He stepped forward and bowed slightly just as the emperor was about to speak and put an end to this farce.

“My lord,” his voice rang out in such a public and solemn setting. The voice was old, yet carried an unquestionable authority, “before you make your final judgment, I implore you to hear one last testimony. A specialized research report from my office on the philosophy of such power control in the lost era of ancient Terra.”

The entire venue erupted in uproar.

If the previous debates were like two armies clashing, then Macardo's intervention was like a third-party army, never before seen by anyone, suddenly appearing in the center of the battlefield. All eyes were now focused on this man who had always stood in the Emperor's shadow, the true second-in-command of the Empire.

Ruth and Mortarian were filled with astonishment and anger, believing that the Sealholder was favoring Magnus; Magnus, on the other hand, was equally confused, as he could not recall ever having such an understanding with this mysterious regent.

The Emperor's vast gaze turned to Macado, his eyes filled with no doubt, only a pure, expectant calm. Macado simply nodded slightly, gesturing with his eyes to the young man behind him.

"Granted." The emperor's voice was concise and to the point, without a trace of emotion.

"Regent, Hector Kane, step forward and make your statement," Makado announced loudly. His voice, amplified by an invisible megaphone, resounded throughout Nicaea.

In that instant, the eyes of the entire universe seemed to be focused on the thin, mortal boy who emerged from the shadows, dressed in a simple gray monk's robe.

He walked down the steps alone. He could feel the tangible gazes of the Primarchs, like sharp swords piercing him from all directions. He could hear the whispers of confusion and disdain from the crowd.

He could even smell the pungent odor in the air, a mixture of fear, anger, and pride.

But he felt no fear whatsoever. His heart was as still as water.

Step by step, he walked to the center of the vast, empty hall. He faced the supreme being, seated on the throne. His tiny figure, in stark contrast to the emperor's imposing stature, formed a near-mythical contrast.

He bowed deeply, and then his clear and calm voice, amplified by the sound-amplifying array, reached the ears of everyone and even the bridges of the thousands of warships on the track.

"Homage to you, masters of humanity. Homage to you, Primarchs."

“I heard Lord Mortarion’s anger, that hatred for corrupting forces, born from lessons learned in blood, and it is righteous. I also saw Lord Magnus’s vision, that yearning for a bright future, born from love for humanity, and it is sincere.”

His opening remarks affirmed both opposing sides, subtly easing the atmosphere. He didn't take sides; instead, he positioned himself from a higher, referee's perspective.

“We’ve been debating whether we should drink from that raging waterfall called the ‘Great Ocean.’ One side believes that to quench our thirst, we must risk the mud and sand it carries; the other side believes that for our safety, we should stay far away from the water, even if it means dying of thirst.”

"But esteemed Master and Primarchs, why must we be confined to these two choices? Why must our minds be bound by the extreme of 'all or nothing'?"

"Why can't we choose a third path?"

His voice suddenly rose to a high pitch at that moment, filled with a deafening power!

"We won't drink from the waterfall, nor will we turn away. We'll dig a well beside the waterfall!"

"We use humanity's most powerful weapons—our 'will,' our 'discipline,' and our 'rules'—as the most solid 'earth.' We let the raging waterfall seep through this earth, filtering out all madness, filth, and deception. Ultimately, what we draw from the well we call 'self-discipline' will be an absolutely pure, absolutely controllable spring of wisdom that nourishes our civilization!"

His voice became passionate!

"The core of the 'Way of Silence' that I represent is not 'power,' but 'discipline'! It is not a new form of witchcraft, but a complete, extremely rigorous philosophy of control that extends from the inner self to the outer self! It teaches users how to 'maintain stillness' rather than 'act rashly,' how to 'seek within' rather than 'seek without,' and how to become the 'master' of power, rather than a 'slave' driven by power!"

"It demands that its users possess an iron will and the humility of a saint! It has a complete and quantifiable ladder of cultivation! It has precepts that can be examined and monitored! It is not a flash of genius, but a system that can be learned by all qualified, steadfast, and loyal warriors!"

He raised his head and looked directly at the emperor on the throne.

“I, Hector Kane, was born a psionicist. But I have never been troubled by it. Because I walk the path of ‘commandments.’ I am the first proof of the feasibility of this path…”

He made no elaborate displays, nor did he create magnificent illusions like Magnus. He simply stood there quietly, releasing his "realm of silence" without reservation.

It was an absolute, tranquil force field, brimming with "order" and "harmony." It was formless and intangible, yet undeniably real. The invisible psychic turbulence above the arena, generated by the clash of the Primarchs' wills, was instantly tamed upon contact with this domain, like a raging wild horse being gently tamed by a skilled rider. The restless, unsettling atmosphere vanished completely. Even Mortalian felt his heart, forever tormented by hatred, find a moment of…long-lost peace.

He was so small, and this realm so insignificant, yet like a wick in a vast, dark room, faint yet unmistakable.

All the psionicly sensitive beings present—the Emperor, Macardo, and all the Primarchs—could clearly sense the nature of this power. It was entirely different from Magnus's aggressive, showy, and violent psionic flames.

If Magnus's power is the sun, dazzling, fiery, and full of expansionist desires, then Hector's power is a black hole. It neither emits light nor generates heat, yet it can absorb all chaos and turmoil, returning them to eternal "silence." It is like an unchanging reef in the cosmic torrent.

The entire Nicaea venue fell into a deathly silence that lasted for several minutes.

Hector's words, his proposed "system," his "third way," and his final, silent yet far more convincing demonstration than any elaborate illusion, plunged everyone into deep thought.

Finally, the emperor on the throne moved.

He slowly stood up.

That vast gaze swept over Magnus, over Riemann Russ, and finally landed on the small yet upright figure in the center of the hall.

Then, he announced the final verdict.

"The establishment of the think tank legion is hereby dissolved, effective immediately. The unbridled pursuit of power it represented is a wrong path."

Upon hearing this, Magnus was struck dumb, his body swaying violently, his eyes filled with despair and disbelief. Meanwhile, Leman Russ and Mortarian wore expressions of victory.

But the emperor had not finished speaking.

“However,” he changed his tone, “a complete ban would be a foolish act of throwing the baby out with the bathwater. We should allow a completely new system, under the strictest supervision, to be experimentally established.”

"This system will no longer be centered on 'strength,' but on 'discipline.' All its members must, like the Imperial Guard, abide by the strictest precepts, and all their practices must prioritize 'self-control.' Imperial Regent Makado will personally oversee the compilation and trial implementation of this new 'code.'"

The emperor's gaze turned to his crimson-faced son.