Mountain ranges like knife blades tore across the horizon. Nestled among the jagged peaks, the magnificent city of Lochos stood towering and majestic.
Towering walls and fortresses, like silent giants, guarded this city-state forged from steel and glory. Golden domes loomed faintly visible in the morning mist, like a giant helmet sheltering the people within from foreign invaders.
The muzzles of weapons jutted from embrasures in the walls, like lurking beasts ready to tear apart any approaching enemy at a moment's notice.
When Lochos came into view, Miltiades straightened his back. His armor gleamed with a cold metallic luster in the morning light.
He raised his armored arm, his fingertip tracing the mist-wreathed battlements: "That is Lochos, the most magnificent, the most majestic, the greatest city-state in all Olympia!"
Perturabo made no comment. Lochos was indeed magnificent and majestic.
Yet its grandeur couldn't conceal its essence: a city-state built for war. Its beautiful exterior struggled to conceal its warlike nature.
Olympia was a barren, desolate world. Lochos, like a brilliant pearl, ruled the fertile narrow strip of land between the valleys.
If not warlike, Lochos could neither have seized this fertile land nor defended its abundance.
This magnificent city was both a symbol of power and a breeding ground for war.
Perturabo didn't deny the necessity of war. But war brings death and destruction.
Perturabo climbed the steep ridge in silence. He frequently looked back to ensure Caelan was still following.
The world before dawn was shrouded in an eerie stillness, broken only by the clinking of metal armor.
Houses, like eagles' nests, dotted the jagged cliffs and steep precipices, layered and stacked on the valley slopes, forming scattered villages and farmsteads.
On the barren land, people had meticulously crafted stone boundary markers that wound like snakes, dividing the high plateaus into numerous orderly field terraces.
They outlined humanity's near-paranoid desire to possess land, stubbornly demarcating every inch of soil with strict borders.
Perturabo said, "It's smaller."
As dawn broke, the sky light, like molten gold leaf, gradually tinged the leaden gray heavens with pale gold.
The stars quietly retreated behind the brightening curtain. Even the Star Vortex shed its ferocity, becoming a bruise-like cyan patch.
With the rising sun, the oppressive gaze from the Star Vortex gradually dissipated like morning mist.
The boy's tense shoulders and back finally relaxed, as if a heavy burden had been lifted from his soul.
Caelan slowly raised his head, his gaze silently confronting the twisted star region and the hanging Eye of Terror through the thin clouds.
"No, it hasn't."
That twisted starfield was reflected in his pupils. And that twisted starfield was staring right back at him.
The more powerful the psyker, the more they could feel that twisted malice.
It clung to the soul's surface like a tangible substance, like a parasite on a cosmic scale.
Miltiades looked back at the two, his voice brimming with unparalleled pride, "These are the walls of Lochos. Unbreakable! Impregnable!"
Lochos's walls burst from the mountain ridge like the arms of a giant.
Constructed from sandstone slabs, the walls formed an integrated whole, seamlessly connected with the mountain bedrock they rested upon, as if this fortress was itself the mountain's veins' continuation.
Though the walls shared the same substance as the mountain, their bearing differed as greatly as a child from a battle-hardened veteran.
In artistic achievement and majestic dignity, these man-made fortifications put the natural peaks to shame.
Perturabo murmured, "Nothing stands forever."
...
Lochos was built along the mountain. Building clusters layered upon each other like a carefully stacked honeycomb.
The palace proudly perched on the mountain's summit platform, like a crown forged from gold, refracting dazzling light in the dawn.
A vast plaza surrounded the palace walls, guarded by triple-domed towers. The intricate gold and silver relief patterns on the palace gates were dizzyingly complex. Every detail revealed the ultimate skill of the craftsmen.
Perturabo's gaze swept over the magnificent palace. Knowledge flowed through his mind like an innate gift: the building's structural proportions, load-bearing capacities, material stress distribution, even the visual effects the architect intended to create.
There was so much new to see. Yet he understood it all.
Novelty initially evoked fleeting surprise. But this surprise was immediately dissolved by the detailed knowledge that automatically surfaced in his mind. The brief pleasure felt like self-deception.
The moment they reflected in his pupils, they were no longer new.
Only lingering emptiness and weariness remained.
"You don't like it here?"
Caelan's voice, like an invisible thread, pulled Perturabo from the cognitive quagmire.
A flicker of weariness showed in Perturabo's ice-blue eyes, I just... know too much."
Exploration held no meaning for him. The knowledge already in his mind robbed him, the observer, of the most precious surprise and curiosity.
Though Caelan could ignite his anger with a few words, this annoying man was the only existence outside his cognitive prison. The only companion who understood his predicament without needing explanation.
This realization stirred a strange warmth in Perturabo's heart, like glimpsing another lonely lamp in the eternal night.
"Then stop dissecting it. Try to feel it."
"The end of deconstructionism is the abyss of emptiness. If you become obsessed with it, you will eventually be consumed by it."
"Don't try to understand how they exist. Think about why they exist."
"'How' is knowledge. 'Why' is meaning."
"Knowledge can tell you how high a wall is, but it can't help you understand why the wall exists."
If everything is understood through deconstructionism, then humans are merely organic aggregates composed of 60-odd chemical elements.
This mechanical dismantling only makes the deconstructionist ignore the meaning of human existence, lose reverence for life, until humanity is completely stripped away.
This is complete alienation!
That's why Caelan always disliked deconstructionism. But Perturabo was a born deconstructionist.
Perturabo was born knowing. Perhaps he could originally grasp the deeper meaning of things, not just remain at cold deconstruction.
However, Perturabo had lost his memory.
What now appeared before him was only a world shattered by rational analysis and deconstruction.
"Think about meaning?"
Perturabo gazed up at this palace dominating the city.
The lofty, ornate dome flowed with molten gold in the morning light. Every meticulously carved column proclaimed its master's supreme authority.
This building commanded the entire city with an almost arrogant posture. Those intricate decorations were merely concrete expressions of power. Its grand scale was essentially the material carrier of ruling desire.
Was this the meaning of its existence?
On the other side of this fertile land, he saw the thorn-covered highlands from his climb. The vast sky stretched in the morning haze. Mine dust and mist intertwined into a hazy melancholy blue.
Gazing into the distance, jagged mountains pierced the clouds. The sunrise draped them in flowing molten gold gauze.
Caelan asked, "What do you see?"
Perturabo gazed at the distant city-state, the dawn reflected in his eyes, "I see the world's grandeur. Is this meaning?"
"As long as you let go of deconstructionism, everything in the world will reveal its unique meaning to you."
"The end of deconstructionism is cold emptiness. But the pursuit of meaning is endless."
"Look." Caelan pointed at a cluster of stubborn wildflowers blooming in a crevice of the palace wall.
Morning dew glistened on their pale purple petals. Their slender, delicate stems formed a stark contrast with the cold, hard wall.
"To me, the meaning of this wildflower's existence lies in its tenacious growth in this barren rock, seeking nourishment from the sunlight."
"But a thousand people see a thousand meanings. Perhaps, in someone else's eyes, its existence has another meaning."
Perturabo seemed thoughtful. Miltiades, however, frowned deeply.
'How could weeds be allowed to grow on Lochos's walls? This was truly a disgrace to the city's prestige!'
'The person responsible must be severely punished!'
Creak!
The great doors, forged from gold and silver, slowly swung open. The palace revealed its brilliant interior.
Warriors clad in gold and white armor stood like sculptures in the marble hall. Their ranks filled every gap between the towering stone columns.
The gazes beneath their helmets were as sharp as blades. The flickering orange of torches and the cold white of electric lights intertwined in the air, ultimately swallowed by the skylight pouring from the dome.
Two colossal statues flanked the throne, their outstretched right arms exhibiting almost realistic muscle texture, incredibly lifelike.
In their left hands, the two colossi held totems. Golden laurel crowns adorned their heads. Their heroic, towering bodies were draped in meticulously crafted metal robes. Every fold had been carefully carved and polished by artisans.
Upon the throne, flanked by these two colossi, the Tyrant of Lochos sat with lazy yet majestic bearing. He was a man of medium height, wearing a uniquely styled iron thorn crown. Two golden scepters rested casually in the crook of his arm.
He seemed indifferent to the power he held.
Perturabo halted before the throne's steps, unabashedly scrutinizing this lazy ruler.
His slender limbs were wrapped in a purple robe. A rounded abdomen clearly outlined beneath the fine garment.
Sparse black hair was carefully combed into a few thin strands, each strand lying obediently in place, like feather decorations meticulously arranged, trying to conceal his increasingly barren hairline.
Yet he still exuded majesty.
Not from his appearance, but from the tempering of power.
"Long live Dammekos!" The herald stepped forward, his voice clear and beautiful: "Dammekos VIII, Tyrant of Lochos, Third Seat of the Council of Twelve Tyrants, Lord of Irix, Cloitan, and Dominiki, and Seven Rites of the Holy Ground. Long live Dammekos!"
A hint of mockery colored Caelan's voice, "The classic menu-listing segment."
Perturabo asked, "What's the meaning of this?"
The outsider's rude and crude behavior horrified Miltiades. The optio and his three men had already knelt on one knee, their lowered heads almost touching the ground, cold sweat trickling down their temples.
"Haha!"
Dammekos burst into hearty laughter. His rounded belly trembled slightly with each laugh. "Perhaps to display my majesty. I can't find any other meaning for now. What do you think?"
Dammekos showed not a hint of anger at the outsider's offense. Instead, he looked with great interest at this unusual boy before him.
"It also implies the noble bloodline and deep ruling foundation of the Dammekos family," Perturabo analyzed rationally. "As the eighth-generation successor, your lineage can be traced back to seven generations of ancestors."
"This naming method is a rather clever political rhetoric. By binding the individual to family history, it not only inherits the political legacy of predecessors, but the numerical sequence also effectively strengthens subjects' recognition of ruling continuity."
"Since it's been passed down for eight generations, the continuation to the ninth and tenth generations also appears logical."
"Look, what a clever child!"
Dammekos laughed heartily, turning to the nobles and ministers standing on either side. The assembled officials also chimed in with agreement.
The Tyrant calmly rose from his throne. His luxurious purple robe fell like water.
He walked over to Perturabo, an expression of amazement on his face. "You must be that boy wandering the Cadyx highlands. I can't imagine why it wouldn't be you. You're even more outstanding than the legends say."
His voice was light and gentle, yet still couldn't conceal the authority and arrogance of a ruler.
Perturabo keenly sensed that behind the smile lines, Dammekos's eyes held not pure appreciation, but an almost greedy possessiveness, as if evaluating the value of a rare treasure.
"I don't know if it's me. I have no memories from before yesterday."
Dammekos turned his gaze to Caelan, his voice carrying obvious probing: "And you, outsider? Are you the boy's father?"
Caelan said, "I am his mentor."
Dammekos looked down at Perturabo, "Is he?"
Perturabo frowned deeply. Caelan had never explicitly proposed being his mentor. His teaching methods were also incredibly infuriating.
And why did it have to be 'mentor'?
What did Dammekos want to gain?
"I think I am."
"You're quite interesting, outsider."
Dammekos's face was full of genial smiles, but his voice had lost its previous mildness, though it still maintained its lazy composure.
He could tolerate Perturabo's audacity. After all, he was just an innocent child, and the legendary hero who slew monsters.
But the outsider was neither a child nor famous. How dare he be so presumptuous?
Dammekos asked, "Where are you from, outsider?"
"Terra."
Dammekos asked doubtfully, "Which city-state?"
Caelan answered, "Terra doesn't belong to Olympia. But such topics are truly tedious, so I think you needn't pursue further."
Dammekos's smile completely vanished. His expression turned as cold as if covered by frost.
The surrounding warriors all gripped their weapons. With just one look from the Tyrant, they would kill this rude outsider on the spot!
Perturabo yawned lazily. He deliberately turned his head away, appearing indifferent to the tense atmosphere.
Dammekos keenly caught this detail. If Perturabo had shown dependence on Caelan, he might have considered sparing the outsider's life as a bargaining chip. But now...
Caelan raised an eyebrow, "Perturabo, aren't you going to say something for me?"
Perturabo rolled his eyes. "Is it necessary?"
Since Caelan could effortlessly toy with him, dealing with these mortals would be even easier.
"You'll regret this."
Caelan casually raised his hand. The warriors' weapons, as if pulled by invisible threads, broke free from their owners' grasps and gathered in a dancing circle in the middle of the hall.
The warriors clad in gold and white armor suddenly all fell to their knees, as if crushed by a thousand-ton burden.
Their knees slammed heavily onto the marble floor, producing dull thuds.
Amidst the screech of armor scraping the floor were mixed the warriors' pained grunts.
And those warriors in gold and white armor were all forced to their knees by an invisible pressure.
"What should I say?" Perturabo frowned. He keenly sensed some discordant dissonance.
"You should say, 'I am the Primarch.'"
"Then do it again."
"You'll regret this!"
"I am the primarch!"
The two recited their lines as if no one else was there. But the surroundings fell into deathly silence. Everyone was awestruck.
They lowered their heads, their very breathing becoming cautious.
Dammekos's expression shifted from anger to shock. His eyes had become much clearer.
This Tyrant was the only one besides Caelan and Perturabo still standing. Caelan had saved him some face.
"You, who... who are you?" Dammekos's voice suddenly dropped. His previous authority was completely gone.
"Caelan. I am Perturabo's mentor."
"I haven't acknowledged you yet!"
Perturabo's voice suddenly rose. He might not necessarily not want a mentor. But he hated this kind of condescending charity from Caelan!
Caelan lifted his chin, "I don't need your acknowledgment. I'm naturally twisted. I don't want to be rejected."
"I object!"
"Objection overruled. I'm twisted. Your objection only proves I'm right."
Veins bulged on Perturabo's forehead, "This is no longer twistedness!"
A playful tone crept into Caelan's voice, "If you're not a twisted person, how dare you assert that my, a twisted person's, twistedness is not twisted?"
Perturabo's thoughts suddenly bogged down. Yes, since he wasn't a twisted person, how could he understand what twistedness is?
Correct, he was not a twisted person.
Caelan was a twisted person. Whatever Caelan said was twisted; that's what twistedness was.
"Am I right?"
"Right." Perturabo frowned.
Logically, this was correct. This was indeed the meaning of the argument.
But he always felt something was wrong.
Caelan's voice, tinged with mockery, drilled into Perturabo's ears, "Then what are you being twisted about?"
"I am not being twisted!" Perturabo burst into rage. He hated two kinds of people most in his life.
One was twisted people. The other was people who said he was twisted. Caelan was both!
What right did a twisted person have to call him twisted?
Caelan shot back, "I say you're twisted, so you're twisted."
Blazing anger burst from Perturabo's eyes, "You're the twisted one!"
"I admit I'm twisted. You haven't admitted it. So I am an un-twisted twisted person, and you are a twisted twisted person."
"I am not a twisted person!"
Dammekos's head hurt from listening. 'What the hell are you two arguing about?'
....
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