"You wanted to see me?" Perturabo's deep voice resonated in the dim cell.
Zoris and Barabas could have disposed of this fanatical priest themselves, but out of caution, they had notified Perturabo.
Perturabo wasn't worried about any tricks. The Four Gods weren't that terrifying in the material universe. Their power was blocked by the Veil, unable to directly interfere with the physical world. Even if Lodosk had indeed colluded with Chaos, it would only be some insignificant trickery at most. With his Father around, no one could harm him. If he spent his days in fear and anxiety, how could he be a Primarch?
"Blasphemer." Lodosk raised his dull eyes, forcing out a dry, hoarse voice from cracked lips. "You... are right."
Perturabo understood his implication. "Where are the gods?"
Lodosk's mouth twitched into a twisted, terrible grin. "The gods are dead! They've been dead... all dead!"
Caelan questioned, "What did you see?"
Lodosk's gaze passed the Primarch and fell upon the mortal. "I know you. You are the blasphemer's mentor. You are also a blasphemer."
"I simply don't believe in your gods." Caelan met his gaze, his heart calm. Accusing him of blasphemy was pure slander. He had always been a faithful believer of the God-Emperor, even if he hadn't paid homage in a long time. Back in the day, he had carved figures of the God-Emperor himself, knife stroke by knife stroke.
Perturabo leaned forward slightly, engulfing Lodosk completely in his shadow. "Answer my father. What did you see?"
Lodosk's eyelids twitched violently, as if resisting the memory that had torn his sanity.
"I saw... the gods... They... They..."
His voice trembled. His nails dug deep into his palms, blood seeping out. "They were crying for help... Those unspeakable things extended their tentacles from the abyss of stars and wrapped around Their bodies."
"I heard it... heard Them being crushed inch by inch... like... like a millstone grinding wheat..."
"They screamed in my ears... They were all dead!"
"No, no! They're not dead!"
"They were eaten! Those tentacles ate Them! Not crushed... chewed!"
"Their bodies were devoured completely... even Their divine status was chewed and swallowed... leaving only false skins!"
Lodosk's mental state was extraordinarily beautiful. Sometimes he laughed hysterically, sometimes he wailed heart-wrenchingly, sometimes he screamed in exasperation. He had once been a devout priest of the gods; now he was a complete madman.
"Doesn't seem like an act," Perturabo commented ruthlessly.
"His faith has collapsed. If mine ever collapses, perhaps I'll go even crazier than him."
Caelan had no faith; he didn't believe in gods. His relationship with the God-Emperor was just for fun, not serious. But he did have faith. He believed the Emperor's resolve to protect humanity was unshakable, and that the Primarchs all harbored noble ideals.
If the Emperor gave up protecting humanity, if the Primarchs all betrayed their former ideals, and Caelan's life's work dissolved into nothing... maybe he would really become a madman crushed by reality, like Lodosk.
But none of this will happen. If the Emperor gave up protecting humanity, he wouldn't be the true Master of Mankind. If the Primarchs betrayed their former ideals, they certainly weren't taught by Caelan.
Perturabo said, "You said you had a list."
Lodosk sobbed softly, like a child.
Perturabo slowly withdrew his gaze from the priest. "Father, let's go. I don't think we'll get more."
Caelan nodded slightly and left the cold cell.
Perturabo paused at the entrance, glancing at Zoris, "Post guards on him. Don't let anyone contact him."
Zoris made a fist and pressed it to his chest. "I won't let you down, my Lord!"
....
Perturabo paused at the palace entrance, silently watching the setting sun disappear over the horizon.
"Father, what do you think?"
"Let's assume for now that he's telling the truth."
"He saw the Olympian gods being devoured as snacks by the Four Chaos Gods."
"But that certainly didn't happen now. It was an echo of a past Ragnarök, a twilight of the gods."
"The Warp is a realm of chaos and disorder. Time doesn't exist there. Past, future, and present are all intertwined, indistinguishable."
"But his vision might also be part of the Four's plan."
Perturabo said, "Yet he didn't convert to worship the Four because of this. He stubbornly continued to believe in the dead gods."
Caelan sighed. "If true, his devotion is indeed commendable."
Unfortunately, devotion can't be eaten. It couldn't change his situation, nor could it save his gods.
Perturabo nodded, "At least we can now confirm that the Olympian gods weren't mere legends. They once truly existed."
The birth of a god is simple, just worship it. But only the gods that survive are real. Born in the Warp, these gods immediately face the siege of the Four. Only by surviving the battle royale can they have a chance to sustain their faith.
Caelan shook his head. "Where are the gods? In the bellies of the Four."
"That's a bit harsh."
"The existence of minor Warp gods is even more tragic than that of the mortals who believe in them!"
"Father, was the birth of the gods a coincidence, or was it premeditated?"
Caelan pointed to the sky. "I have no idea, but perhaps They have the truth."
Perturabo looked up. Caelan wasn't pointing at the Star Vortex, but at the moon. The Black Judges lived there. They had been raiding Olympia for millennia; they might have deep knowledge of the planet's origins.
Perturabo didn't believe in gods, but he wanted the truth.
Caelan suddenly thought of Fenris, which the Emperor had called an excellent experiment in reconstructing a mythological system. Being a mythological system, it naturally had gods. And Fenris indeed had a god, its world-spirit. The Emperor considered Fenris an excellent experiment, perhaps precisely because its god was still alive.
By that logic, other worlds with their own, self-contained mythologies might be similar experiments. Perhaps Olympia was one too, but the Olympians had failed. Their gods had been eaten.
In humanity's Golden Age, the Emperor was not the only visionary who could see the future. Many foresaw the coming storm of the Age of Strife and humanity's decline. These people all tried, in their own ways, to protect or continue human civilization.
Colchis and Medea, Inwit and the Phalanx, Fenris, Olympia, all might be sparks of civilization left by the sages of the Golden Age. Different worlds carried different survival strategies, like carefully designed experiments. But the experimenters didn't have time to verify them; they had to let history be the judge.
Even if their attempts all failed, even if their names weren't recorded, Caelan still admired them. Their attempts weren't worthless; failure is also experience. The legacy they left behind was also precious, whether Medea or the Phalanx, both invaluable treasures that couldn't be replicated in the 30th Millennium.
...
Crack!
Caesar struck the engine casing heavily with his thick fist. Old Orn watched from behind, his heart in his mouth.
'Was this really okay? Was he repairing it or breaking it?'
"Gently, gently!"
Old Orn was distressed, but he didn't dare protest. Even watching Caesar take a wrench to precision components, he had to remain silent as a stone. Dorn's order was to meet the Jokaeros' needs as best as possible and cooperate with their repairs.
Even if the Jokaeros dismantled precision instruments with methods that defied science, they couldn't interfere. Their job was to learn and record, documenting everything in meticulous detail, even if they didn't understand it.
The Jokaeros' behavior seemed inexplicable, but they weren't noisy. They looked like monkeys, but they didn't make meaningless monkey sounds. Aside from the sounds of repairs, breathing, and heartbeats, they barely made any extra noise.
Old Orn saw another Jokaero striding over with a pile of precision components. Caesar grinned and disappeared into the engine bay with surprising agility. Old Orn heard the clunk of metal and followed him inside. Caesar was precisely inserting those precision components into key areas, as if they had always been there.
When Caesar emerged, he pressed a button on a nearby cogitator.
HUM!
With a deafening roar, the long-silent engine suddenly vibrated to life. The engine core blazed with intense light. A torrent of energy surged through the internal conduits, illuminating the entire repair bay as if submerged in the deep sea. The Phalanx's engine, silent for millennia, had been successfully restarted!
"Th... that's it?"
Old Orn was stunned. He had watched the Jokaero work but had no idea how the xeno had done it. Replacing precision components he understood; he would do that too. But what function did those precision components serve, and where had the Jokaeros found replacements? He was completely clueless. It was like he was still learning the times tables, while the Jokaeros were already doing advanced calculus and scoring perfect scores. Both were math, but the level was completely different.
Old Orn opened his mouth, then silently recorded a line on his data slate:
"Repair technique unknown, theory unknown, method unknown, but results are significant. Estimated repair progress: 50%."
"Estimated completion within 10 days."
Caesar patted his oily hands clean and washed them in a bucket. The Phalanx's technology was vast and profound; he could spend his whole life here. But the repairs weren't hard. The Phalanx's main structure was intact; only some components had aged naturally. So the key was to find the key problem. As long as those components could be identified, replicated, and replaced, the systems could restart.
Dorn had asked them to expedite repairs, just to get the Phalanx moving. So they only needed to repair the engines and reactors. But Caesar was obsessive-compulsive. Either don't repair it, or fix everything. Since they were at it, they might as well repair the weapons systems and void shields too. The power output might be substandard, but it would work for now. This was their future home; safety must be guaranteed.
Void shields could be a stopgap, but humanity's Geller fields were too primitive. Humans were also clueless about their principles. Caesar decided he must find a chance to replace them with their upgraded Jokaero Force Field! Humans might object, but if they stayed silent, that was consent. He wasn't going to destroy anything, and humans wouldn't understand what he did anyway. Besides, it wasn't that he didn't want to explain; they simply wouldn't understand.
Caesar missed Caelan and Dorn a bit. Dorn was also a primitive, but a powerful one. It wasn't shameful to cooperate with him. Caelan was the only sapien who could communicate with them, unlike these uncontacted primitives.
Caesar tilted his head, staring at the restarted engine, a flicker of confusion in his eyes.
'What did we originally come here for?'
'Oh well, who cares? First, science. As long as there's science. Even after the Phalanx was scientified out, it didn't matter. The Imperium of Man was vast; plenty of things to science. Even after the Imperium was scientified out, the universe was vast; there were always things they hadn't scientified.'
...
"WAAAGH!"
Orks lived in pure joy every day. For them, life is about fighting. As long as they can swing a weapon, it's a fight, whether against enemies or other Orks. They were always energetic and noisy, which annoyed Ururu greatly.
Ururu was a unique Ork. He valued peace. Especially after Gobjaw died, he valued it even more. The other Nobs were now fighting to become the Warboss, but Ururu was patient. He would only fight the last fight.
"WAAAGH!"
A foolish Ork Boy ran past him screaming, choppa raised. Ururu grabbed it and tore it apart in an instant.
Splat
Blood and chunks fell into the metal basket on Ururu's back. He weighed it, nodded with satisfaction, and turned, trudging towards the farmland.
"WAAAGH WAAAGH WAAAGH, WAAAGH WAAAGH WAAAGH, me's a little farming expert."
Humming a tune, Ururu saw the Ummie farmers working hard in the fields. His little mates were nearby, protecting them so the brainless little greenskins wouldn't tear the Ummie apart. He had worked hard to catch them!
But his little mates were bored, already fighting each other on the ridges.
"WAAAGH!" Ururu waved his thick arms, stained red and green, at the Ummie in the fields, his fanged mouth grinning wide. "Do good farmin'! Tonight, ya get freshest mushroom soup!"
"All of ya, come get seeds!"
His Ummie language wasn't very fluent, but the Ummie understood. They nervously formed a line, cowering as they waited for Ururu to distribute seeds from an iron can into their small iron buckets. The dark brown liquid was a mixture of Ork's unique red and green blood, mixed with incompletely ground flesh and a few Ork heads. The seeds smelled strongly of blood, mixed with a vegetal odor. The two different smells intertwined, nauseating.
Ururu muttered loudly, "Us Orks is amazin'. Got one animal spiral and one plant spiral. Dat's why we's upright plant-people!"
"Ummies got two spirals too. Means Ummies is just plant-people wot ain't evolved."
"Even though gretchins done evolved, Ummies still more useful. At least Ummies knows how ta farm."
"Don't be scared. You's good Ummies. Long as ye farm good for me, when me get to be Warboss, me get Mork to turn you all into clever plant-people!"
Having distributed the seeds, Ururu headed towards the fields with the can, still one-third full. His green hand held a wooden ladle, scooping up thick liquid and pouring it onto the field.
"WAAAGH! Listen up, you gitz! Keep distance! If it's too crowded, it'll slow da growin'!"
Ururu bent over, planting, while noisily instructing the Ummie. The blood was evenly watered into the soil, quickly seeping in. In a few days, mushrooms would grow. Ururu squinted happily, satisfied with the soon-to-be-harvested crop.
"WAAAGH!"
In the neighboring, already ripe mushroom field, newborn Boyz pushed up through the soil. One spotted a Ummie woman farming and charged at her, screaming. He was going to tear her apart!
Splat!
Ururu grabbed him, tore him apart on the spot, and threw the pieces into the woman's bucket.
"WAAAGH! Nobody touches me Ummie!"
Ururu warned loudly. These local Ummie had been farmers their whole lives, much smarter than brainless Ork Boyz who only knew how to fight. If an Ork Boy died, a whole patch would grow back next week. But if all the Ummie died, who would farm for him?
Ummies take over a decade to mature. They were precious!
Farming was a rigorous science. He wouldn't just let mushrooms grow wild like other brainless Orks. He believed that only through careful cultivation could the highest quality crops be grown!
"When me got lots and lots of Boyz, me gonna kill all da brainless Nobz. Gork and Mork gonna favor me fer shur!"
"When me gets to be Warboss, me gonna make all da Ummie in da world farm for me!"
"Me gonna grow more smart Nobz, start a bigger WAAAGH! Make da whole galaxy farm me crops!"
Ururu hefted the empty can, tapping it with his finger to produce a dull sound. He scratched his squig-hair, grunting in dissatisfaction.
"Me run outta seeds."
The newly planted Boyz were just sprouting green shoots. His carefully cultivated crops; couldn't just tear them up. He needed to tear up Boyz that weren't his, to get more seeds.
Tear up Boyz not his, plant Boyz that are his. He could win many, many times!
Happily collecting a full bucket of seeds, eating mushrooms and singing, Ururu headed back to his fields. Just as he reached the ridge, he saw flames engulfing his fields. Ummies with dakkas were slaughtering his Boyz!
"WAAAGH!"
Ururu let out a deafening roar. Farming was the most sacred duty of the Orks. These bad Ummies dared to burn his crops. Unforgivable!
...
30 Chapters patreon.com/DaoistJinzu