With that one inexplicable remark from Zhou Ye, the local nobility of Aestia very nearly dropped to their knees. More than a few couldn't hold on to their wine glasses. Some had already retreated under their beds. You can only imagine what they had just heard.
A grease monkey was calling a group of demigod angels "little brats" — and offering to tell them stories about their father.
"Is this really something we mere mortals should be hearing? Are they going to silence us for this?"
People had already begun quietly shuffling toward the exits. Don't let the blood splash on me .JPG.
As for Inquisitor Chris, he had completely given up trying to care. He was no longer bothering to puzzle out this grease monkey's origins.
All he knew was that this was not someone he could handle. If it weren't for the God-Emperor's gaze having passed over this place, he'd have half a mind to suspect this creature was some kind of Lord of Change in disguise. No — that would be giving Lords of Change too much credit.
Even those Tzeentchian lunatics hadn't pulled anything this deranged. There was absolutely no conceivable way any of them would ever come up with something as utterly abstract and unhinged as a sanctified Space Necron.
In other words, even a Lord of Change wasn't this unhinged.
Chris could already picture it. A devoted worshipper of the Emperor making a pilgrimage to the Ecclesiarchy, only to be received by an Archbishop who was a Necron Phaeron. And all the priests and acolytes around them — devout Necron warriors, every single one. He could only imagine the expression on the worshipper's face.
Whatever they felt, it probably wouldn't be pleasant. He just felt like the world had started gradually warping into something increasingly abstract.
He already knew the situation was absurd. He already suspected this grease monkey's origins weren't simple.
But hearing those words out loud still made him involuntarily shudder. The sheer audacity of it. Little stories about Jaghatai Khan — about Chagatai Khan.
Just who the hell are you? Are you the Emperor? Are you Malcador?
And you're really not afraid these White Scars Astartes will cut you down for this? Yes, technically they were Deathwatch, and he could direct them — but if they were truly provoked, there was nothing he could do to hold them back.
"Whatever. Those three suspiciously sentient robots are here. They probably can't win against those anyway. Better keep my distance."
Watching Zhou Ye, who appeared to have had a few too many and was starting to run his mouth, Chris quietly edged further away.
"....."
The words landed. Several of the White Scars Astartes reached instinctively for their chainswords and bolt pistols.
If any other cogboy had dared say something like this, they would have shown him exactly why the flowers bloom so red.
But the man standing before them was a Tech-Priest they genuinely respected. And they absolutely could not beat those three heavily modified combat robots.
So they decided to hear him out and see what this Priest had to say.
Could anyone really be more ancient than their own Dreadnought Ancients? Could anyone really tell the stories better?
The White Scars didn't believe so. So they watched, and waited, and listened.
"Those were ancient times. The Emperor faced humanity cut off and isolated by Warp storms. Mankind was scattered and fragmented. The xenos broke their oaths and struck without warning. Civilization regressed. Technology was lost. And so, in preparation for the Great Crusade to come, the Emperor worked alongside the Eldar to create twenty...."
"Wait — hold on???"
The White Scars were dumbfounded. Chris was dumbfounded. The Blood Ravens were dumbfounded. You said you were going to tell stories about Chagatai Khan — how did you open with the age before the Imperium even existed?
"Ahem, ahem. Right. That was all a bit too ancient. You young ones probably aren't interested."
Having barely started, Zhou Ye let out a wine-soaked belch and immediately changed the subject. Every person in the room felt their ears prickling with unbearable frustration.
"We want to hear it!!!"
"Don't you dare stop!!!"
"You'd better stop right there — we're leaving."
After that one opening, the entire palace had emptied out, leaving behind nothing but a crowd of tin cans and Inquisitor Chris. Everyone else had fled in a panic, pulling the great doors shut behind them. Zhou Ye was left staring at the empty hall with a vaguely bewildered look, exhaling helplessly.
"I was going to tell you all a little something about the Primarch's early days. But since nobody's interested — fine. I'll skip ahead. Let me tell you instead about Chagatai on Chogoris. How he met the Emperor. And why exactly are you lot trembling??!"
There were no mortals left in the hall by now. And yet, somehow, inexplicably — why were several of the Astartes shaking? Fair enough for the White Scars. But you Blood Ravens — what exactly are you trembling at?
These youngsters had no composure at all.
Zhou Ye found it so funny he nearly choked. In this world, your identity is whatever you give yourself. He would have to deal with the Imperium's upper echelons eventually — better to leave them a legend now, so future dealings would go smoothly.
So yes, he was having a bit of fun with it. Though everything he said was completely true.
He went on to recount the days of the White Scars' Khan riding free across Chogoris. The encounter with the Emperor. The Khan reorganizing his forces — the long, arduous work of gathering the scattered White Scars who had been blazing across the galaxy.
Among the White Scars present, the oldest veteran, Qin Meng, had by now become something very much resembling Zhou Ye's personal attendant. He looked less like a demigod warrior and more like a Grot hanging off an Ork Warboss — fetching drinks and refills with extraordinary dedication.
But when the story reached the part about how Chagatai Khan had rebuilt his army from the ground up —
"Malcador...."
Hearing that name, Chris felt the echo of the Emperor's final whisper return to him. The Sigillite of the Imperium. The eternal hero of the Imperium. The last immortal companion the Emperor had ever known.... Malcador.
"Hic!!!"
Another belch. Zhou Ye tipped backward and collapsed flat on his back.
He had successfully drunk himself unconscious.
Before anyone could move to catch him, the three Kastelan Robots scooped up their master and bolted. They were gone in a flash, vanishing back toward the Mechanicus shrine at a dead sprint.
"?"
The room stared in collective bewilderment. The White Scars opened and closed their mouths, unable to find words.
Cliffhanger Dog.
If they had ever learned that term from ancient Terra, they absolutely would have been cursing up a storm.
But clearly this was a protocol Zhou Ye had pre-programmed into his robots. If anyone tried to force them to stop, it would probably come to blows — and this was not the moment for that.
And they still hadn't fully recovered from the daze. This Ancient had told stories better than any of their own Dreadnought Ancients.
Could this grease monkey be an existence even more ancient than their own Primarch? Someone who knew things that even the Primarch himself might not necessarily know?
By the Emperor's Throne — what in the galaxy is this grease monkey's true origin.