Sorry for the late chapter. I was stuck outside, away from my laptop.
--
The procession departed from the landing pad, first making its way down the central avenue of the Third Administrative Zone.
The renovations here were eighty percent complete. The road was smooth, and red lanterns hung from every lumen-pole.
The light filtering through the red covers bathed the entire street in a warm, orange-red glow.
Every twenty meters along the street sat a small food stall. They were makeshift stoves holding massive pots, various foods boiling away inside.
"These are dumplings!"
[Dumplings Must Be Chive and Egg] stood behind one of the stalls, wearing an apron and holding a long-handled strainer.
She fished out a plump, white dumpling and offered it to the approaching Guilliman.
"Flour wrappers encasing filling, boiled in water. They symbolize reunion and fulfillment."
Guilliman accepted the dumpling, which looked as small as a toy in his massive hand, and inspected it for two seconds.
Then, under the wide-eyed stares of all the surrounding players and citizens, he popped the entire dumpling into his mouth.
"...The texture is soft, and the filling is simply but harmoniously seasoned," Guilliman evaluated. "The ratio of carbohydrates, protein, and trace fibers makes this highly suitable as a marching ration."
[Dumplings Must Be Chive and Egg]: "...Thank you for the compliment?"
The next stall was manned by [Not Eating Rice Balls on the New Year Eve is Heresy], serving glutinous rice balls.
"Glutinous rice flour wrappers with black sesame and sugar filling. They symbolize sweetness and completeness."
Sanguinius accepted a rice ball.
He gently bit through the soft, sticky exterior. The black sesame filling oozed out, gleaming under the lights.
"The sweetness is perfectly balanced," Sanguinius smiled. "We have a similar food on Baal."
Ferrus stopped in front of a deep-fried food stall.
Golden, stick-like strips of dough were being fried. Once pulled from the oil, they were dusted with fine salt and powdered spices.
"This is called fried breadstick," the player in charge explained. "It symbolizes... uh, it symbolizes living life with flavor."
Ferrus picked up a fried breadstick.
The piece of food, which would be quite substantial for a normal human, looked like a toothpick in his colossal hand.
He placed it in his mouth, chewing as his bionics analyzed its composition.
"Flour, water, salt, leavening agent. Fried at 190 degrees for 90 seconds," Ferrus stated the data. "The fat content is too high to serve as a standard ration." He paused, then added, "However, the texture is crisp, and the flavor compounds have reacted fully under high heat... Occasional consumption is acceptable."
The player: "...Glad you like it."
Past the food street, the procession arrived at the central plaza.
This had originally been an abandoned freight distribution yard, but it had now been converted into the main venue for the Spring Festival.
Three stages had been erected in the center of the plaza, each hosting a different performance simultaneously.
On the far left stage was the lion dance.
Two lions were operated by four members of the Aurelian Youth League. The lion bodies were sewn from scrap cloth and painted in vibrant reds and yellows.
To the rapid beat of the drums, the lions leaped, rolled, and tumbled across the stage, executing a series of highly difficult maneuvers.
"This is the lion dance," Blood explained from the side. "It symbolizes driving away bad omen and bringing good fortune."
Guilliman watched with absolute focus.
The Primarch, renowned for his rationality and planning, fixed his ice-blue eyes on every single movement the lions made on stage, his mind calculating at terrifying speeds.
"The choreography bears distinct traces of tactical maneuvering. The forward pounces, lateral dodges, rolls... all of these can be translated into close-quarters combat techniques. The coordination between the operators is exceptionally precise. The synchronization error between the four individuals is less than 0.3 seconds. If this level of coordination were applied to a battlefield, it would be sufficient to handle the vast majority of sudden combat scenarios."
"...Lord Guilliman, it is just a dance."
Guilliman: "But the training value is objectively verifiable."
–
On the center stage, a traditional opera was being performed.
The players had purchased several sets of classic opera costumes and props from the System shop, selected a few hive citizens with a talent for acting, and given them a crash course in training over the past half-month.
Right now, they were performing an excerpt from The Battle of Mount Dingjun. (TL/N: Should I keep things like this? Or remove them? Since it is not racism or nationalism just their cultural reference I am confused)
The actor playing the veteran general Huang Zhong sang with a booming voice. Although his pitch wandered a little, his spirit and energy were perfectly on point.
Ferrus stood below the stage.
"Vocal frequency is stable. The chest resonance technique is worth studying. If applied to battlefield war cries, it could significantly enhance the morale-suppression effect on the enemy."
The Master of the Iron Hands delivered his professional assessment.
Sanguinius, however, was drawn to the stage on the right.
A children's choir was performing there.
Over fifty children stood in three neat rows, all wearing matching grey schola uniforms. They were currently singing an adapted, Warhammer-version of Happy New Year.
The children's voices were young but perfectly synchronized, and every single little face was beaming with a bright smile.
Sanguinius listened in silence.
The Great Angel's superhuman senses clearly caught the emotional fluctuations of the children. It was pure joy, simple anticipation, and a naive, absolute belief that tomorrow would be a better day.
That emotion was so clean. So incredibly clean... that it reminded him of the children of his homeworld, Baal.
Sanguinius closed his eyes, his pristine white wings fluttering gently behind him on instinct.
–
The midday feast was held in the plaza right outside the Governor's Office.
Three hundred long tables had been set up, each seating twenty people.
There were no luxurious dishes on the tables, only the most filling and practical food the hive could currently provide.
Massive basins of potatoes stewed with synthetic meat, with every chunk of meat the size of a fist.
Entire baskets of black bread, the crusts baked to a crisp.
Buckets of vegetable soup, with actual, real vegetable leaves floating inside.
And an unlimited supply of dumplings, Rice Balls, and fried breadstick.
The three Primarchs and the Legion commanders were seated at the main table in the center.
Their cutlery was custom-made, three times larger than the standard size, but the materials were still ordinary ceramic and metal.
The Crimson Dawn had a rule: all members shared the same standard of dining ware. No special privileges were permitted.
Guilliman speared a piece of potato with his custom fork and placed it in his mouth.
"The cooking method is simple, but the heat control is excellent," he evaluated. "The potatoes are fully stewed through, and the fibers of the synthetic meat have been sufficiently softened during the boiling process, making it easy to digest and absorb."
Sanguinius didn't say anything, eating quietly. Occasionally, he would look up at the other tables around them.
Seated there were the citizens of the hive. Workers, teachers, nurses, street sweepers, miners... They were eating the exact same food as the Primarchs, wearing the exact same smiles on their faces.
Children weaved between the tables, sharing the dumplings from their bowls with the elders sitting nearby.
The elders smiled and stroked the children's hair, pulling wax-paper-wrapped candies from their pockets.
It was the Spring Festival bonus the Crimson Dawn had distributed a few days prior—three pieces of candy per person.
There was no awe here. No detachment. Only a genuine... equal sense of bustling joy.
This was an atmosphere the three Primarchs had never experienced at any banquet within the Imperium.
The afternoon activities were even more diverse.
[The Last God of Gamblers of the Imperium of Man] had set up a special Primarch-only card table in a corner of the plaza, using a deck of custom iron poker cards.
Guilliman, Sanguinius, and Ferrus each took a seat and began a new round of Fight the Landlord.
This time, Guilliman was the Landlord... An intense battle erupted, surrounded by a crowd of players and citizens eager to watch the spectacle.
On the other side of the plaza, [Paradox Player Not a War Criminal] found Seranaphy.
The Blood Angels Champion was standing alone in front of a food stall, staring blankly at the dumplings boiling in the pot.
The Crimson Dawn emblem pinned to the left pauldron of his artificer armor gleamed with a dark red luster under the sunlight.
"Want a taste?"
[Paradox Player Not a War Criminal] handed over a bowl containing six freshly boiled dumplings.
Seranaphy froze for a moment before accepting the bowl.
He didn't eat immediately, but instead looked at [Paradox Player Not a War Criminal].
"At Aru... thank you."
The statement came out of nowhere, but [Paradox Player Not a War Criminal] understood perfectly.
"Just doing our part," he waved his hand dismissively. "Weren't the Blood Angels also holding the line there to protect this planet? If anyone's thanking anyone, it should be us."
Seranaphy was silent for a few seconds. Then, he picked up a pair of chopsticks, picked up a dumpling, and put it in his mouth.
He chewed, and swallowed.
"...It's delicious," Seranaphy said softly.
"Delicious isn't enough." [Paradox Player Not a War Criminal] grinned. He pulled two metal cups from behind his back, and hoisted up a barrel labeled 'Enhanced Edition - Alcohol'.
"Come on, have a drink?"
Seranaphy looked at the cup, and then at the barrel.
[Paradox Player Not a War Criminal] filled both cups to the brim. "It's a Spring Festival rule. When friends meet, they have to share a drink. You're only real friends after you drink."
Seranaphy stared at the clear liquid in the cup, took it, and downed it in a single gulp.
The 96% purity Alcohol burned a fiery trail down his throat. Even the superhuman metabolism of an Astartes felt the intense heat.
Seranaphy's face flushed slightly.
"That's got a kick," he let out a heavy breath.
"That's just the first cup."
[Paradox Player Not a War Criminal] filled it up again. "According to the rules, you have to drink three cups. You can only start eating after three cups."
"What kind of bizarre rule is that?"
"One cup to toast the past, to bid farewell to suffering."
"One cup to toast the present, to celebrate reunion."
"One cup to toast the future, to bless our hopes."
Seranaphy looked at the liquid sloshing in his cup and raised it once more.
"To the past."
The second cup went down.
"To the present."
When the third cup was poured, Seranaphy stared at his reflection in the liquid.
"To the future," he said softly, and downed it in one gulp.
After three cups, even an Astartes was beginning to feel a distinct buzz.
Seranaphy's gaze started to wander, and his posture was no longer quite as rigidly straight.
[Paradox Player Not a War Criminal] had also downed three cups of normal alcohol himself. His face was currently bright red, and his words were slurring heavily.
"I'm telling you... where I'm from... everyone has to drink like this on New Year's..."
"Where is it that you're from?" Seranaphy asked, his own voice a little muddled.
"A... really faraway place." [Paradox Player Not a War Criminal] waved his hand. "But it doesn't matter... this is home now too..."
The two drank several more rounds.
Eventually, [Paradox Player Not a War Criminal] couldn't hold on any longer. He faceplanted onto the table, snoring like thunder.
Seranaphy was still sitting up, but his eyes were completely unfocused. He stared at the empty barrel on the table, muttering softly.
"...Home..."
At the main table not far away, Guilliman noticed the situation.
The Ultramarines Primarch's ice-blue eyes swept over the passed-out player and the visibly intoxicated Seranaphy, the corner of his mouth twitching almost imperceptibly.
"It seems your liquor... is remarkably effective," he noted.
Cogboy chuckled. "It's the enhanced edition. Specially formulated for Astartes physiology. If a normal human took a sip, they'd have to be rushed to the medicae."
Sanguinius also looked over, a smile blossoming within his amber-gold slit pupils.
"Let them rest. Today... is supposed to be a day of relaxation."
Ferrus didn't say a word. He silently poured himself another cup of alcohol, downed it in one gulp, and then spoke.
"Alcohol purity 96. Caloric value 385 kilocalories per hundred milliliters. It's purer than the previous batches of alcohol. High-quality product. The Iron Hands Legion will require a minimum of one thousand crates."
Guilliman shot him a look.
Sanguinius simply chuckled aloud.