Warhammer 40k: Shattered Steel Soul

+That's why I think you're becoming bored by overwork, Malcador.

+The lifestyle of the Imperial Chancellor is determined by the work the Emperor brings him to do, Artisan. +The Chancellor's voice came in fits and starts. Even though the two people on the phone were both top psychic users that humans could reach, it was still a challenge to have a conversation across half the galaxy.

They were not the Emperor, who could directly throw out an almost ordinary avatar countless light years away through the mental channel built by Morse, and have a harmonious and intimate conversation with his offspring - Morse had already begun to think about how to call the Lord of Mankind to Macragge, and use his glory of invincibility to completely hook Robouti Guilliman's heart to the huge warship of the Imperium of Man.

+Oh, maybe it sounds impolite, but the adjective "boring" is indeed used for you, not your life. +Morse corrected Malcador's words, +I just told you in detail how Perturabo successfully connected an entire star cluster to his Olympian political system, and you didn't even say a word of praise. +

Malcador sighed deeply.

+The Ministry of Finance has sent more than ten briefings on taxes...How can I praise you...? +

Morse shook his head slightly, making his behavior look like a small gesture made by an ordinary passerby on the street, rather than a seriously ill patient talking to himself.

+I will tell Perturabo about the tax issue, Prime Minister. +

He walked away from the door of Macragge's public bath.

During his half-minute stop, he regretfully realized that he might not have committed the sin of laziness when he was making his body, so that he could not enter the bathhouse now.

Within 30 meters of the bathhouse, Morse found a tavern, looked at the broth boiling in the open-air stove and the figs, sausages, cheese, vegetables and other decorative groups carefully painted by the owner on the simple wall, and decided to solve a long-lost midnight snack here. He just didn't need a high-end place with an elegant fountain and a small garden.

Low tables and chairs were arranged outside the bar. Sitting here, you can see how the deep night has sharpened the edge of the laurel wreath on the forehead of the golden statue outside the Senate, and how the bright yellow lights in the windows of several large public places in Macragge flicker steadily behind the large residential area.

Mors asked for a portion of wine, stew and oatmeal porridge in the local language and even in an accent that blends in with the citizens of Macragge.

His dress style is similar to Macragge culture. The owner did not suspect that he came from the depths of the galaxy. He just treated him as a local stranger and asked him if he wanted to come in and recline on the bench to eat like at home. Mors refused him with a smile.

+What is your supper today, Prime Minister? + Mors asked.

+It's lunch time in Terra. +

+What is your lunch today? +

+I haven't had time for breakfast yet, artisan. + Malcador replied. +The Ministry of Justice is putting more procedural issues above the issues themselves. According to the 170th set of interim rules revised this year, more than one-tenth of our fiscal year report submission procedures do not comply with process specifications. The Ministry of Justice proposed that all these reports should be rejected and the relevant officials should be dismissed or kept for review. +

+Oh, then you work. +Morse stirred his oatmeal with a spoon. The smell of cereals approached him, and the temperature climbed into his palm wrapped in black cloth along with the rising heat. He suddenly missed the memory of his skin becoming warm and moist after touching the warm ceramic bowl, although these details of life have long been far away from him.

However, when he thought that Malcador had not eaten breakfast, these sentiments immediately disappeared.

Unlike the silence of Olympia at night, where only the sound of wind blew through the trees outside the city, and unlike the streets of Invit, which were completely filled with fierce cold winds, the night of Macragge has become a particularly intuitive proof of its current prosperous development.

Local merchants from Macragge and beyond gathered in the city to enjoy a small banquet that could be called a celebration before spices, silks, agricultural products and many other precious commodities were put into the market for trading the next day.

After leaving the spaceport, travelers brought by short-distance navigation technology also came to the long streets in the city to find food, clothing, shelter and nighttime entertainment.

In restaurants, people drank until they were slightly drunk in the aroma of beans and meat dishes, and unsurprisingly enjoyed the secular pleasure of discussing philosophy and politics.

Under the influence of some inexplicable mysterious communication principles, the decisions of those in a certain political system can often trigger a lot of extended discussions while being partially known by the people. Moreover, Macragge's relaxed discussion atmosphere provides excellent soil for citizens' general discussions, and Robert Guilliman and Connor Guilliman even announced the direction of reform in the past month in a straightforward manner to win the support of the people.

Before he had finished half of his bowl of porridge, Morse had already heard the soldiers on leave at the table next to him making all kinds of imaginative speculations about the Senate's newly adjusted rules of procedure: approval by two-thirds vote and approval by an absolute majority. For example, whether exactly one-third of the five hundred "nobles above" disagreed with Connor Guilliman's political views, and whether the disappearance of Archon Galan, whose portrait was printed on the other side of the Macragge coin, in this reform was a clear indication of the friction between the two sides.

"You must have guessed wrong this time, Manicino," the craftsman heard one of the soldiers say, "my brother-in-law's father happened to be guarding the senate that day, and he saw with his own eyes the two consuls standing up and shaking hands with each other. "

"I can testify," another soldier laughed, leaning against the horseshoe sign at the door of the tavern, hot water in a clay cup, "that the husband of my sister's friend's sister knew a janitor in the council chamber."

"Come on, friends, I will go back tonight and ask Gloria himself if he has shaken hands with Conor Guilliman." Manichino, a tall soldier, grinned, "I dare say they are definitely not on the same ship. Sailors. I'll buy you another twenty dinars."

"You kid," a veteran hammered Manichino on the shoulder, "are you buying us drinks with the money you won from us?"

Morse listened for a moment as the porridge and stew passed through the curved spoons and disappeared into his mouth. He was not sure whether the delicious taste he simulated was really what these dishes should taste like, and how much of it was due to his unintentional beautification.

At this time, the topic of this group of soldiers has already turned to whether the civil war on the next planet came from the secret instigation of the Senate. This is ridiculous, but it also proves how peaceful Macragge's reform period was, so that this Qunma Kurag soldiers ran out of the military camp when they had time to eat barbecue and drink wine on the street.

He stood up with the wine glass in hand and walked to the table of the soldiers.

"Friends of Macragge," Morse said, speaking in a tone that was thick for Macragge - well, Nucerian, "I am here to travel. To hear you speak like this , Is Macragge’s recent government unstable? My brother told me that he wants to come here and do trade with Macragge. I haven’t heard that the situation here is still suitable for trade.”

Several soldiers looked at each other and looked at the gold pattern on the edge of Morse's black robe.

"Does anything look wrong to me?" Morse maintained his tone, pretending to be a little alert. "This is a place where we can discuss the Archons of Macragge, right? They don't have their own secret surveillance force, do they?"

Manichino was the first to answer for Morse. "Of course not, friends from outside. Macragge welcomes merchants. The Archon's new policy has separate care for outsiders. It is posted on the notice board at the door. If you come to settle here, as long as you can prove your status, the Senate will also distribute the excess land to you. "

"Thank you, soldier." Morse bowed slightly like a true mortal and expressed his gratitude to the soldiers. "I'll ask around again."

Morse drank the two sips of liqueur remaining at the bottom of the glass, gently placed the glass back on the table, turned and walked into the street.

The bright lights of the night still fell on his black robe, and the hustle and bustle of the market had not yet returned to calm, so he could not be said to have entered the vast night.

+Are you still listening, Malcador? +he asked.

+Not here. +The Prime Minister replied gently, his tone sounding as if he and the Ministry of Justice had finally resolved their disputes with each other, +Any questions, craftsman? +

+No more, Prime Minister. Good night. +

——

Steam evaporates slowly in the bathroom, blurring the exquisite murals and various ornate patterns inlaid with gold and silver on the walls. Gold and silver products of incalculable value and extremely exquisite animal bone carvings are placed on the obsidian square low tables around this small private bath, with a certain type of deep glazed blue that has been genetically selected. The bouquets complement each other. The warm spring water has become a simpler enjoyment for the Primarch, who is not easily contaminated by dirt.

Robert Guilliman takes on the role of mentor in the bathhouse. Finding a reasonable opportunity to talk to his brothers who are older than him is not always possible, let alone one of his three brothers named Rogal Dorn.

The white-haired original body seemed to never change his outspoken character like ice and stone. Robert admired his rationality very much, but sometimes, Robert had to admit that it was more beneficial to live with Perturabo. Stabilize your mental state at a relatively healthy level.

Guilliman stood up from the water, stepped onto the white stone steps, stepped on the carpet beside the bath and grabbed a towel to cover himself. He turned around and invited his brothers in the pool to follow him.

"We can go to the cooling room and rest for a while. Then we go to the heated pool, apply some essential oils and bathe again."

"In Olympia, we also have some public bathrooms," Perturabo said, "but this is the first time in decades that I treat bathing so formally."

Robert shook his head: "We will discuss many things here. The Senate will discuss in the bathroom which side's attendant will present the next day's proposal."

"People cannot fight each other in the bathroom, and the efficiency of hand-to-hand combat is always far lower than that of weapons." Perturabo answered, taking his towel and wrapping it around his waist. "Though we Primarchs, even with empty hands, are an irresistible threat to mortals."

"Exactly. Except for a few baths in my childhood, I never shared a bath with others. For me, today is also the first time in several years that I have shared a bath." Robert raised his gold-leaf laurel wreath with his fingers. , pressed between the damp hair covered with water vapor.

"It seems that this is the first time for us to do this." Angron said, flicking the towel, and the snow-white soft cloth happened to be wrapped around the scarlet scar around his waist.

Robert waited for the white-haired original body, whose face was unusually rosy after soaking in the hot water, to come out of the bath. Suddenly, he worried for a moment whether the brother who claimed to be from the world of ice and snow would be dizzy from the long hot bath. He immediately wiped away his distracting thoughts and firmly let his reason help him choose to fully trust in the Primarch's constitution.

Roger Dorn tied the towel just like his brothers, tightening it as carefully as if he were making a handicraft.

"Yes." he said.

Several original bodies were wrapped in the warm air, sitting on the benches around the bath, slightly dissipating the heat from their bodies.

There were some prepared refreshing fruits on the small dining table. Perturabo chose the plate of green grapes and felt the juice fall into his throat, silently moisturizing the base of his tongue and esophagus. He spat out the grape seeds and threw them into the empty saucer.

Guilliman said: "A long time ago, Macragge nobles threw bones or shells directly on the ground when eating, waiting for their servants to clean them up afterward. This was a habit that was corrected and abolished before I landed here."

"This is not an easy matter," Perturabo said. "It is not serious enough to legislate and difficult to enforce."

“When the Archons consciously reduced the number of banquets and took the lead in sitting upright, we proved that the Macraggeans’ stomachs were not designed to eat while lying down, or to eat more food by repeatedly inducing vomiting. "

"You're proud of that, Robert."

Robert Guilliman showed a modest smile: "This is not only the nobility of the person in power, but also the inevitable result of the self-repetitive nature of culture and historical development. Every reform can only be carried out when the reform is truly needed. success."

"You have to see what people really need." Angron whispered, "You have to see their hearts."

Perturabo spoke between bites of grapes. "Of course," he said. "You are popular among the people, Robert. Many people hope that you will become the next consul."

This did not please Robert.

"I need to know if the Crusade will allow me to serve as Archon as well. If I am unable to fulfill my duties as Archon, then," he paused, "I will not serve as Archon of Macragge."

Perturabo's eyes glanced at the laurel wreath on Robert's head. He did not wear the green leaf crown today, a gold crown replaced it. The Iron Lord realized that this was identification for the Senate Council, unsure if it was some kind of final commemoration.

"Don't worry too early, Robert." Perturabo smiled, "Have a good rest tomorrow. Your army will be reviewed in front of you the day after tomorrow."

He put down the empty plate with only grape seeds left: "I want to know more now, what is the point of applying essential oil?"