Warhammer: Start with a dog

Chapter 297 Just... just do that?

Ptolemyon was full of doubts.

The champion of the Origin Chapter was now immersed in a kind of torture that was not physical but purely spiritual.

The main reason for this was that he began to agree to "consider" the other party's proposal under the pressure and atmosphere of the cell. When his one thought could carry the lives of the entire third company brothers, this genius warrior who was no more than fifty years old in mortal age did cause some real concerns, but he would never admit this to anyone.

Although Ptolemyon had been meticulously following the requirements of the Holy Codex Astartes written by the great Guilliman from daily prayer to evening prayer for nearly forty years without interruption.

His purity and dedication were also often praised by the Chapter Chaplains to other brothers, and he himself believed that this was a necessary self-discipline that allowed him to be closer to their gene father, Robert Guilliman, both physically and mentally.

Get up in the morning, pray, train, listen to the holy sermons of the priest brothers, company lunch, training, reading the holy scriptures together, training, dinner, bedtime... or, fight, pray to the Emperor and Guilliman, fight, kill, get hurt, fight, fight, until victory, bring all or some of the brothers and their gene seeds back to New Seek, where they will once again participate in the solemn farewell and solemn resting ceremony.

In this way, he won himself a short, quiet and regular life. In the intervals between going to the chapel, he could stay in his favorite monastery corridor and walk slowly, allowing himself to be in a daze for a few seconds without being noticed, watching the leaves swirling from the trees in the courtyard to the ground.

But he never knew that breaking this regular and rigorous life would make him so uncomfortable... so uncomfortable, but not a kind of torture that can be specifically manifested in the physical body, he couldn't say it.

After all, it was true that most of what the master of the Eighth Legion promised to Ptolemyon in that cell had been fulfilled - the brothers who came to the ship alive and without further harm (naked, of course), he himself was not forced to perform any blasphemous killings or kneel before any evil being, nor was there any torture and torture as imagined, or the craftsmanship that the Eighth Legion was famous for inflicted on him; so it was obvious that in contrast, based on the education and training that Ptolemyon had received since his childhood in a feudal noble knight family until he became an Astartes, the promise he agreed to make at the time should also be kept.

But perhaps he shouldn't keep his promise to the heretics, because they don't deserve it. He had heard similar remarks in the Chapter before, but never delved into it, because in front of his invincible thunder hammer and terminator, unclean heretics and aliens usually wouldn't have the chance to live to talk to Ptolemyon, let alone exchange terms.

There are no priest brothers here either. The captain of the third company has been vacant because of his refusal. He knows that others are looking forward to his succession, but he always says that he is still inexperienced when he refuses, which earns him more reputation for humility. However, only Ptolemyon himself knows that he is not ready to bear more and heavier responsibilities, just like today.

He had to start the first attempt to bear the responsibility for the lives and future of nearly a hundred Astartes brothers.

The crown is light, but it has its own weight.

——————————

"Don't stand there in a daze like an Ogryn. There is work that needs to be done all over the floor."

A cold voice startled Ptolemyon from his immersed thoughts.

He looked up. He was barefoot now, wearing only a tattered and dirty rag that was no different from a strip of cloth. It was very small, but the gaps between the rags were large enough. They should have taken it off from a slave. He was standing in a hall that had just been emptied. His genetically enhanced sense of smell and taste told him that many people must have died in this place before. A lot of people. The extremely strong smell of blood mixed with other body fluids made Astartes want to vomit.

"Hey, be kind to the young people, Valer. They still have a lot to learn. They can't be expected to know everything at the beginning."

At the other end of the hall, a dreadnought - Ptolemyon tried not to habitually add the title of "sacred" in front of it - but it really looked older and more impressive than any he knew - was standing there. It was one of his designated guardians on this ship, called "War Philosopher" Malcharion, and the other was Valer in front of him.

Even for an Astartes company champion, having such an elder as a guardian is a solemn and honorable treatment. Ptolemyon did feel a little bit of pride or satisfaction in his heart.

The pharmacist turned around and roughly stuffed a bunch of makeshift but very useful cleaning tools into the arms of the company champion.

"Here, this is what you will do here next. First clean up here, find a desk for yourself, then start counting statistics, and finally deal with documents! - No offense, War Philosopher, but I still have a lot of work to do, and I don't have enough medicine and materials."

"Ah, I understand, Valier, thank you for your hard work and dedication. It's okay, let me do it here."

"Everything for the King of the Night, Philosopher."

Just...that's all? There is no such thing as working in the death mines, entering the gladiatorial arena for people's entertainment, or becoming experimental materials for evil pharmacists?

Ptolemion stood there holding the pile of tools in disbelief, listening to the pharmacist's footsteps leaving in a hurry. There were only a few emergency lights shining precariously, and everything was dark.

The fearless rotating motor made a whining sound, and Ptolemion's muscles tightened. Perhaps this fearless was equipped with an electric whip or something else...

"Snapped."

There was no pain as expected.

The two searchlights at the top of the Dreadnought shine brightly, illuminating Astartes' blank face and his next work site.

"I think this brightness should be enough. Now, get to work, kid."

"Ah, thank you very much, respected Macharion...man?"

Before he realized what he had answered, the habitual words of reply had flowed out of Ptolemion's mouth smoothly - although he immediately pursed his lips tightly, wishing to swallow all the previous words.

There was a loud banging sound like a rotating metal bullet chain inside the Fearless.

For some reason, Ptolemion felt that Fearless was smiling.

——————————

In the darkness, the pale giant stared at the champion who was puzzled and ashamed by his words and deeds. He took a sip of the "second best" he finally got in his hand, then wrinkled his whole face together, and took a sip of the "second best" in his hand. The extremely precious and rare "fine wine" on the ship was put down, and he began to rinse his mouth with the more precious tasteless water.

(*I'm starting to see why you picked him.)

"Um?"

(*As rich as he is in combat experience, he is lacking in social experience. His whole life is as boring as the most tasteless corpse starch. This man became the Champion of the Astartes solely because of his combat skills. His pure focus and shitty luck. He is so young that he can be easily persuaded and swayed as long as he takes off his armor.)

"Isn't it okay to be very lucky? Luck is a rare quality. I think both you and everyone on this boat need some very much."

(*…I don’t believe in luck, and neither does war.)

"It doesn't matter," Lamizane thought about the next thing, "Just believe in metaphors and omens."

(*……?)