Chapter 322: Honor. This Vast Imperium Was Ruined by That Single Word
While the ancient Eldar Farseer was seething with envy at the current state of affairs, Aglaia glanced at the meeting agenda handed to her by the Victrix Guard.
As the first human to establish contact with the Primarchs, she had been given special responsibilities by Terra from the very beginning.
Monitor the Primarchs' movements. Confirm their objectives. assess their status.
But the Inquisitor preferred to simply call it witnessing history.
Although the cushy job of reporting to Terra had been stolen by a certain shameless individual, her enthusiasm for her work had only grown with time, and the honor had not faded.
Under the increasingly full wings of the Dawnbreakers, more and more people were finding their place.
As she opened the meeting minutes, the scent of quill ink mixed with the musty smell of parchment wafted up. The Inquisitor quietly reviewed the records.
The reason for the Eldar's visit was that they had recently been attacked by the Warmaster of Chaos.
The Thousand Sons sorcerer Khayon had prophesied that Ulthran possessed a spell capable of posing a genuine threat to the Primarchs. This prompted Abaddon, aided by the powers of Chaos, to launch a successful raid on the Seer Council of Craftworld Ulthwé via the Webway, just as they were in session.
After the attack, Ulthran disregarded the conservative voices within the council and decisively chose to further communication and cooperation with the Dawnbreakers.
However, Aglaia still had one question.
As a trusted psyker, she had naturally undergone Lord Ramesses's specialized psychic training course. In the process of establishing the surveillance system for the Imperial nobility, she had inevitably dealt with Eldar liaisons.
So why didn't Lord Ramesses just dispose of these xenos?
"Because the Laughing God has entered the game," Ramesses said, addressing the Custodians' doubts and pointing a finger at the colorful figures standing beside Ulthran.
Did they think he didn't want to pack these guys up and take them away?
Especially the old Farseer. As an ancient being who likely knew the Emperor during the time of the Aeldari Empire, the knowledge and secrets he held were enough to make any scholar burn with desire.
Aglaia's gaze followed his finger.
The Harlequins stood in silence. Their red and blue motley costumes were vivid under the lights, and the masks they wore, whether smiling or weeping, exuded an eerie solemnity.
The Masque of the Midnight Sorrow.
The name of this Harlequin troupe surfaced in her mind.
Known for their red and blue livery, their supreme mission was to fight Chaos at any cost. More importantly, they answered directly to Cegorach, acting as the avatars of the mysterious Eldar god's will.
When this troupe appeared, it represented the attitude of the Laughing God himself.
"After all, he is a god—although theoretically there are no gods in this universe. The Four don't count, and Cegorach doesn't count either," Ramesses explained, reiterating that they shouldn't call everything with supernatural powers a god. "But one must respect the power he possesses."
In the original timeline, the Great Harlequin of this troupe, along with many members and Solitaires, would choose to join the Ynnari.
Although they now had C'tan Shards and Karna had been prayed into a warp entity, the four of them weren't afraid of this guy anymore. But they didn't want to invite trouble out of momentary greed.
Although the Laughing God wouldn't even make the top ten list of powerful entities in this universe based on his day job as a clown, his ability to escape and harass was historically proven.
Being able to flee from Slaanesh and occasionally dip into the warp to scam a few Solitaire souls back from She Who Thirsts—Ramesses felt that Cegorach's talent in this area surpassed even his own.
Remember, the Laughing God didn't have Arthur's brand of anti-magic field.
Without the certainty of swatting the opponent dead, the only option was to sign a non-aggression pact and go swat someone else.
As Ramesses's hearty laughter echoed through the hall, explaining the situation to the Custodians and Astartes, the heavy atmosphere instantly dissolved.
The surrounding guards expressed their understanding, their tense nerves relaxing. They adjusted their breathing, put away their wild speculations, cast unnecessary doubts aside, and refocused on their security duties.
It was truly a blessing to have four bosses who were willing to speak plainly.
Clear instructions and honest explanations effectively curbed the excessive initiative of these elite warriors. They now knew exactly what to do and what not to do, making the entire security process exceptionally efficient.
Among the guards focused on their duties, one figure stood out.
Custodian Warden Navradaran.
He maintained absolute focus, his quill scratching across parchment. The noise, questions, and orders from the outside world seemed blocked by his auramite armor.
This Custodian, who had been the first to contact the Primarchs, the first to bring their words back to Terra, and the catalyst for the Great Purge of Terra, was now processing a mountain of documents with astonishing speed.
When he finally closed the last file, Navradaran rose and headed for the council chamber on the outer ring of the Dawnlight.
There, leaders of various Imperial factions were waiting for an audience.
As the Emperor's Custodians, their greatest advantage over the Astartes was that no one dared to slight the will of a Custodian.
As the true proxies of the Emperor's will, Custodians were born with unprecedented status in this era of theocracy. Every word they spoke carried unquestionable authority; they were the highest quality mouthpieces.
Passing through layers of heavy security, Navradaran received an Imperial Rogue Trader Lord.
He had long passed the age of needing answers.
"Now everyone assumes you're weak, Old Ro," Ramesses teased quietly over the internal vox, withdrawing his gaze from the heavily guarded perimeter.
His tone carried a hint of mischief.
Perhaps by tomorrow, rumors that Lord Romulus disregarded his Primarch honor in the face of an Eldar Farseer for the sake of his own safety would spread throughout the warp.
"That's a good thing. It benefits my plan," Romulus replied, happy to see it happen.
Being underestimated by everyone was an advantage; it meant he had a higher margin for error when dealing with plots against him.
And what was Primarch honor? Could you eat it?
Or should he be like Horus, unable to let go of his pride, going down to the surface for a face-to-face confrontation only to get stabbed and sent to the Temple of the Serpent Lodge, successfully becoming the first Primarch to fall in the entire Heresy?
Honor. This vast Imperium was ruined by that single word.
He looked down, examining the treatise on psychic sorcery submitted by Ulthran.
Perhaps due to the observer effect, the four of them had an incredibly high acceptance of technology that was logically consistent. They wouldn't end up like Guilliman, brainwashed by the Imperial Truth into contradicting himself.
So after reading Ramesses's series of reports, although he still couldn't perform sorcery, Romulus could at least analyze the feasibility of a spell from a professional perspective and not be fooled by vague riddles.
And compared to the usual riddling of Craftworld Eldar, the old Farseer Ulthran didn't put on any airs in front of them.
The neat technical parameters on the parchment proved a fact: when you are strong enough, others will always adjust their stance to accommodate you.
As to whether this technical assistance proposed by Ulthran was effective and feasible—
Romulus looked up and exchanged a brief glance with Ramesses.
The golden-masked sorcerer nodded slightly.
Ramesses believed it was credible. The psychic spell provided by the old Farseer was sound.
Because before meeting them, Ulthran had already demonstrated it vividly in actual combat.
Tossing the crystal-clear stone in his hand, Ramesses reviewed the combat records within the Spirit Stone.
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