Warhammer: Start with a dog.

Chapter 297: Is that all?

Ptolemion had doubts.

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

The main reason for this came from the fact that he began to obsessively agree to "consider" the other party's proposal under the pressure and atmosphere created by that cell - when one of his thoughts could cost the lives of the entire brothers of the third company, to this The genius warrior, who was no more than fifty years old in terms of mortal age, did have some real concerns, but he would never admit this to anyone.

Although Ptolemion meticulously followed the requirements of the Holy Codex Astartes written by the Great Guilliman from daily prayers to evening prayers for nearly forty years without interruption.

His purity and devotion are something that the Chaplain of the Chapter often praises to his other brothers, and he himself believes that this is a way to bring himself closer to their genetic father, Robert Guilliman, both physically and mentally. Self-discipline is necessary.

Rising in the morning, praying, training, listening to the sacred sermons of the brother chaplains, company lunch, training, reading the holy scriptures together, training, dinner, going to bed...or, fighting, praying to the Emperor and Guilliman, fighting, slaughtering, being wounded , fight, fight, until victory is achieved, take all or part of the brothers and their gene seeds back to New Star Search, where they will once again participate in a solemn farewell and solemn resting ceremony.

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

But he never knew that breaking this regular and rigorous life would make him so uncomfortable... so uncomfortable, but it was not a torture that could be concretely manifested in the physical body, he couldn't tell.

After all, it is true that most of what the master of the Eighth Legion promised to Ptolemion in that cell has been fulfilled - the brothers who came to this ship alive and without further harm (naked, of course) ), he himself was not forced to perform any sacrilegious killing or kneeling to any evil being, nor was he subjected to imaginary torture and torture, or was the Eighth Legion's famous craftsmanship inflicted on him; therefore Obviously, given the education and training Ptolemion received from his childhood in a feudal noble knight family until he became an Astartes, the promise he agreed to make at that time should also be kept.

At the other end of the hall, there was a Dreadnought - Ptolemion tried not to habitually add the word "holy" in front of it - but it really looked older and more impressive than any other he knew - —Standing there, that is one of his appointed guardians on this ship, known as "War Philosopher" Markarian, and the other is Valier who is in front of him.

But maybe he shouldn't keep his word to heretics because they don't deserve it. He had heard similar remarks in the war group, but never delved into it, because in front of his invincible thunder hammer and terminator, unclean heretics and aliens usually would not have the chance to survive to fight Ptolemion. When talking, let alone quid pro quo.

----------

There are no priest brothers here either, and the commander of the third company is still vacant due to his refusal - he knows that others are looking forward to his taking over, but he always says that he is still inexperienced when declining, which wins him more What a humble reputation, but only Ptolemion himself knew that he was not ready to shoulder more and heavier responsibilities - like today.

"Hey, be kind to the young people, Valier. They still have a lot to learn. You can't ask them to know everything from the beginning."

He had to assume responsibility for the lives and futures of nearly a hundred of his Astartes brothers on his first try.

A cold voice startled Ptolemion out of his immersed thoughts.

"Don't stand there looking like an Ogryn, there's work all over the place that needs to be done."

Although the crown is light, it has its own weight.

He raised his head. Now he was barefoot and only wore a rag that was so tattered and dirty that it was no different from a strip of cloth - it was very small but the gaps between the rags were big enough. They should have ripped it off from a slave - —Standing in a hall that had just been evacuated, his genetically enhanced sense of smell and taste told him that many people must have died in this place before - very, very many - and the unusually strong blood was mixed with other body fluids. The smell made even the Astartes want to gag.

Even for a champion of the Company Astartes, having such an elder as a guardian is a serious and honorable treatment, and the invisible part deep in Ptolemion's heart is indeed a little small. Feel something close to pride or satisfaction.

The pharmacist turned around and roughly thrust a bunch of improvised but useful cleaning tools into the company champion's arms.

"Here, this is what you are going to do here next. Clean the place first, find yourself a desk, then start counting data, and finally process the files! - No offense, philosopher of war, but I There is still a lot of work to be done, and I don’t have enough medicine and materials yet.” “Ah, I understand, Valier, thank you for your hard work and dedication, it’s okay, let me do it here.” "

"All for the King of Night, philosopher."

Just...that's all? There's no such thing as working in the death mines, entering the gladiatorial arena for people's amusement, 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' dazed face and his next work site.

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

"Ah, thank you very much, dear Macharion...?"

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.)
"Ok?"

(*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."

(*……?)

(End of this chapter)