Warhammer: Start with a dog.

Chapter 302 Quill Sword

"Captain Macharion."

"Don't call me company commander, little Talos. Now all the surviving soldiers of the 10th and 11th companies are under your command. Although I am not considered alive, I am also one of them. The order of command cannot be Feel free to mix it up.”

"I'm just... glad you're back and rejoining us. Why don't you become a leader again. You can do a better job than me." Current Oracle of the Eighth Legion and former Apothecary Tower of the Tenth Company Los Valcoran shook his head slightly, "You will always be my company commander, sir."

There was a rattling sound deep in Macario's gorgeous adamantine coffin.

"Talos."

"Yes, Philosopher of War."

"No need to worry. Look at your achievements, the respected Primarch has told me a lot - you successfully escaped from Abaddon, you faced the High Sky's solicitation, you recaptured the Cursed Echo, you endured high fever and With the pain of a headache, you guided and led our other brothers to successfully run here to welcome our father's new life - here, you recovered the Lord of the Night of the Eighth Legion for all of us, our father, we Your Highness. These miracles and luck are all due to you, you should be proud of this."

Ptolemion, who was quietly paying attention to this conversation, was gradually becoming numb from anger at the heretical and shocking content of every word he heard. At the same time, he felt that for a moment, the commander of the Night Lord who looked the most cold-blooded The officer almost winced at the words of relief and praise.

Of course the (self-described) clever Chapter Champion didn't foolishly show that he was eavesdropping: the tip of the quill in his right hand was on the parchment - well - he refused to speculate on what kind of leather this might be - the paper was slightly dirty but The smooth paper was moving around, and lines of summaries, reminders, calculation formulas, corrections, pending statistics, etc. were written in rigorous and beautiful High Gothic cursive characters, while the original data was being continuously copied along the link. Biorelays and cables at the black carapace interfaces at his wrists, back of head, and spine feed into the Astartes' enhanced, more-than-mortal brain.

His left hand is efficiently ready to replace the pen tip and ink at any time, so that his writing work can keep up with the sorted and summarized data that is being frantically output in his mind smoothly and continuously, without being affected by the failure of the writing instrument. Consumed and often interrupted.

Ptolemion's neck, wrists and waist were all fixed to a crude iron plate combination used as a chair by thick temporary welded iron bars and chains, and his ankles were also tied with shackles and chains - but not He knew why there were no Servant Skulls, mortal servants or Astartes watching him. Instead, the fearless elder Markarian had been patiently standing here watching his work, and would even kindly come to his rescue. Some of the Night Lords who wandered around went away to do other things or had slaves or servitors assigned to them in advance. More and more first-hand information and documents were sent to Ptolemion, which began to make Ptolemion despair.

——These damn traitors and heretics have never done statistics, inventory or personnel maintenance on this ship in ten thousand years, right? ! And judging from his current estimated reserves of food, fresh water and other daily necessities...how did he survive and even have enough energy to operate the ship's weapons and navigation system? ! Ah, Ptolemion, you can't worry about heretics. They deserve to rot in the mud and burn in hell...! Wait, is this generational replacement number reasonable? ! And the uneven quality of this weapon and ammunition... there is no quality control at all, right? ! ! The extent of miscellaneous brands and inconsistent specifications...Hell-like warehousing distribution of random piles and overstocks——

Ah ah ah ah no! no! Emperor, please forgive me! Lord Guilliman! Help me...I can't help it anymore...I...I...I can't help but do corrections and classification statistics! ! ! too messy! ! ! I can't stand it at all! ! ! ! This is... this is a serious provocation to truth, accounting, order, coordination and logistics management! ! ! !

As more, more messy, more obsessive raw data was fed furiously into Ptolemion's brain and simultaneously onto his desk, the champion unknowingly tightened his grip on his quill. With the sword, he began to immerse himself in the atmosphere of high-intensity training and fighting on weekdays, and launched a desperate charge towards this pile of things that were like the fermented hometown of a serious garbage hoarder.

"This fake emperor who has the honor to serve my lord is quite sensible." Talos snorted coldly, "If he brings you any trouble or dares to resist, Markarian, I will randomly select one of his companions. Recording the sounds of nerves being ripped out and skinned alive... Oh, the original body doesn't allow us to do that now, so maybe..."

"Or you could go to the cells and triumphantly tell them that their champion is about to be forced to death by the evil Night Lord for their lives, and then ask them who is willing to take his place and save the rest of the rest. "People." Markarian tried to lower his loud voice, which was not easy, after all, he was using a loudspeaker originally designed for war shouting and encouragement. The soul hunter looked at the fearless sarcophagus hesitantly for a while. There was no face or facial features there, only the powerful warrior who stood outside the Royal Palace of Terra tens of thousands of years ago, displaying his illustrious glory in eternal silence in the exquisite painting.

"I will give it a try, Philosopher of War," he promised at last, "after accompanying the Primarch back aboard our new ship."

"Go, Talos. The Primarch calls. I hear there is more to do after our father. I am here to guard the Cursed Echo for you."

--------

"So the Coronation is now completely in our hands."

"Yes, my lord and my father," Talos reported their latest progress to the original body with a list that was still wet with ink. According to Lamizane's request, most of the soul hunter's power armor has also been removed. The organic decoration makes the armor, which is pieced together with different power armor parts and repainted with midnight and lightning, look a bit too worn and dim against the shining golden sword. In addition, looking at it this way, wearing a bone-white skull No matter how you look at Talos in the mask and helmet, he looks a bit like - "The remaining team of puppet emperor's lackeys on the ship and their navigators, bridge officers, etc. have been transferred and guarded first, and Valier is taking care of them one by one. Injection of anesthetic."

"Can he do it alone?"

"He was a very good apothecary, my lord, and he looked after us for a long time alone."

"Indeed." The King of Night stood up from the throne, "Are you ready? Talos."

"All is at your will, my lord."

"Great, let's head towards the bathroom of the Coronation!"

(*Do you have to take this damn hot bath?!)

"Ave dominus nox! Hail! Lord of the Night!"

(End of this chapter)