God Emperor’s Angel of Death

His memory is not very good.

Sometimes, memories will turn up without being invited, and in the worst case, he doesn't know who his first name or last name is.

Sometimes, after a brief numbness, he will suddenly remember that he is Rozim Premki.

From the time he was born in the sunshine of this world, he was Rozim Premki.

He doesn’t remember when that happened. It should have been a long time ago. It is longer than the lives of quite a few mortals...

Whenever I think of this At that time, he thought of fire.

He likes fire, and he likes the creaking sound they make when burning objects.

He can still smell the leather on his shoulders. Although he now has animal skins on his shoulders, they smell like ashes.

Compared with the self in the memory, his shoulders have also changed a lot-they are twice as big.

If he returns to his home now, he looks like a monster.

If I could see my two brothers again, I would probably be able to scare their souls out.

Who are they?

Who is the brother?

He is also not sure, maybe they are dead, or they are just a dream.

He sometimes dreamed of fires—the way they glowed.

So all this may be a dream!

He looked down at the job at hand, and he couldn't be more familiar with it, because he was very good at it.

When working, he neither dreams nor forgets things, nor does he miss the smell of alcohol. He just knows "work".

It helps to cheer up and concentrate.

He tossed the pot made of heavy metal up and down.

It is heavy, like a big rock, it looks heavy even in his huge palm.

He can't remember its raw materials, what is it called?

He could say it before, but he can't remember it now.

It's not iron, it's not stone, or anything else.

He just called it "the pot", and everyone else knew what he meant.

This is his plan.

He took a deep breath, took the pot and put it into the huge stove, turning the fire to the highest intensity.

Then he began to grease the surface of the pot with a thick layer to make it easier to use.

It took him a long time to do this, and once it took even two days to be perfect.

He likes to look at the smooth pot against the fire. It is as smooth and soft as the skin, not like his own skin, but like the skin of girls.

Just like the skins of those girls in his impression--

What is it like?

Leave him alone.

Then he picked up the spice box and started to work.

This will take a lot of time, sometimes even several days, but he really doesn’t notice it because he has to concentrate attention completely, and there is no sun or moon in this place—— Only fire and heat, people come and go.

They never look at themselves, unless they want to give him a prepared ingredient or take away the prepared portion.

He doesn't look at them often because he is very happy at work.

Only at this time, he can temporarily get rid of his craving for alcohol.

All kinds of spices from different regions are mixed in his box. This is his unique memory. He called it a gal, which sounds like a green-skin thing.

Well, in fact, he thinks there is nothing wrong with the green leather stuff, at least those assholes are more reliable than these extremely stupid servants.

He bent down so hard that his eyes were almost on it, and then poured the milligram-accurate seasoning into the mixing box.

Well, this smells really comfortable.

It reminds himself that he is working now, and he never goes back homesick and fire when he is working.

If this step goes wrong, you have to start again, but due to long time drifting, there is not much material left.

So he can't make any mistakes, even if there is only one, even the smallest point, the flavor of the spice will be weakened.

Once he failed, he beat everyone in the kitchen, including the machine servant, violently.

But his thoughts drifted away again.

If there is no failure, if he becomes the existence he wants to be, he does not want the first meal to be flawed.

He thinks of those who have succeeded and hopes that this dinner will be perfect enough, although he will always be impossible to eat it as he expected a long time ago.

Thinking about it, he continued to work again, following the ancient recipes, drawing sacred patterns in the pot.

When the liquid in the pot boiled, he used those secret spices.

When the powder exuding a strange fragrance fell into the pot, the boiling liquid made a snake-like si si sound.

He must also be cautious in this step. Putting too much of the whole pot will cause it to be scrapped, and too little will not be outstanding enough.

He urged his hands and feet to be sharper, shaking off the spice to half before stirring to the twentieth lap.

Soon, the boiling liquid turned into tumbling slime, and he lifted the pot from the stove with his large gloved hands.

He took out a plate and multiplied a ball with a spoon.

Looking at the dark brown liquid flowing along the edge of the dish, sometimes he would lift it up and moved it towards the firelight, admiring everything he had made.

nodded, he picked up a cloth and gently wiped the stain on the edge of the dish.

Then walked to a servant, who was controlling a cart, he put the dish on the cart, and then went to take the second dish.

Other subordinates are also busy, operating their own dishes, but no one is more important than his work, so he can only do it himself.

This makes him proud.

Because he will feel that he has become useful, most of the time is enough to wipe out his heart disease.

Most of the time, he served in the canteen of the Astartes

He often saw those tall warriors and enjoyed his food after removing the armor. And praised him a lot.

But in any case, he should leave in the end.

He also knew that he had to leave, but he always wanted to stay a little longer, and always wanted to stay with these great warriors a little longer.

After all, he was so close to greatness--

This is his heart disease.

When seeing those ignorant boys coming from the Academy to the temporary trial base, he recalled the tests he had received and how close he was to success.

He recalled how they strengthened their bodies, and recalled the pain of the heart when they failed.

Although he was bound to die, he still survived.

As a failure.

How much he wanted to die, I hope they gave up on themselves.

The machine servant looked at him with soulless eyes, and he filled the last disc, then nodded, just click.

Then the servant took his eyes away from him, pushed the cart and left, and the others were still busy.

He returned to the stove, and the assistant gave him a new pot, a pot for cooking.

He looked down at the job at hand, and he couldn't be more familiar with it, because he was very good at it.

When working, he neither dreams nor forgets things, he just knows "work".

Simple, serious work.

But sometimes he is still worried, sometimes he can't sleep through the night, or recalls things he doesn't want to remember.

But he also has a dream he likes.

He once saw the Astartes walking in the sea of ​​stars, saw them fighting, and saw them standing strong.

I am in them, just as perfect as they are wearing.

When he wakes up from his dream, he will always be satisfied.

But he still remembers his failures, but he also remembers that he can give his own strength.

Perhaps this is his reward: he can give his own strength.

Even if he sometimes looks like a fool in the eyes of others.

But he doesn't know how long he will be here, maybe forever, maybe to the end of the world.

His memory is not very good.

His name is Rozim Premki and he likes fire.

He hopes he can fight, which was his yearn for something even in dreams.

But the Astartes are fighting, he assists them, and sometimes he feels, maybe—

This is enough.