He also remembered the Angels of Death from the Eleventh Legion.

The most ruthless war machines of the stars: they are more meticulous and meticulous in war than the Iron Hand, and more indifferent and cold to life than the Iron Warriors.

He still remembered them, those emperors would be the most ruthless and rational. He still remembers the most efficient warriors who believe in logic, physical laws and cause and effect. I still remember their actions, remember their faces, remember their words and deeds, and kill decisively.

He also remembers that in the beginning, they weren't.

What a kind, rational, and friendly force the Eleventh Legion had been before the [purest] Primordial returned to the Legion and brought with it its infinite blood and harsh logic.

Unfortunately, everything has changed.

——————

He sighed, lamented the capriciousness of fate, and lamented the cold state of the world. In this emotion, he grabbed the documents in hand, lowered his head, and walked through the corridor, which was already a little dirty and dilapidated.

The caretaker at the end of the corridor opened the door for him, greeted him, and called his name.

He walked briskly through the past, tilting his head sideways to greet the caretaker, to those he knew well, as every day before this, as every serious, silent, oppressive, dead day in the world that had preceded him.

"Glory."

They replied, they said, and he was very sure he had heard the word.

It seemed to be a clumsy slogan in a vain attempt to boost morale, and it seemed like some kind of specially set secret phrase for customs clearance, but in a trance, they didn't seem to say anything, as if those words were just his delusion.

He shook his head, feeling that his consciousness was a little blurry, maybe he shouldn't have stayed up last night.

Pushed open the door and walked inside. It was a chaotic office of the Ministry of Internal Affairs, with a mountain of seals, letters, and hats, and everywhere a voice could be heard emphasizing over and over again countless trivial things: hygiene, discipline, reporting, forms, morals......

"Glory."

He heard the voice again, and it seemed as if someone was emphasizing the word in his ear, as if the round superiors had placed the theme of the next public event on the projection board in front of them.

But this time, he seemed to hear something different, it wasn't the familiar sound of conversation, it wasn't the sound of cars passing by or loading and unloading goods coming from outside the walls, it wasn't the big people in the room arguing about the subject, it was a voice he hadn't heard before.

It's like the most distant, the most ethereal, but also for the beautiful singing.

He likes to listen.

Usto shook his head to reawaken himself, and he felt as if he were still asleep, as if he were still in his small cubicle, only three meters square, lying on the hard, cold, damp bed, huddled under his quilt, immersed in a dream.

That's not going to work, it's not time to rest, and he doesn't want to be punished.

No, can't be sleepy.

With his head down, he walked through the messy room, dodging the big men who were in a hurry, and they also held stacks and stacks of papers and messages in their hands, but they were priceless things, not the ones he had.

The only value of these things is to send them to his superiors and then throw them in the trash, and his job is to pass on the garbage.

He lowered his head, and continued to be surrounded by all kinds of voices, and his superiors came to his side, smashing a thick stack of papers in his face, and his roar was like a puffy, dilapidated airbag that had been torn open by force.

He didn't reply, just picked them up one by one, and silently revised them all, even though he knew he wouldn't get any feedback.

The sound continues.

The muffled roars, the harsh commands, the brutal reprimands, the gossip and speculation about the front line from all corners.

They say that the alien fleets are actually very close, and some say that they are just outside the Mandeville point of this system. Others say that war has been raging in the world next to them for a long time.

He didn't listen carefully, he didn't participate in any discussion, he was trapped in an almost dreamlike situation, dealing with the matter at hand in a numb posture until his work was taken over by the next person.

He walked down the street, trying to walk back to the compartment that could be called "home", and the caretaker seemed to greet him and seemed to say something, but he did not listen or remember.

He looked up and saw the dim star radiating its own light, swearing sovereignty over the system, and beneath that light were stinking corpses, hung high on the side of the road, with signs that read "Deserters" and "Rumor Spreaders".

There is also [Glory].

He saw the words.

And next to the corpses, the radio repeated the inspiring slogans and songs over and over again, telling over and over that they were stationed outside the solar star field, the last line of defense against the aliens.

As if to better prove these ideas, at the top of these broadcasts, endless shadows occupied the firmament of the world, they said, it was an orbital space station and a defense array, and he didn't understand what they were, and he had never seen them.

He is also part of the defensive line.

But he never felt that way.

He staggered home, neither to eat nor to drink. He just planted his head on the bed, wanting to sleep well and have a real dream.

"Glory."

He heard the word again. But before he could react, he was asleep.

——————

He woke up again, seemingly after ten Terra standard hours.

He overslept, but no one seemed to notice him, and Shen Yi's letter was not delivered to the bedside. Nor did the serious-looking investigators break into his compartment and drag him away.

He even felt a hint of happiness.

He still didn't choose to eat. Perhaps before going out, he casually poured himself a sip of water, and then walked down the street, hurrying towards his place of work.

There are a lot more people on the streets than there were yesterday. He saw some military men. They wore green military uniforms, which was uncommon, because in old days the serviceman always stayed in the barracks, and he did not know why they came to the streets.

They didn't seem to be on a mission, because they were walking around, and they seemed to be saying something, quickly, in a whisper, as if a feeding locust were wriggling its mouthparts, speaking it with an instinctive attitude.

He walked around the corner to his place of work, perhaps by illusion, the guards around the corner did not seem to be there today, but the guards were still there, their pants and clothes seemed to be a little dirty, and some dark red stains could be seen on them.

Didn't go and didn't ask. He didn't even reply to them. He didn't even reply to their question mark. He sat in his chair and went about his work. He felt a little more sober. But I can still feel that tired.

The people next to them were still chatting, whispering that another group of troops had been withdrawn from the front. The troops, dressed in green uniforms, appear to have been forcibly withdrawn rather than their normal rotations or recuperations.

He still did not participate in the discussion. Instead, he focused on the scrap of paper he had, and at some point, there were brief gunshots outside the window, and the sound of pushing and shoving, and some people ran to the window to look, and then they were brutally snatched away, making the already messy room almost like a chicken coop that had been blown up.

The roar of his superiors was unprecedented, and he was like a moving volcano, venting his anger in every corner of the office.

His superiors were fist-swinging, roaring, and viciously cursing everyone, and he weaponized the papers and anything he could touch, ping-pong across the room.

He watched coldly.

With his head down, he silently finished his work, and then walked back to his cubicle again, and on the way, he saw the blood on the ground. And those green ones and other colored pieces.

He looked up again to see the hanging corpses, but found that some were out of sight.

"Glory."

He heard it again, this time with great clarity, and he only felt himself in a different kind of exhaustion again.

The sound was still ringing, like a sultry summer afternoon, and there was an incomparably slow, oppressive thunder in the endless low dark clouds.

He sensed something was wrong, a voice urging him to stay away, and he lifted his foot to walk back to his room.

But just then, he heard some rough noise coming from the corner of the street, which was two groups of men beating and shooting at each other, one of them was the same green-uniformed figure he had seen during the day, and they were fighting the other group of soldiers, one by one falling, blood running down the ground to his feet.

He should be gone.

He thought so.

But in the end, he decided to take another look.

Look at the blood, look at the fallen corpses at the end of the blood: their faces are the same pale, their pupils are still round even at the moment of death, staring straight at the sky, these dead are all with their mouths open, and the corpses are built into a small hill, as if there is another new landmark in this steel city.

The soldiers who had killed them did not seem interested in disposing of their bodies, and they quickly walked away, leaving them to form an ominous monument there.

He felt a little strange, but in the next second, he didn't feel strange anymore.

It's a normal thing, why dispose of those corpses?

He continued to look at them, at the corpses: in this moment, they seemed to look exactly the same. He could see their mouths opening slightly. Something seems to be being said.

He knew what they were talking about.

"Glory."

This time, it was he who spoke.

——————

Glory.

Glory echoed in his mind.

He's eaten, he's eaten heavily, and his appetite has never been better.

He came to his job again and continued to work, and he even felt that the room had become less cluttered, probably because there were not so many people anymore: some had disappeared, others had not, and the colleagues who whispered every day had disappeared for the most part, leaving only a few messages of distress wandering around the corners of the office.

Some say that the alien fleet has passed through Mandeville Point, casting its own shadow in the light of the stars.

There are also rumours that there have been many uprisings in the army at the front, with some officers killed and others caught up in the rebels.

The rest are even more sensational. They say that the Doge's Palace has been surrounded, even captured, and that war is burning in every corner of the planet outside of their region.

His boss was still angry, still roaring, the idiot didn't seem to know anything anymore, he was shouting and directing a group of rough discipline troops, and they took out all the guys who spread the message.

In this way, the room is empty, like a tomb.

He was hit in the face by the thick paper again, but this time, he didn't bend down and didn't respond. He sat there and took care of his own business until the end of his working hours.

He left without hesitation, leaving behind only the never-ending curses of his boss.

As he walked down the road, he looked up and saw new corpses that were still working with him an hour ago.

There seems to be some bloody fighting still breaking out at the end of the street, and it seems to have become a fantastical phenomenon: people walk around, as if they have long been comfortable with these bloodsheds.

But he's different.

He stood still, this time, watching with amusement, clapping and letting out a low cheer when he saw the victory of the green-clad army.

"Glory."

He was talking to himself.

He felt a sense of pride.

——————

Glory.

Glory surrounds him!

He had forgotten. Or how did you get back into your room, how did you fall asleep, and how did you wake up?

According to a daily habit, he came to his job again, and this time, he was the only one left in the room.

For the first time, he turned his head and looked out the window, where some ominous smoke seemed to rise from the other side of the nest. He listened closely, but heard only some noisy sounds, some sounds that did not belong to order and reason, which seemed to spread around the area, and seemed to spread throughout the hive, throughout the world.

He wanted to keep looking, to keep listening, but it was the roughest noise that interfered with his thoughts.

His boss came again, as always, and he walked over, holding up another thick stack of papers, the roar already brewing at his throat.

But this time, he stood up.

He smiled.

He walked straight in front of him, and was surprised to find that he was so much higher than his boss, and that this bastard could only be shrouded in his own shadow.

For the first time, his boss took a step back, a panicked expression condensed on his face, and his mouth began to tell some staccato words, as if asking him to go to a department to report: it seemed to be the number of a cannon fodder unit.

He doesn't care anymore.

He just laughed.

Laugh at what he saw.

Those caretakers, they came in.

They walked up behind his boss, and they were looking at him, smiling the same way.

"Glory."

They said so, and he responded.

Then, blood pierced the heart of the man who was always scolding.

He realized that when this violent boss fell, he was no longer different from those cowardly maggots.

A poor bastard.

He was destined not to embrace those glories.

He was destined not to meet those who were great.

——————

With that in mind, he pushed open the door and looked up at the sky.

The shadows have dissipated. The space stations and void arrays that once prided themselves on protecting this world had been pierced by layers of luxurious light before they could be flicked, and it was obvious that there were also people like him who understood the glory.

In this way, those adults walked through these obstacles of ignorance and came to this world.

They bring true glory.

He felt his tears accumulate, he felt his eyes even tingle a little, he looked at the great people, and could only stay where he was.

When was it? He had been led by a false education to call these great people aliens, believing that they wanted to take his life and something precious.

Only now did he understand what he had missed?

Look at these adults, they were so tall, even taller than the angels of death he had ever seen, their faces shrouded in infinite light, their black armor looked so solemn and majestic, that he involuntarily fell to his knees, kneeling in front of an adult who had descended from the sky and came in front of him.

Glory.

He said

So prayed.

And the adult remained silent.

After a long time, he felt a tingling, a tingling, an indescribably happiest feeling.

He only felt some sweet air pouring into his throat, his blood seemed to be running backwards, his neck seemed to ache a little, it didn't matter there anymore.

He felt nothing but endless happiness.

He felt nothing but endless glory.

At this moment, he was convinced that he was bathed in glory.

Just like this world.

Finally, at the end, he looked up.

He only saw, above the endless heavenly firmament. In the most noble position that the great man revered, stood what a great being.

That radiant existence.

That divine being.

The existence that has never been seen before.

In that galaxy, there is a unique existence.

That's the Emperor!

That must be the [Emperor]!

At the last moment, he thought so.

(End of chapter)