There are still countless great things to be done in the chamber, for Horus knows that they have no chance to do so.

———— Horus's thoughts after seeing the eleventh training module

——————

Apple.

Morgan suddenly thought of the word.

Apple, an apple.

A delicacy belonging to the phylum Angiosperms, the Rosaceae, the genus Apple, has long since disappeared from the Holy Terra and most of the worlds in this empty galaxy, or, like most things and common sense in the universe now, something unrelated to the original definition of eons ago.

After all, how many beings can withstand the baptism of time and stand proudly at the end of the long flow of time?

……

Apple.

She forgot what it looked like, she forgot its shine and color, as if she had never seen it.

But Morgan remembered the taste, and she remembered how the slightly sweet stream of her tongue moistened her tongue as her teeth bit through the thin, brittle crust, cutting and sucking the flesh and juice, and then commanded her throat to move every muscle and swallow it little by little.

How delicious.

How sweet.

Not to mention the countless screams and weepings that accompany.

It's rare to find something so delicious.

So rare, so rare, she did her best, but only a few tasted superficially, on the battlefield of the fall of her blood relatives and the end times, she picked apples and sent them into her mouth.

That seemed like a long time ago.

Or is it ...... Here's what's next.

Morgan opened his eyes.

She was in the dark.

She heard a call: a feeble dream, a cold invitation.

In the midst of that darkness.

The blonde beast, or rather, part of it, was waiting for her.

She opened her eyes.

She smiled.

She moves forward.

She, salivating.

——————

"It's a spacious place, how we didn't find it before."

On top of the walls made of pure steel, Abaddon saw a detailed map of all the passages and room signs within tens of kilometers.

It's a huge kingdom that lurks almost entirely underground, and on this detailed map, a corner of it is casually revealed: intricate passages, spacious rotundas and underground plazas, dense lockers and dormitories that resemble beehive compartments, and at the very end of the map, a large area that can be blurred.

Abaddon nodded, he knew what this blurring meant: it looked like they were lucky, not far from the heart of this vast underground kingdom.

With that in mind, his gaze swept over the sign in the lower left corner of the map: the symbol was the only ornament and source of light on the empty walls: it emitted a more terrible gloom than the icy air here.

It was an eagle, an eagle that was too sharp and solemn.

That was the emblem of the Eleventh Legion.

This was their place, and if he guessed correctly, it was supposed to be one of the main command centers of the Eleventh Legion during the previous Zandan War, the remnants of the legion that mysteriously disappeared during the war.

Maybe they'll be able to find some clue here, or even survivors, to find out what's going on, and thinking of this, Abaddon looked at the figure that loomed in the darkness, dominating the Second Legion.

Presumably, Master Morgan did the same, but ......

It's really eerie here.

The most reckless son of the wolf shepherd touched his dry cheek with some curtle: Abaddon didn't like this place very much, it was dark, cold, and there was no smell of war, sweat, or blood.

But he still came: after all, the genetic prototype that his genetic father had told him to protect was the first person to step into this underground labyrinth.

At this time, it was already the fourth hour of the start of the landing operation, and the war on the ground was basically over, under the onslaught of the two genetic prototypes and 20,000 Shadow Moon Blue Wolves, all the fortresses and fortresses belonging to the alien army did not hold on to even three Terra standard hours, and the war had changed from attacking fortifications to pure clean-up activities.

After the loss of their Emperor, these formerly formidable adversaries seem to have lost some kind of core power: they still fight fiercely, fighting to the death, but they are no longer the fierce warriors that Astarte should cherish, they have gone from being throne chasers capable of competing with the human empire to a kind of unremarkable alien threat: and such threats, the Shadowmoon Wolves have razed no less than a hundred in the past seventy years.

Abaddon even felt a kind of disdain from the bottom of his heart: if this is Ran Dan, this is the so-called strongest enemy who made the dark angels bleed all over the ground, then it can only mean that the famous Serap Army is nothing more than that.

Maybe those inner rings who have been famous for a long time are just a group of guys who are complacent and complacent based on their past merits, and if he can mobilize a group of Gastarin, he will definitely be able to defeat the so-called inner ring veterans who are several times their size.

The son of Horus thought so, and he was so proud: he certainly had good reason to be so arrogant,

After all, with the end of this so-called Randan War, the knights of Johnson can no longer challenge the prestige of the Shadow Moon Blue Wolf.

From the moment the war ended, the wolf shepherd and his gray and white wolf pack were the most glorious forces of the empire, and would continue until the end of the Great Expedition and everything.

Abaddon thought so, and was so proud, but his gaze did not dwell on such an honor for long: while Abaddon may not be a brilliant figure compared to his companions, he was still a great commander: in some ways.

The first company commander looked away from the detailed map, and he looked at the cold and empty passages, estimating whether they would be able to support Gastarin's activities, and in his mind's mind he recalled every detail of that map over and over again: the more he recalled, the more he felt that this was a behemoth hidden underground.

This unremarkable, unadorned passage alone was enough for six Gastarin Terminators to move side by side, and there was still some surplus.

It's no wonder that the aliens had built a fortress to seal off the entrance, and if it weren't for the Lord of the Second Legion who walked firmly to the hidden door, the Shadowmoon Wolves would never have found it.

But then again, why do those aliens have to completely seal the entrance? If it weren't for the power of Master Morgan, they wouldn't have thought of coming in anytime soon.

Abaddon blinked, and he commanded himself to take another look at the situation and things around him: the underground kingdom had apparently been abandoned for some time, and all its lighting had been destroyed, leaving only darkness beyond the reach of even the most scorching daylight.

In this bleakest environment, even the Astarte warriors could only rely on the automatic sensing system and optical imaging system on their helmets to carefully move forward in this shadow, and the sound of those heavy armor stepping on the steel ground under the delicate control of the children of Horus was no harsher than a gently thrown stone, but in this extremely quiet situation, it was still audible clearly.

In this way, this team: one genotype, six sons of Morgan, fifteen Gastarin warriors, and twenty-seven battle-hardened Shadowmoon Wolves, plus the first company commander Abaddon himself, this team of fifty people, advanced in this empty and uninhabited underground world, walking in a corridor that was too long.

Abaddon blinked, counting the time precisely, keeping an eye on the communicator in his hand: he had sent a message to his genetic father long before he entered, and he needed to make sure Horus would be the first to know if something happened.

But for now, it seems, everything is normal.

It wasn't until the group reached the end of this wide passageway, into a darkness so deep that even the Astarte warriors couldn't see far with the naked eye without the visual instruments on their helmets, but even so, Abaddon could barely recognize the environment: it was a hall, a hall large enough to accommodate a mortal legion, and its majestic arcing dome was at least a hundred meters from the [ground] where they stood, like a palace reflected in the ground.

In front of Abaddon, the Lord of the Second Legion saw more clearly, and she knew at a glance what was in front of her.

It was a synagogue, unimaginably large enough to accommodate tens of thousands or more of people standing here, listening to the voice of the master of this underground kingdom.

It consists of five levels of grandstands, a wide central plaza and a 50-meter-high curved embedded curtain wall, with a circular dome, an iron and stone floor, and countless seats and standing signs in a tightest order, with a perfect but unshakable distance from each other.

Standing anywhere in this palace, the view will be exactly the same: the empty grounds, the cold walls, the banner of the Imperial Aquila as the only ornament in the highest or most conspicuous places, and on the left and right sides of this grand assembly hall are a hundred identical Doric marble stone columns, which start from the entrance of the Great Hall, neatly arranged and surround tens of thousands of square meters of underground territory. It stretches all the way to the very end and noblest place of this magnificent building: the podium.

The podium was the highest point in this great hall, and it stood on a pedestal of two hundred steps, relying on a huge and ornate statue of the emperor, which could easily overlook any corner, and when the people below raised their heads and looked up at the figures on the podium, a difference in status and distinction would make anyone feel a clear admiration and emptiness.

Authority, collectivity, obedience, greatness.

At the sight of this synagogue, such words seem to echo in anyone's chest.

Morgan surveyed the statue that belonged to the emperor and imagined her brother standing there, giving a speech to his legions.

Everything here is so cold and realistic: from the almost decorated walls and synagogues, to the floors that are eager to be molded with complete steel, and even the simple notches on the statues of the emperors.

But on the other hand, the vast synagogue, which is 100 meters high and covers an area of tens of thousands of meters, is a great waste of resources and space, and the wide, even meaningless passage they have just walked through, seems to tell the incomparable obsession with formalism and grand narrative in the heart of the owner of all this.

Rationality and fanaticism, precision and waste.

There is no conflict.

And judging from the fact that all of this has been shaped with great care, there is no doubt that the owner here has received a great deal of support: there are many forces that support his ideas from the bottom of their hearts, and thus shape this grand but wasteful underground and spectacular kingdom.

The Spider Empress even wanted to laugh a little, once upon a time, she even thought that these Astarte warriors were the most determined existences, but now that the methods used by her blood relatives to control her own legions were not new.

The Lord of the Second Legion even took about a second to think about what he could learn from the Blood Soldier he had never met.

In fact, she's been wondering how to deal with her legion lately: she's not going to be a bad mother.

At the very least, she didn't want anyone to see the bad side.

This means that the warriors who are loyal to the Emperor: no matter how much she dislikes them, she must not let them go in a bloody or overly obvious way, she must appear in front of everyone as a kind genetic mother, a figure who is easier to talk than her other blood relatives.

As for the stubborn Terranarians, who were not destined to be used too easily: they could retire, they could be second-tiered, they could be given a position of respect and dignity before her growing desire for control consumed the entire legion, and they would be the best testimony to her moderate rule.

As for those who are not reconciled to this: her blood relatives also seem to have demonstrated to her how to use worship and community, glory and hardship, to reasonably consume them on the battlefield.

Let those diehards go into the battlefield and the smoke of gunpowder to their heart's content, let them plunge into the craziest war, die under the curtain of the Great Expedition with dignity, and obtain the names of those who have no effect after their deaths, so that their names will only be in the mouths of all their successors, and on the so-called wall of merit, which will endure for a long time.

She would throw them into the fiercest and most glorious battlefields, and let the Terrans be the anchors of the sea at every critical moment, enjoying the closest kiss of death, and all they could get was a cold, cold death that was unaware of the truth.

She had the patience to let them die on the battlefield one by one.

Then, the Legion was hers.

Morgan thought, smiled, and moved forward.

But then, she frowned.

What she felt.

Without much thought, Morgan pushed his will and stepped into an invisible door in the darkness: someone was inviting her.

There's food talking.

——————

Hector felt only a moment of trance.

He patted his head to keep his senses awake, an action that took him no more than a split second.

Then, when he opened his eyes again.

The mother of his genes is gone.

……

……

？！！

——————

The chaos hit the team and lasted for a few seconds.

Just as Abaddon and the others were stunned, Hector had already raised his head, felt his connection to his genetic mother, and ran all the way out: five swift shadows flashed around him.

“…… Come on! ”

Abaddon didn't hesitate, and all the Shadow Moon Blue Wolves immediately turned on the battle state, their heavy breathing and chaotic footsteps exploded in this dead and silent Great Hall, sending out countless invisible waves of qi, like wolves under the moon howling in the valley.

A company of Horus rushed at the forefront of all the Shadowmoon Wolves, the heavily armed Gastarin watchful behind him, and the lighter Sons of Horus slowly spreading out in an arc as they ran.

The synagogue was wide, perhaps tens of thousands of square meters, but it was quickly passed through at the speed of Astarte's full run.

As far as Abaddon's vision passed over the majestic podium, his perspective caught something at the foot of this fine building made of marble and precious wood, and there seemed to be some blood stains that were particularly damaging to beauty and overall harmony: they looked like they had been for some time, and they took on the shape of a scattered explosion, as if something had been torn apart here.

They stepped over the podium and skimmed over the steps in three or two steps, only to see more and more blood along the way, and even some broken pieces of armor and bones: it was clear that something very bad had happened here.

In front of them, Hector continued to move forward rapidly: the moment he lost his genetic mother, he felt some burning object in his brain and will, directing his steps.

He didn't hesitate: until he saw something behind the curtain wall of the podium.

It was a door, a whole ten gates, and there was something wrong with them.

Abaddon's team followed, and Horus's Aiko only adjusted his breathing to feel something in order.

He stomped his foot, feeling only that his iron boots seemed to be stuck to something, and he wasted some effort and trudged to Hecht's side.

He was facing a large gate, where there was some hesitation.

Abaddon walked over, and he glanced at the gate: it was steel, taller than two Astarte warriors stacked on top of each other, but there was something on it.

That thing: it takes up most of the door, it has dense textures, and it has a very sticky feel, it seems to ......

It's moving.

The Shadow Moon Wolf was stunned for a moment.

He touched it.

The next moment, he knew what it was.

"Boom."

Abaddon swallowed, a sign of a cold sweat about to fall.

——————

That's meat.

It's breathing.

(End of chapter)