The storm will sweep the whole world in fifteen minutes, as well as all the unfortunate people.

The wrath of Morgan, the bitter water that had been breached by her absolute sanity, the rarest and most dangerous element in the entire galaxy, would urge the psionic queen's fingertips to unleash a wave of destruction until all existence on the surface was drowned in the vortex.

The Primordial Guards who remained outside the room, the bravest of the three Astarte Legions, would undoubtedly be the first to be affected: these elite veterans may have been invincible on the galactic battlefield for more than a century, but now, they will not outlast the decaying steel.

The sharpest warriors will sense the danger the moment before death comes, feeling hopelessness and powerlessness, because even if every inch of their nerves is screaming, they still don't have time to move a finger: the time left for them is too short, and it takes only a leap in their minds from the moment the edge of the crisis is detected to the time their indestructible power armor and skin are reduced to powder.

Death and despair came at the same time, and the thirty or so elite samurai vanished in the blink of an eye like a tiny pit in the face of a monstrous flood, and only the strongest parts of the master's weapons would roll to the ground, ping-pong and tell their fate.

It was a merciful execution, for just before their bodies were shattered, their souls had been stripped and devoured by the merciless hand, and not even the slightest emotion had been missed, and their deaths were painless, and in the last moments of their lives, these butchers who had survived a hundred battles were nothing more than walking corpses.

The cloisters, the statues, the paintings on the walls, and the banners of glory that all the presence of this great castle accompanied these warriors, all ruthlessly destroyed, and thirteen seconds after the storm began to rage, it would break through the vast fortress of wonder and sweep at a faster speed through the dazed warriors who had gathered on the black sand beyond the tower.

Devastating lava beams, unspeakable turbulence of time, and thousands of neuroviruses and soul blasters will wield the scythe of death like a nuclear warhead ignited in mid-air: one in six warriors will die unprepared, vanishing into thin air, without a trace, and then dying, leaving nothing but a clean land.

One in six warriors instinctively sensed the danger coming, but like the elite Primordial Guards in the Tower, they died at this very moment, and the luckiest of them could still cry out half a sentence.

Only the farthest away, across the entire square from the tower, and the faint shadows, will realize what is happening: they will first see a faint light appear from the direction of the tower, and then, a chuckle echoing in the sea of souls, and the pain of scraping bones will begin to attack their brains, and they will instinctively sense the coming destruction, like a colony of beasts in the face of a natural disaster, and then scatter to survive with the superhuman speed of Astarte.

Before they scattered, Morgan's storm had only time to kill a third sixth of the men at most, which meant that about half of the warriors would have escaped the first round of slaughter, and an indescribable sense of fear was filling their hearts, and they did not dare to imagine who their opponent really was, and they did not know how to resist. They can only flee in all directions, in small teams or individually, to find a safe corner to hide, and escape this sudden and unjustified disaster.

They will rush into transports, snatch armored vehicles that were meant to be used as decorations for military parades, look for every opportunity to escape to low-Earth orbit, or simply burrow into those natural caverns and hide in the darkness deep above the surface: considering the small size of the world, tens of thousands of Astartes will be scattered across half the world in a few tens of minutes at most.

Clearing out these stragglers would not be an easy task, and it would take hours for even a top-notch psionic like the Spider Empress to find and strangle the last of the angry and fearful Astarte warriors: if they were able to organize a massive revolt, that time would be reduced by another hour or two.

Of course, in the meantime, the two culprits have already been dealt with, and it may be difficult for Morgan to kill her blood brother, but it is easy to deal with these two guys: neither Dorne nor Perturabo have yet to realize their psionic talents, and they have no effective means to deal with powerful psionic beings.

Like most fools in the Empire, they naively thought that only Magnus and Morgan were psionic agents: in fact, with the exception of the long-erased being, every heir of the Emperor possessed a remarkable gift of psionic abilities, which they did not recognize, or did not wish to recognize.

But all this did not prevent Morgan from thinking of many measures to deal with her two brothers at the very first moment, and the methods could be varied: she could reach out and control them with a strong gesture, so that they could watch the destruction of her own children; Or tie their presence to the drones that Morgan marks every day, and perform a simple transposition ritual as the two creatures drift slowly through the galaxy until they die of suffocation or intense cosmic radiation.

Of course, it can also be classical: open a rift to the unknown time and space, and let them be involved in it, as for what awaits them on the other side is the monstrous war of war 10,000 years later, or the dynasty of the dead that still grows flesh and blood, it is unknown.

…… She can do that.

It only takes a small price to pay: squeezing every ounce of one's potential, making dangerous promises to the subspace, and enduring the torment of the mind and heart for the rest of the day, you can exchange it for monstrous power, you can exchange it for the true power that belongs to the top psionics, wipe out the essence of two legions in an instant, or flip your fingers and enslave your two brothers.

She can do it if she wants to.

That's right, as long as she wants......

As long as she makes up her mind......

【…… Hiss ......】

Morgan took a deep breath.

Then, he slowly spit it out.

It sounded like a sigh.

——————

But she couldn't.

She wouldn't do that.

After all......

Although it was indeed cool to beat up all these bastards in front of him, but when he thought of the consequences and the problems that came from it, it would indeed make the Lord of Avalon calm down in the next moment.

Knock down two primitives? Destroy their legions? Or do you want to fight with them and have the three legions fight each other? It does sound like a good track, but is it any good for her other than venting her petty resentment?

A deep blood feud? Drawing the wrath of the emperor? Faced with a frightened and disappointed Johnson or Riemanruth? Let's not talk about these things for now: at the moment of a big war with the Heruds, the three supreme commanders of the empire themselves fought first? By the way, let the three main legions start an infighting?

Are you kidding!

Not to mention that she was Morgan, even if she was Horus with long hair and secondary sexual characteristics, she had no right to do so: the only power she had was to keep her anger and ignore the two bastards who had caused her trouble, hoping to get revenge later.

……

Life is fucking up.

——————

After reluctantly spitting out the fragrance, Morgan finally opened his eyes.

Fantasy time is over, and it's time to return to the reality that saddened the primordial.

Although with her in-depth knowledge of the power of psionic energy and her multi-threaded computing power, the Spider Queen could easily guess how she should slaughter everything in this world in batches to recover, but when she opened her eyes, she could only swallow her anger and face a mess.

There is no way, although she really has enough strength and insufficient reasons to smash everything in front of her, although there are indeed countless voices in her head shouting, let these two bastard blood relatives have a good experience of what it means to be the same kind of love as Conrad, but the clamor is the shouting, and the thoughts are the ideas.

The real reality is ......

Morgan lowered his eyebrows and slowly swept over the two genoplasms standing in front of her, standing motionless.

There's nothing she can do with these two bastards.

Morgan sighed again, her eyes catching out of her fingertips, where a psionic light shimmered, and this light drew an invisible thread that trapped the two tense genotypes.

True, the motionlessness of Dorne and Perturabo was neither in calm nor intimidated by Morgan's words: it was only the Lord of Avalon who forcibly restrained the two of them in place the moment she spoke, freezing the two Primordials in the realm of subspace.

It's a little difficult: it's just difficult.

The two masters of the Astarte Legion became two living statues, still able to breathe and still roll their eyes. Still able to look at their harmless blood relatives in Avalon, with a slight dismay: but beyond that, they couldn't do anything, they couldn't roar, they couldn't move even a finger in their armor.

They could only stand there, looking at Morgan and then looking at each other, in a long silence: Perturabo seemed to be humiliated by the situation again, while Dorne, opposite him, after a brief moment of consternation, quickly calmed down, and only waited patiently for Morgan's next move.

The subtlety of this was naturally seen by the Lord of Avalon, which made her shake her head in her heart, which was one of the reasons why Morgan did not choose to vent her anger: if it was Dorne, fortunately, as long as Morgan did not go too far and made it clear afterwards, then this calm Invittite would probably not pursue this matter.

But the problem lies with Perturabo: if he is offended, or genuinely hurt, then even if Morgan tries to do so for a hundred years, it is absolutely impossible to maintain the fragile and high-value friendship between her and Perturabo.

However, the talent and ability of the Lord of Steel are what Morgan urgently needs now: at the very least, the subsequent series of hardware and software upgrades of the Stellar Handmaidens still needs a big ...... She's talking programmer.

Therefore, now is not the best time to send this high-value talent to the galaxy: this is the only reason why the Lord of Avalon can continue to tolerate her blood relative, and she dreams of one day trampling on Perturabo's already distorted self-esteem and so-called dignity by other means.

But it won't be today.

The Primordial took a deep breath, snapped her fingers with her other hand, and slammed into an ornate goblet on the table, the crisp sound once again attracting the attention of the two Primitives: only this time, all they could move was their eyes.

At this time, the Spider Empress had already prepared her new outfit: the scattered and embarrassed hair that had been scattered due to the full release of psionic energy was the first element that was necessary; The already pale complexion must also be a little more penetrating, as sad as the shroud of the dead; The smile under the corners of the mouth should be enough helplessness and bitterness, and it would be better if there was a trace of irrepressible blood; As for the blue pupils, they should be overflowing with unobtrusive sadness and excitement that can be seen clearly by the two bastards in front of them, which is the only choice when they can't bear to see blood relatives fighting again.

It only took Morgan an instant to prepare all this, so fast that Dorne and Perturabo didn't notice any clues: the Lord of Avalon had already made up her mind, since she couldn't hurt these two bastards physically, let's hurt them mentally first, and use their strong shame as a small compensation for the Spider Empress.

Thinking of this, a grief-stricken, exhausted, and helpless Primordial who was emaciated by the misdeeds of his two blood relatives was already standing in the intersection of Dorne and Perturabo's vision: the good reputation of the past and the immaculate psionic appearance fused perfectly in this moment, and the unexpected effect was exerted.

Whatever mood Dorne and Perturabo had when they looked at Morgan: a little discontent, or a growing anger, they all melted away at the bitter and tired countenance of the Lord of Avalon.

In the next moment, the gazes of both primordials became a little evasive: Dorne's expression became a little solemn, as if he was reflecting on the mistake he had just made, and the more sentimental Perturabo had already looked away with a little shame.

Whether it was the previous confrontation or the anger that Morgan had forcibly controlled, nothing mattered, and when the Lord of Avalon sighed heavily, gradually unleashed his psionic powers, and pressed the two blood relatives to their seats with the last bit of strength, she met no resistance, and Dorne and Perturabo sat there, quietly waiting for Morgan's next words.

Only when he turned his pupils, the Lord of Steel glanced at his Inwitt brothers with some resentment, as if to blame Dorne for making Morgan's heart gaunt for his recklessness and willfulness: Dorne ignored him, of course.

The Spider Empress watched all of this, and it wasn't until Perturabo's attention shifted that she raised her hands, gathered her hair a little tiredly, and just lazily put them on the back of her shoulders, and then, looking first at Perturabo and then at Dorne, the smile on her face was like some kind of helplessness, and like some kind of compromise after defeat.

So, now, can you listen to me? 】

“……”

She was answered by two silences.

Morgan sighed again.

[Listen, two, I don't want to repeat any more brothers or blood relatives or anything like that, the performance we just made these two words seem like a joke, and I don't expect me to reconcile the conflict between you, after all, I've always been clumsy, I haven't been very good at talking since the day I was born, and I never knew how to convince others, just an introverted and socially phobic wretch. 】

[So, let's stop talking about brothers, let's get back to the essence of this meeting: I hope both of you still remember that this was actually a military meeting, a meeting that we were going to use to discuss how to fight this battle, and to win it, not a ring of accusations.] 】

The Lord of Avalon spread his fingers and spoke the words earnestly: in fact, she did not see a very much agreement with her two bloods, but neither of them spoke out in clear disagreement, so Morgan turned her gaze to Dorne, to whom she spoke the next few words.

[So, stop dwelling on the wars and casualties of the past, Donne, even if you make them clear, they will be of no use to our current situation: the opponent we will face is completely unknown, and clinging to the rights and wrongs of the past will not help the wars of the future. 】

[You are tough, brother, no one will deny this, but don't use your tenacity in the wrong place, Peturabo and I are your blood brothers, your trusted comrades in this expedition: we are not serious enemies, those Heruds in the stars are. 】

“……”

Dorne nodded.

"So, next, I'd like to be able to learn more about this alien."

"Is that the focus of the meeting?"

【…… I have a better way. 】

Morgan smiled, she was waiting for Dorne's words: in the heart, the Lord of Avalon had already decided that this meeting could not continue, and although her psionic and pompous performances had caused the two genetic protogens to fall silent for a while, if they were allowed to continue the discussion, it would only be a solid relapse.

She had to have a good reason for Dorne to agree to end the meeting, and it was better to leave this world at once, away from her and Perturabo: and that reason, Morgan had thought of before he did so.

The Lord of Avalon pulled out the plan she had hidden before using the psionic powers, and then threw it to Dorne, and as the Lord of Invit looked at the plan carefully, Morgan explained it: Naturally, it was for Perturab next to him.

Dorne, you know. 】

[My Dawnbreaker Legion did not invest much strength in this expedition, and the Iron Warriors of Perturabo did pay too much for the previous war: in a short period of time, we did not have the ability to launch a further attack, and the alien like Herud is a completely unknown opponent of the Empire, and the information we have gathered is also extremely scarce, I am afraid that it will not be able to meet the detailed standards in your heart. 】

[So ......]

The original man smiled.

[During the time when Perturabo's legion needs to be repaired, why don't your Imperial Fist take over the front line and launch a tentative attack on the Heruds: it doesn't need to be too violent, just try to probe the combat characteristics of these aliens as much as possible, which is good for you and us.] 】

[Of course, we will give you all the help, brother.] 】

“……”

Dorn hesitated, looking serious about the offer, and Perturabo on the other side of the table instinctively rose up a little anger when he heard that his Legion's front was about to be taken over, but after a moment of contemplation, he fell silent: there was a hint of schadenfreude in his gaze at Dorne.

The Invitus didn't care about this, he just pondered quietly for a few seconds, and then nodded without hesitation: as Morgan said before, this is indeed a plan that can satisfy everyone, the Imperial Expeditionary Force now needs more information about the Heruds, and the most trusted intelligence collectors in Dorn are naturally himself and his legions.

"I see. Morgan. ”

Dorne stood up.

"Now, then, that our next military operation has been decided, I will now return to my battleship: I will end this tentative attack within a month, obtain enough information about the Heruds, and when I return with this information, we will continue with the next course of action."

"As for you, brother."

Dorn turned his gaze to Perturabo across from him, and then, in his large stack of papers, pulled out a dossier three fingers thick, which looked entirely handwritten and smelled of oil.

"Until now, I do not think that you acted correctly in the previous wars, but as Morgan said, I will not argue with you at this moment: I have written in it all the questions and proposals that I personally think will be helpful to you."

Still, and despite the gloom of Perturabo's countenance once more, the Invites pushed the precious proposal before the Iron Lord, and said goodbye to his blood relatives without the slightest affection.

[I'll send you.] 】

Morgan smiled a little, and dragged herself a little tiredly, as she walked over to Perturabo's side, and placed her goblet in the Iron Lord's hand: the Olympian did not care about all this, and his eyes followed Morgan, looking at the overly pale face with some concern, only to receive only a comforting smile from Morgan and a voice that was muffled in his ear.

[Don't worry, brother. 】

[I can hold on. 】

[Don't be angry with Dorne......]

【…… Ahem ......】

Halfway through speaking, Morgan coughed uncontrollably, pursed her lips and pressed the blood back as best she could, still smiling comfortingly at Perturabo.

The Iron Lord looked at that face, at that weak face, the corners of his mouth twitching constantly, and the thick brow and wrinkled skin squeezed out a disturbed expression, as if he was enduring something, and as if he was trying to suppress the surging emotions in his heart.

As Morgan's figure brushed past him, Perturabo reached out as if trying to grab something, he longed for an apology, an apology to Morgan, but until the pesky Dorne left, until his Avalon blood relatives disappeared through the door, the Lord of Steel could not spit out a single syllable.

He gritted his teeth, he was silent, and there he trembled like boiling steel, until the door was shut, until the boundless silence fell again in the splendid conference room, and Perturabo slowly stood up: the Iron Lord had nothing but his still trembling knuckles.

A few seconds later, perhaps an impulsive rage came back to him, and Perturabo let out a roar of rage, pent-up anger from Dorne, and all sorts of incomprehensible shame: he grabbed the nearest thing he had and tried to smash it to the ground, but soon he stopped because it was the glass that Morgan had placed here.

Perturabo froze, and he stood there as if he had been drained of consciousness, and was silent for perhaps two or three seconds: then, the finger clenching the glass, slowly slipped down, and the Lord of Steel finally fell silent, and put the glass of his blood relative back in its place.

He sat down and collapsed back into his chair like a collapsed tower.

After a long time.

The sigh of steel echoed through the room.

“……”

“……”

“…… Sorry......"

In a no-man's corner, the Iron Lord's voice sounded trembling.

(End of chapter)