Roger Dorn threw out his gloves, which were slammed into a red-lacquered wooden table by black and white, followed by a cape, jacket, and ceremonial armed sword.

He threw them on the table.

The Terra Guard raised his hand and rubbed his brow, a tiredness that lingered in his heart for days.

This is certainly not normal, and it is impossible for ordinary work to make the original tired, let alone Roger Dorn.

But the tiredness he is showing at the moment is indeed real, so is there really a job in the world that can push the world-famous boulder to its limits?

The answer is, yes.

Without saying a word, Dorne went to his window and observed the scenery outside.

It was Terra's theoretical winter, and the wind was bitterly cold, rattling the windows embedded in the stone walls. After all, nothing can escape the laws of nature, just like the temperature in his study.

The furnace crackled, and the firewood transported across the two galaxes had been carefully chopped into pieces by the servants with small hand axes, which had been lit twenty minutes before he returned, but still could not raise the temperature.

Again, this is not a natural phenomenon, architecturally speaking, the watchtower-like fortress was built with the need to withstand the cold, but the temperature is such that it cannot be raised.

Dorne mused and pushed open the window, and the wind howled in and poured into the room. The papers were blown away, and the corners of the cloak crushed by the armed sword kept hitting the side of the long table.

His short hair fell back in the wind, the flames in the furnace were extinguished instantly, the charcoal began to quickly turn to ashes, and the temperature dissipated, leaving only the cold.

Dorne didn't react, just quietly felt the supernatural cold, his expression unmoved. After a few minutes, he calmly closed the window and began to bend down to search for the fallen papers as if nothing had happened.

The specially designed permanent lamp provided him with enough light source, and although there was no difference between having and not having it, and it didn't affect Dorne's ability to see in the dark, there was always a difference between having light and not having light.

He meticulously sorted through the papers, from which he cleared out several manuscripts and architectural blueprints. One of the documents is very special in that it is much thinner than ordinary paper, not heavy.

Such soft and plain paper was rarely used in the Empire, and the bureaucrats often preferred to use parchment when writing important documents, or simply having two stonemasons carve a stele for their superiors.

Ordinary people can't afford to use such paper, and besides, they don't have much opportunity to use it to write written documents.

In today's Empire, only one legion would use this particular paper - revealing more that it was actually made by themselves.

Dorn picked up the document and began to read it again.

He still hadn't figured out how to reply on behalf of the War Ministry. It was a hot potato, and it was thrown to him. The bitter expression of the official who sent it over still lingered in front of his eyes.

He stood up clutching the paper, and in silence folded it up and put it in the pocket of his waistcoat. The eagle emblem belonging to the Legion of the Emperor's Sons looms over the half of the horn that is exposed to the pocket.

Dorn thought for a moment, then returned to the long table and began to put on his clothes again.

Five minutes later, he walked out of the fortress and was immediately greeted by a servant dressed in the cold wind.

"My lord, you've just come back, and you're going out again?"

"Yes, Al." Dorne nodded at him, and said nothing more.

The servant bowed slightly to him, and in another thirty seconds or so, a black vehicle of the original size reached them through the cold wind.

Without saying a word, Dorn got into the car, and the driver smoothly activated the throttle and left the fortress with the original body. Twenty minutes later, they arrived at a magnificent building.

There was no one to interrogate, no one to guide them, and it was even unusually quiet, and there were not even half of the pilgrims that could be found everywhere in the rest of Terra.

Dorn turned around and closed the door, striding into the building. The black car suddenly disappeared into the night behind him, and there was no trace of it.

The lobby on the ground floor of the building is typical of the 'Terra style', or rather, the Imperial style. The Terra Janissaries turned right in silence and reached the second floor via a long staircase, followed by another twelve boring walks.

The corridors are resplendent with twists and turns, with oil paintings, reliefs, and stone statues, as if they were the restored medieval court of some aristocracy.

Even the defenseless knights in armor were quite numerous, armed with swords and in different offensive positions, allowing Dorn to walk in front of them.

Finally, he finally arrived at the destination of the trip.

Dorne looked up at the door in front of him, the purple and gold eagle emblem glowing and falling into his eyes. He stretched out his hand and knocked, and there was a dull sound twice, and the door was opened from within.

The door was originally designed and still needed to be opened manually by hand. Primitive, but reliable. The person standing behind the door was Astarte in a purple and gold robe, and when he saw Dorne, his first reaction was not a greeting, but a slight stunned.

The Terra Janissaries glanced at him, bowed their heads politely, and asked, "Can I go in?" ”

The Emperor's son, Jofir Demukia, hurriedly responded: "Of course, my lord! ”

He moved away so that Dorne could enter.

It's an effortless move for anyone, let alone an Astarte. He was as handsome as every emperor's son, and anyone could tell at a glance that he was the heir of Vogram.

But now he was so heavy that his legs seemed to be filled with lead. Dorn didn't enter immediately, but waited until Joffil was completely out of the door.

The embarrassment on the latter's face did not escape his eyes, and Dorne was not going to point it out now.

"What did you come to me for?" He asked, with hope in his eyes.

Dorn knew what Joffil Demukia was most concerned about right now, so he immediately cut to the chase without stopping for a moment.

"Unfortunately, the Ministry of Military Affairs has not approved your request. They don't think your dreams can be used as evidence—" Dorne paused. "—Actually, dreams are not evidence either."

The Emperor's shoulders collapsed at once, and he immediately realized his gaffe, and quickly straightened his expression and began to face Dorn in a more solemn and serious manner.

"I see, sir. That's as it should be. But it's not up to you to inform me, right? ”

He looked inquiringly at Dorne, still with a hint of longing on his face.

"That's true." Dorne nodded. "If I may, I'd like to ask you for more details about your dreams."

Joffil looked at him, waiting for the following.

"Details." Dorn patiently repeated. "I can see that you have concealed some details in the application report submitted to the Ministry of Military Affairs."

He reached out and took the folded document from his waistcoat and handed it to Jofel de Mukia.

"You only say that you dreamed of your Primordial and your Legion, but you don't mention how many times you dreamed of it. You think they're in danger, but you don't say how. ”

"These are visible evidence of concealment, and anyone who understands the rules and regulations knows that the application must be detailed, and you are withholding a lot of details. For an emperor's son, this is uncommon. So here I am, Joe Fair. ”

The Emperor's Son was silent, and he couldn't help but be silent - anyone who had dealt with Dorne would probably have the same expression at some point as he did now, a complex expression that had been completely punctured from his mind.

There is shame and resentment, and Joffil Demukia's emotions are more mixed, and he even seems a little relieved.

After a few seconds, his shoulders, which had been lifted, loosened again.

"Okay." He said hoarsely. "As it stands, forty-one days have passed since my first dream."

"Forty-one days?" Dorn immediately frowned, and the Emperor's Son smiled and nodded.

"Yes, sir. It was exactly the same time as this abnormal cold snap. ”

Dorne wordlessly gestured for him to continue.

"I tried meditating four times, and each time I was taken straight into the dream. Then there was light sleep, seven times, without exception, each time directly into that dream. Finally, there were four deep sleeps that I tried on my own initiative, and the same was true, and I fell into that dream the moment I closed my eyes. ”

"After the war." Dorne frowned, repeating a few key words. "Sail in subspace, surrounded by wolves. What else? Your vagueness in the report has led many to think that you are hallucinating. ”

"They suffered heavy casualties." The Emperor's Son replied in a daze, his gaze unfocused. "I saw blood, a lot of blood, and each of my brothers was bruised all over his body, and they were all around the Phoenix, and the Phoenix itself was—"

He couldn't continue, and a sudden shaking forced him to shut up. Dorn looked at his legs, which were hidden under his robes not the flesh of a human being, but a metallic sheen.

Those were two prosthetic limbs that Fogham had built himself.

Before he was injured, Joffil Demukia was one of the best swordsmen among the emperor's sons, and he was a great swordsman. And now, he's just a crippled man.

For the Astartes, limb mutilations can actually be replaced by prosthetics, but surgery is risky, and even the most skilled doctors dare not say that they can be 100% successful.

Joffel happened to have this small probability of failure, and it was far more than once. He underwent a total of six surgeries, the last of which was when Vogrim hired an Iron Hand for the occasion.

They were known to be experienced in this area, but the Iron Hand Warrior was equally powerless. Like Zefeng, the mourner of the Angel of the Holy Blood, Joffil de Mukia is also a poor man who has a strong rejection reaction to a prosthetic transplant.

Not only has he lost the precision of his stride that he once prided himself on, but it is also quite inconvenient for him to walk on weekdays, and he can no longer participate in battles, so he can only stay in the throne world.

There are not a few people who have suffered similar encounters with him, and Zefeng is one of them.

"Please don't worry about me." Joffil whispered, bending slightly and grabbing the outside of his thighs with both hands.

The abnormal tremor soon passed, and he wanted to continue talking, but he couldn't. The Imperial Fist insignia on Dorne's chest resounded with a strong vibration, a warning of the highest level.

The Terra Praetorian Guard tore off the medallion and pressed it, and the specifics of the alarm began to ring in his ears.

The built-in headset relayed the reporter's words to Dorn's ears, and the brief communication lasted for a total of three minutes, to which Dorn spat only a short sentence.

"I'll be there soon."

As the words fell, he looked at Joffil de Mukia, "I'm afraid you'll need to come with me, Decapitator." ”

He pronounced a nickname, and the emperor's son was slightly stunned. It had been a long time since he had been called that, a title that had been conferred by Vogrim himself.

It stems from a difficult battle of guards, where Jofir's squad was ambushed and he was the last man alive. Like all legends, the one who survives is always awarded various titles

"My lord? Can I know why? ”

"According to the rules and regulations, I shouldn't disclose the specifics of this matter to you until you agree, but this is a special one." Dorne spoke, expressionless. "I need you to be mentally prepared."

The Emperor's Son took a deep breath, he already had a vague premonition of something, but he was not sure for a while. He had been disappointed many times, and he really didn't dare to talk about hope anymore.

Staring into his eyes, Dorne took in it all. The stubborn stone calmly sorted out his words and spoke word by word.

——

Carlil slowly opened his eyes.

The wind immediately began to howl, sending a terrifying echo in the cave he was in, the ground was frosty, and the two Praetorian soldiers standing at the entrance of the cave looked back silently, and Carlil nodded to them, indicating that he was okay.

However, there are times when you can't be too full of words.

In the next second, a gloomy flame broke through the restraints of the body in resentment between the ribs of the skeleton, a chorus of millions of voices, among which the death hatred was terrifying, far beyond the realm of hearing, and even a deaf person could hear it.

And, for some reason, their howl sounded like a shout.

"Coos——!

The cloak that had been lazy twitched violently when it heard the sound, and immediately appeared from the shadows, enveloping the white ribs, and the wind stopped for a moment, and Carlil lowered his head and patted it, and a smile flashed behind the mask.

"I need to get away for a while." He said politely to the Forbidden Army. "Please tell him, I'll be back soon."

The words fell, and he disappeared in place. Wordlessly, the Praetorian turned and stepped into the cavern, sprinkling some glowing powder on the frosty ground.

There are two more chapters, or three chapters, yards.

(End of chapter)