This isn't the first time Roger Dorn has gone to the Palm Sealer.

After the emperor announced that he would concentrate entirely on other things, Machado began to act on his behalf, and although no official claim had been made, no one disputed the matter.

After all, who could be more suitable for this position than this diminutive old man?

He has always been a shadow of the Emperor, just as the Praetorian Army served as eternal caretakers between thrones. The Emperor and the Machado, the Praetorian Army and the Palace. When people talk about one of them, they think of the other.

Dorne walked steadily, but his mind sank into an abyss unpredictably.

Time.

He chewed on the word, comparing Magnus's words back and forth, as well as his brother's expressions, reactions, and even the details.

He wondered if Magnus was lying, a cold calculation and calculation, and it was shameful to use it on someone close to him. But Dorne can't help it, he has to be cold.

Compared to the duty he shouldered, this little shame could have been swallowed by his head.

Eventually, he came to the conclusion that Magnus wasn't lying.

In the past, the Crimson King has faced many times of accountability for his and his legions' attempts to desert their allies on the battlefield. Each time, he found a reason to prevaricate.

Dorne was familiar with what he looked like when he lied, and that was one of the evidences for his conclusion above.

He turned his thoughts back to the reply from the Star Court, and the data began to float in his mind, and not a single detail escaped his eyes. He even had in his mind the true appearance of the parchment scroll with the data on it.

The corners are rough and wrinkled. Ink shipped here from another galaxy smeared on the parchment rolls, dates, times, data.

There is also the annotation of Machado, normal, normal, normal.

Everything works fine, no problems. The palm printmaker used his quill pen to leave handwriting on the parchment scrolls, making serious assessments and occasionally annotations.

"Pay more attention to Magnus's mental state, does he have violent mood swings while communicating?"

Then came the answers of the Psychions of the Astral Court.

"Occasionally."

The words faded away, and Dorne frowned—what was wrong?

His thoughts began to unfold, and Dorne uncontrollably began to recall Fogrim's words. The first thing that came to his mind was the pronoun Vogram used to refer to that 'Horus'.

It.

What a cold word, it.

It should never be addressed as a brother, not as a human being, or even as an enemy. Aliens have explicit pronouns, not 'it', vague, low, and threatening. Then there's the look on Vogram's face when he talks about 'it'.

Dorn frowned suddenly.

His boots had just creaked as he stepped over the wooden floor.

This shouldn't have happened, the place has been well maintained, and there is some ingenious technology in the building. He was afraid that he would have to put on his power armor and step on them to make the floor make such a violent sound.

Dorne lowered his head slowly, and the hairs on his neck stood on his neck for a moment.

He did see the floor—but it was a disrepaired, old, decaying wooden floor, and more than that.

Some of the looming bones were exposed beneath the crumbling and missing wood.

Dorne narrowed his eyes and took a slow step back, the air he breathed between his mouth and nose becoming filled with the smell of dust. The chill crept down his spine along the marrow, so real.

He's been to this place, he's been here many times. Just as Machado had gone to him many times, they had spoken inside the fortress, in the palace, or in the Lionsgate Starport, the Pilgrim's Gate.

If Machado or one of the two is not too busy to take care of anything else, then most of the conversations will take place face-to-face. After all, communication is just communication, and some things have to be interviewed to get results.

In other words, Dorne is familiar with the place, just as Machado is familiar with the place where he might appear, and like a Terra is familiar with the pilgrim everywhere. In Dorne's memory, it wasn't like that here.

It's an old building made of wood, stone and glass, it's old, but it's by no means dilapidated.

It is an integral part of the palace and is not open to the public and does not appear on any maps, but it is directly guarded by the Janissaries, and every ten hours, servants clean and maintain it.

So what went wrong?

Dorne didn't get an answer to the question, but heard a soft sound, like a bird perched on a branch of a tree, scraping its feathers.

Then a voice, soft, but smiling.

"Time." He whispered in the ear of the boulder. "Time waits for no one, great Roger Dorne."

He chuckled.

"While you're busy with your leisure time, something unknown is happening in the galaxy. And your brother, his time is running out. A debtor has exhausted the patience of his creditor, and he will return what he owes with interest. ”

"Chicks have to grow up after all, don't you think? He can't shrink under his father's wing forever, he has to mature. He had been hiding in his father's shadow for four years, and now, he could no longer hide. ”

"Who is you?" Dorne snapped.

He still didn't get an answer, but suddenly he saw a burning flame and a bright golden light in front of him. They quickly dispersed, and the air returned to normal, just like the world before him.

Demonic Machado stood in front of him with a scepter in hand, his eyes like torches, and the majestic psionic energy shook his old skin, allowing something real to emerge for a moment.

"Time." Machado spoke gloomily. "That thing is playing with time——!"

He almost sounded roaring, the wind howling outside the window, lightning flashing quietly through the blackened clouds, and thunder followed.

——

Carlil slowly opened his eyes.

These days, he rarely really sees the world with his own eyes, if he doesn't have to. The perception of the outside world is weakened, which is inevitable, and he needs to focus more on the other side of the galaxy.

It was a call born of instinct and a duty imposed on him by the crown that floated above his head. He had been observing the world being destroyed through the eyes of the dead and the fighting.

Couss.

He knew its name, but he had never been there. But he was familiar with it now, even more so than some of the people who had lived on it all their lives.

The plains, the cities, the old customs, and what Robert Killiman looked like when he first visited the place.

The dead told him everything, and the gods would not pay attention to it, and would only give them the strength to take revenge, but Karil Lohals would.

Indeed, these things should be just the murmur of the soul, as insignificant as the evening breeze of the cemetery, but he cannot turn a blind eye, a person should have empathy, and he should sympathize with and help those who are innocently suffering.

Moreover, he taught these things to Conrad Coetzes, and education does not advocate giving up halfway.

Again, Carlil stood up from the chair. Something was happening, and just now, he felt it.

That thing was cunning, as cunning as ever. Instead of going through his plan in a big way, he mixed in subtle changes in a weekly transgalactic communication.

Looking back now, I'm afraid that every communication in those four years was a catalyst for that change. He took advantage of a father's last mercy for his children—shamelessness, but He should be so shameless because it was their punishment.

After all, he is not a real god. Carlil thought regretfully.

But what could He do with Magnus?

The psionic power he used to be proud of was now much less than it used to be, and was firmly controlled by the Emperor. Even if he miraculously managed to manipulate the ego of an Primordial in Terra, what kind of threat could Magnus pose?

Carlil's expression grew cold.

+ He hid him with the time he had stolen.+

The voice of the Lord of Humanity permeated from the depths of the web with a palpable ruthlessness.

+ Find him. +

+ What are you going to do? +

+ If necessary, you can kill him. +

+ What about you? +

+ There's something waiting outside the network and there's it, I can sense it. My natural enemy is here. +

Carlil exhaled softly.

"Good." He said.

A gap opened behind him, and the black flames flickered, and the pale ghosts reverently emerged from it, raising their hands and putting on the face of bones for the gods.

In the cold wind, his perception began to spread to every corner of Terra. In the dark clouds, the faces of the gods were looming.

And the population doesn't know anything about it. The pilgrims remained religious, the soldiers remained at their posts, and Rog Dorn and Machado began to mobilize their troops. Only one person was missing.

Magnus—the voice of the gods fades away in the wind—where are you? ——

Where am I?

Magnus stared blankly at the scene in front of him, his mind exploding, his ability to think challenged - he didn't understand, the last second, he was still on his way to the throne, and now, where was he?

However, in the depths of the original body's psyche, Magnus actually had an answer, but he didn't want to admit it, and he didn't dare to admit it.

The burning world around him and the bombed city made him unwilling to know where this was, and every sleepless night for four years had worked at this moment, and he already knew what was going on, but he didn't dare admit it.

How could he overcome Him?

And then the voice began to whisper softly in his ear.

"This is Prospero." He chuckled. "Where wolves are infested, my dear Magnus."

As he had spoken, Fenris's wolves appeared before the Crimson King.

Killing binge.

After the update, by the way, I will push a translation court masterpiece, seedlings, can be raised

(End of chapter)