"You're really. Goodness, Robert. Conrad Coetzes said.

"Don't laugh at me, Conrad." The gray-haired Robert Killeman sighed with his eyes closed. "At least not at this time, you can make fun of me later."

"Why do you have to pick a time?" The King of the Night smiled. "There's a line between ridicule and sarcasm, and, essentially, there's a difference."

"I've used to make a lot of mean jokes, but I've never really made ridicule and sarcasm something enough to make you angry."

"Besides, Robert, if I really want to do this, I can do it at any time. But now, I didn't let this aspect of my nature come out of the way. ”

He looked at his brother, his gaze straight and sharp, like two sharp blades. It deeply stung the face of the Lord of the Thirteenth Legion, forcing him to open his eyes with an expression that was both helpless and wanting to laugh.

It was only at this moment that Conrad Coetzes retracted his gaze contentedly.

So, what are you doing now?" Kiliman asked meaningfully.

"I care about you." Conrad Coetzes replied softly. "I wonder if you're okay, Robert."

Kiriman didn't answer the sentence, but not because he didn't want to, but because he couldn't.

His rock-solid psychological defense seemed to have wavered to a certain extent in the face of this sudden sentence. Or maybe it's because of what Conrad Coetzes said earlier.

Although the tone is frivolous, although it seems to be more of a joke than a sincere expression, but. At this moment, the face of the Lord of the Thirteenth Legion did appear soft and sad.

It was only a short half second, but for the rest of you, it was enough time for them to fully remember what they saw.

But they also didn't say anything.

"Robert?" So the Night King continued to ask. "Are you okay?"

Killiman took a deep breath and his expression calmed down.

At this moment, his face under the gray hair showed a kind of exhaustion beyond the scope of ordinary people's comprehension, and the light smashed straight down, sliding naturally from the hair that had become broken, bringing a sense of depression.

"I'm fine." Robert Kiriman said slowly.

His tone sounded extremely calm and rational, and it was completely unrecognizable that he had just given the order not long ago to shatter his hometown and become a swirling dust in the universe.

Of course, there is not much credibility in his words, but look at the others at this round table.

Perturabo, Angeland, Corus Kolax, Volcan, Conrad Coz. Each of them had experienced one or more nightmares, so they understood what was hidden behind Kiliman's words.

There was a moment of silence.

"We were led here." Peturabo spoke coldly, breaking the silence with his own choice. The Iron Lord didn't seem to have changed much from before, both in terms of his face and the tone of his voice.

"What do you mean by that, brother?" Vulcan immediately asked.

The Lord of the Fire Dragon didn't really want to know the answer to this question, and there were some things that he had already had an answer to in his last resurrection. The rituals of the Nightblades go far beyond the so-called 'spells', seemingly exorcism, but in fact they take his consciousness on a tour of the subspace

Vulcan saw a lot and knew a lot, but he remained the same. His questioning at the moment was just to liven up the atmosphere.

"Can't you see, Vulcan?"

Perturabo frowned, and in his usual tone, he did one of the things he would never have done in the past—he even began to explain it to his brothers.

"Have two fleets ever converged on a subspace voyage in the past? Not to mention that we are three. Also, the place we each chose to jump into Mandeville was 108,000 miles away from each other. ”

"Even if everything in subspace can be explained by the riddle word 'providence,' it is not possible to simply attribute this unprecedented and most likely unseen event to so-called coincidence. Someone must be behind us to guide us. ”

"It's the father." Kiriman picked up his words. "There will be no one else but him."

Perturabo glanced at him and said, "Your tone sounds like you're trying to describe him as an omnipotent god." ”

"That's not what I meant."

"But that's exactly what it sounds like." Peturabo repeated slowly.

His attitude was rather cold, and one of the dark-haired giants on the other end of the table spoke out of his voice.

Until then, he had sat quietly in his seat, his back pressed against the back of his marble chair, his hands resting on his thighs, his sharp hand armor and sturdy leg armor rubbing against each other, making a subtle, monotonous sound.

Since the beginning of the meeting, this is the first time he has really made his voice heard. Until then, he had been like a ghost who didn't exist.

"That's not what he meant, Perturabo." Corus Colax said.

"He has a mouth of his own." The Iron Lord sneered. "And he obviously doesn't need your help, Raven."

"You don't count."

"Really? Okay, but Robert Killiman is far from being vulnerable enough to be knocked down in a word or two, he's much tougher than that so-called political leader you've known in the past. So you'd better stop talking to me in that tone. He was not wronged in any way. ”

"There's anger in your heart," Coraks nodded quietly. "Therefore, I forgive you for your irritability."

He deliberately accentuated the pronunciation of the word "thus".

Robert Killiman sighed, and he raised his hands, and the armor began to exert force, allowing his fingers to carry a force strong enough to crush steel at the ends of his temples.

He began to knead that important weakness, and immediately stopped Perturabo's next sentence in a loud voice: "I think we'd better get to the point as soon as possible—"

He turned to look at the other person, who had never spoken.

"-Angrand?" Kiliman coughed. "What do you think about the plan for return and support?"

Little by little, the son of the mountains from Nukeria raised his head.

His face was still hidden in the shadows, and the lights above the primitives didn't shine on him, perhaps deliberately avoiding it, but Angron remained in the darkness no matter what.

Of course, this did not prevent his brothers from observing his face at the moment, so their expressions quickly changed.

"I have no opinion." Angron said hoarsely. "I don't care about tactical arrangements or anything, I only have one request, I hope you can make me and my legion the vanguard."

"It's impossible." Peturabo said categorically. "The current state of the solar system must be terrible, and if Conrad's prophecy is true—"

He raised his hand to the Night King, who stood up pompously and bowed to the crowd.

"-Well, I'm afraid Terra has been caught in the fire. No offense, Angron, you and your legion are first-class warriors, but if we are to win, we must let my legion take on this responsibility. ”

"Why?" Angron asked simply and calmly.

"Because it's Roger Dorn and his sons stationed in the solar system." Peturabo replied coldly. "Only me and my legions can see at a glance where they have set their traps and where they have left their backs."

"Let's not argue about these things that are too specific." Vulcan said with a headache. "For now, the situation in the solar system is still unknown, and we should look at a more realistic place."

"For example?" Kiliman asked.

He wouldn't say it explicitly, but he was really glad that Vulcan was able to bring it up.

"For example, what is the matter with the dimness and instability of the light of the spark." Corus Colax hit the nail on the head. "It's about whether or not we can get out of the subspace safely."

His words immediately directed the Primitives' attention in a whole new direction - the Navigators had not been very satisfactory in their job in recent days, and had submitted a number of disturbing reports.

In both the report and the dictation, they mentioned a word several times.

Burn.

This word seems to have some kind of magic, and it is mentioned in many sentences of different people. Some say Terra is burning, others say everything in front of them is burning, and even more so they shout from the bridge that the torch is burning.

This is, of course, a nonsense, and a nonsense that defies common sense. The torch is 'burning', otherwise where would that light come from?

However, since the Emperor completed the construction of the Torch and the Navigator families were granted special permission to enjoy privileges within the Empire, countless Navigators have hallucinated due to the horrific spectacle of the subspace.

Their mental state is a cause for concern, which is certainly not surprising, but this is the first time that there has been such a large-scale collective 'madness'.

Not to mention the helplessness of the psionics, whether it was the think tank that had been abandoned and now re-hired, or the so-called 'expert consultation' from the Third Company of the Nightblade, they were unable to draw any useful conclusions on this matter.

Under such circumstances, whether it is safe to leave subspace becomes a matter of concern. The question of whether or not it would be possible to reach Terra on the route was ignored intentionally or unintentionally

"It's a serious problem." Robert Kiriman said solemnly. "But I think—"

He couldn't finish his sentence, or even continue.

A supernatural distorted noise interrupted his words, followed by a violent jolt that followed.

The lights went out for a moment, the pressure gauge on the wall shattered, and every readable reading fell into a horrible rise and fall, as if it were experiencing a muscle spasm.

The keen senses of the primordials began to be challenged together, and in an instant, thousands of different voices poured into their minds.

The sounds could not be distinguished, they should have been noise, and they were ignored in this terrible moment. But they were genetic protogens after all, and they heard every word clearly, every dying cry, war cry, and roar

The lights came on slowly.

Silently, Perturabo wiped the blood from his nose and strode out of his seat to Angron to save him from the terrible tremors.

The Children of the Mountains closed their eyes and let out a low roar from their throats before they could express their gratitude. He slammed down on the long table, his eyes wide open, his left hand outstretched. He grabbed a scepter and forced an old man standing in the middle of the round table half a step back.

But the man also took a few steps back from Angelon's immense strength, and two slender arms covered in blue-gold armor caught him steadily.

Conrad Coetze greeted softly, "Hello, Machado. ”

A loud argument erupted around the round table.

"For the time being—" the Palm Printer sighed. "—Be quiet for a moment, great heroes. And you, Lord Angelan, will you get my scepter back? ”

The Lord of Wardogs bowed his head in confusion and waved the scepter with his left hand before walking over and handing it back to the Palm Sealer.

"We're not heroes." Vulcan replied with a wry smile, a sour, self-deprecating smile that was now becoming a common expression of his. "But how did you get here, Machado?"

"Without the will of the Father, presumably the one who bears the seal will not act on his own." Corax said quietly and calmly. "So, there seems to be a reasonable explanation for those visions and our inexplicable collision in subspace?"

He looked at Perturabo, who made a gesture of defeat in impassivity, and then at Robert Kiliman.

"Looks like your speculation has come true, Robert." Peturabo said. "I didn't know for a moment whether to blame you or be surprised by it."

Robert Killiman didn't answer, just sighed.

The Palm Sealer ignored their words, simply took the scepter from Angron and slowly floated down the long table.

He had just been physically pushed back by the power of the Warhound Lord, but now he acted like a real ghost. The edges of the black robe were even dancing in a supernatural way, quite provoking people's nerves and receptivity.

Coetzes stood beside him with his hands behind his back, tilting his head and looking at him with interest.

"What's the matter, Lord of the Blades?" Makado asked without looking up.

"It seems more that we should ask you." Coates replied with a smile. "The real Palm Printer himself has appeared on the Glory of Maculag—in the center of our combined fleet, how did you get in, Machado?"

The Palm Seal Holder glanced up at him, and his eyes suddenly burst into a burst of brilliant golden light. He didn't say anything more, he didn't need to say anything more, and in a way, it was the answer.

Robert Killman's expression became more complicated.

"Imperial Truth—ha." Coates nodded at him and smiled again. "You're going to write a new book on this after today, brother."

"More than that." Corax took over. "At least three."

"I'll bet on four." Vulcan said.

"Six." Peturabo spoke.

"Don't write a single one, Robert, give these guys some color." The one-armed Nukerian grinned and tugged at his collar. "They're going too far, don't you think?"

Robert Killiman looked around, swept each of his brothers with a calm look, and then he said, "No, I'm going to write ten." ”

"It's good to see that you still have a sense of humor in such a situation." The Palm Seal touched the ground twice with his scepter, then spoke slowly. "It means that you have not lost those precious qualities despite all your suffering, and that's good."

"Are you here to preach, old man?" Conrad Coetzes asked.

The Palm Sealer glanced up at him again, this time, he was silent for longer than before. He and the Night Lord looked at each other, and a terrible wrestling began in silence.

They hold sharp knives in each other's hands and plunge deep into each other's hearts, starting to dig into the bloody truth. They don't give up until they get what they want. This terrible confrontation of wills lasted for several minutes before the curtain came to an end.

Conrad Coetzes let out a long breath of cold air, took a few steps back, and sat back in his own seat. He hung his head, hunched over, his hands on his knees, his scarlet cloak hanging down to his ankles.

He did that, right?" He asked.

"Which one do you ask?" The Palm Printmaker asked with a strange smile on his face.

The Primitives looked at each other at the remark, and after a few seconds, one of them laughed. Conrad Coetzes straightened up, leaned back in his chair and smiled wordlessly.

"In short, I'm just a messenger."

After the laughter was over, the person holding the palm print reshaped, changed his face to a serious expression, and spoke.

"I will tell you everything, and I will do my duty."

"Your duty?" Perturabo asked, frowning. "I want to know more than your duties—"

"—I'll say, Peturabo, I'll say everything." Macado interrupted him calmly. "But, until then, I want you to always maintain this sense of humor that can laugh even in the face of adversity"

"No one has this quality on Terra today."

The scepter lifted and fell again, bursting with a blinding burst of golden light.

——

Conrad Coetzes stepped out of the shadows.

He came to a room, a room on the Nightfall, that had been sealed for some time, and the interior was as usual, unchanged.

The documents and data boards were still placed in the place where the owner of the room had been specially placed when he left, and three chairs of different sizes were placed in the corner of the room, arranged in a safe and orderly manner.

A chair larger than they were placed behind the table, with a letter in front of it, pressed under a heavy pen. The envelope was pure white, apparently on specially found stationery.

The lightning patterns on the long table of pure gold flickered and flickered, still breathing calmly. Conrad Coetzes read the letter for a while, but didn't choose to open it. He walked to the corner of the room, picked up the full-size chair, and placed it across from the table.

Then, from his bosom, he took out a skull mask.

He slowly put it on.

"That's how it feels." The Lord of the Blades said. "I guess I understand."

He pulled out the chair, sat down slowly, and began to read the letter. Beyond the portholes, the storm in subspace roared.

The update is complete, this chapter is 5k2, 800 owed, and it will be repaid tomorrow.

(End of chapter)