Chapter 537 55.Interlude: The Palm Seal and the Regent

Macado slowly opened his eyes.

He sat up from his wooden bed, and before he could put on his robe, a servo skull with a glow of steel buzzed and flew over, along with hundreds of bundled paper papers and a new, improved 'galaxy' quill.

This pen is already the one hundred and ninety-second that Macado has replaced this year.

Staggering figures, if the designer of the quills knew about it, most likely wondered if their lauded work was just rubbish. But Macado wouldn't say that, in fact, no pen is as durable as his workload.

The young-looking handler stretched out his right hand and freed the bundle of papers from the anti-gravity impeller of the servo skull, placing them on a nearby wooden table.

The skull's eyes flashed red, and he was staring at his every move to determine what action to take next, but Macado only glanced at it, reached out again to take the quill, and then turned the poor year-round machine to point it at an open wooden door.

Amid the sound of the servo skull fading away, Macado slowly stood up.

He frowned inevitably for no other reason than a tingling pain in his brain.

It was an inevitable disease, his body too young, but his soul old enough to drown the ocean with wrinkles. They should be like fire and water, incompatible with each other, but they are forced to come together because of the will of one person.

He knew early on that he would be rewarded with this, and he was ready for anything.

He raised his hands, stroked his cheeks, wiped away the pain of his flesh with his psionic energy, and the robe draped over the wooden chair fluttered up and draped over his body. By the time he put his hands down, Macado had already forced himself into a working state.

For the next four hours, he sat at that wooden desk and worked on the papers, which were the 'essence' of his staff and the thousands of offices of his subordinates sorted out one by one during the week, and reported layer by layer, and finally handed over to him.

Each of these is enough to decide the fate of many, as well as the fate of their children and grandchildren. Ordinary people don't talk about making decisions, and they will feel dizzy even when they look at it.

The sheer numbers and countless names of institutions would dazzle anyone trying to understand their meaning, and across the entire empire, Machado was perhaps the only one who could read the documents with a blank face.

Not only that, but he was able to make appropriate judgments even at such a speed that even the most advanced contemplative could not compare to him in this matter. After all, a machine is just a machine, and it follows a rigid and rigid program setting.

Who can really trust the fate of countless people to a contemplative to make decisions?

After he finished working on the last paper, he pressed the call bell on the wooden table.

Within a few moments, the servants would come in with a cart and take the papers. They would be sent back to the staff for them to learn Machado's train of thought and discuss if there was anything unreasonable.

They had two hours to do this, and then they had to transfer the files to the Contemplatives, transferring them to the regent St. Giles in the form of data.

The archangel will do a second approval, and he has the right to intercept or return any of these documents before they are actually sent out.

Machado slowly stood up, unconsciously hunched over his waist, like a real old man.

He soon realized that his current demeanor was inappropriate, and he held out his right hand. The psionic light flickered and danced, bringing a scepter into his hand.

The Palm Seal Man habitually frowned, clenched the scepter, and supported the weight of his whole body, before standing up straight.

The fatigue of his soul had in turn oppressed his body, a cancer that no matter how healthy his flesh was, it was difficult to resist. As long as he reigns for one day, there is no possibility of recovery.

The young but old Palm Sealer calmly turned around and walked out of his room.

Compared to his quaint living room, the scenery from the outside world is not good. The corridors are upside down, the stone bricks are fluttering, the murals are blurred, and everywhere there is a color that is not real at all.

Machado held his scepter and took every step with precision. He would always be able to step on the right tiles and avoid the traps he had set himself.

For ordinary people, corridors are still just corridors. To the servants or servo skulls, they don't even notice the strangeness here. But for demons, psykers, or those who have been polluted by the subspace, this is a deadly labyrinth.

Designed by Machado himself and perfected over the course of 10,000 years, each trap is infused with the ultimate malevolence he mimics, seemingly innocuous tiles that could turn into a sea of fire, a blade capable of cutting through the gold, or a terrifying curse that can decay time.

These things are terrifying to say, but for the Palm Printer, this corridor is just a refreshing device - he needs a little external stimulation to get out of the rigidity of working with documents.

He's going to meet someone who won't like to see him like that.

Therefore, even if it is pretending, Machado must pretend to be okay as much as possible.

He took one last step, and the scepter collided with the bricks with a heavy, muffled sound.

In an instant, the sky swirled, the space was folded and distorted, and in this seemingly eternal moment, the spiritual energy that belonged to Machado continued to light up from the Aquila at the top of the scepter, hanging upside down on the ceiling, like an upside-down Milky Way.

Machado slowly raised his right hand and briefly transformed himself into a flaming torch, stirring through the subspace.

There are many beings who have noticed him, the Grim Reaper with the Lantern, the Crimson Fool. Or the wicked Ancient Four, whose gaze is the most ruthless and greedy.

Nurgle admires his stiffness and stagnation, Sadomasochism admires his courage and fearlessness, Tzeentch chatters about his wisdom and cleverness, and Slaanesh tempts to throw himself into his arms, even trying to make him cross a certain line at his own expense, so that his years of hard work will be reduced to nothingness.

Machado looked at them coldly, and there was not even disdain or disdain in his eyes, only a void of contempt.

He wasn't calling them, never.

A flash of golden light floated in, expelling the gaze of the four gods in an instant. This light is a storm on the sea, a lightning bolt lurking in the dark clouds, and a will contained in it is broken and whole, and thousands of different faces flash in it.

Machado unconsciously clenched the scepter.

In the next second, the golden light engulfed him. A strong sense of weightlessness and tearing enveloped him familiarly, making him feel as if he had appeared in two completely different places at the same time.

On the one hand, he felt like he was walking on the surface of the sun, subjected to its relentless scorching heat and heat.

On the other hand, he felt like he was drowning in the cold ocean floor, surrounded by darkness and invisible monsters roaming around him, biting his arm with their teeth

Machado took a deep breath and raised his scepter alof, severing himself from the illusion that was enough to sink in.

No, are they really illusions?

He opened his eyes and saw a dark stone chamber.

It was dark and dark, and the torches hanging on the walls looked like they hadn't been lit for at least thousands of years, and even the smell of grease had dissipated.

The ground was covered with a thick layer of dust, and it was unknown where it came from. There was some strange and distant sound that pierced through the stone and whispered in Machado's ears.

He didn't care, just cast his gaze on a huge, rough, cold throne.

Or rather, the one who threw himself on the throne.

The man had long since lost his breath, his head bowed, his thin, thin body clinged to many black cables.

Where they came from, there was no trace, but they pierced into the man's rotten flesh, greedily sipping at what was left of the dust in his veins.

However, compared to the throne itself, the dried corpse sitting on it was incredibly humble. No matter how primitive this stone throne was, judging by its size, it should have been for a giant.

And how can this dried corpse sit on a throne that is so cold and natural?

Is he worthy?

Makado let go of his hand and let the scepter stand in place. He straightened his collar before he stepped forward, and after dozens of steps, he stopped directly below the throne. He tilted his head up into the hollow eye sockets of the dry corpse, and made his voice very soft.

"Your Majesty." He called softly. "It's time to wake up."

The corpse didn't answer, but something was waking up in the darkness around him. He didn't really wake up, but he heard a familiar voice in the endless sinking of half-asleep, and opened his eyes a little slit.

Such a small movement, but the tide of chaos surged violently, the golden light was shining, cold and ruthless, and a burst of sound reached Machado's ears, making him dizzy.

The sound contained an endless heaviness that was by no means a weight that a human could bear, but the person holding the seal stiffened his back and did not grovel before the god.

He gritted his teeth and stood there and began to wait. The golden light continued to spread, and it was not until the stone chamber was completely illuminated that the terrifying coldness dissipated.

Instead, there was a soft wave of warmth that bordered on unreality.

Makado breathed a sigh of relief, slowly raised his head, and saw his friend as he wished.

"Your Majesty, a storm is coming."

The man known as His Majesty did not answer his words, and his form had no connection with the skull-bowed corpse on the throne. The man was dressed in a linen robe and his hands were calloused, the only personal traits he was able to retain.

He was tall, but also short, strong, but also weak. He was a peasant, a warlord, a careerist and an executioner, a philosopher and the most compassionate scholar of all time.

He stood at the only junction between darkness and light, like a wall or fortress. The shadow he casts is darkness, but he is light in itself.

In his shadow stood countless people whose faces could not be seen, guards with golden spears, civilians with hoes, dancers, scientists, soldiers, and souls of every soul who had returned to his seat throughout the ages.

They stood in his shadow, gazing at Machado.

"We have to act." The palm printman lowered his head and spoke in a deep voice. "Karil Lohals has been reborn as a human being, and his flawed skin will continue to fill up in the process of retrieving the fragments, and sooner or later, he will be restored to a whole person."

"Our plan will succeed, but we have something else to face. The internal worries are not to be worried, but the external troubles are so great that we must face them squarely."

A pair of hands rested on his shoulders, interrupting his narration. Machado looked up and saw a face blurred by the light. Then, there was a chorus of sacred sounds.

"You're tired, my friend." So said the being. "Let's put the plans behind for a moment, and let's talk about yourself, how about it?"

"There's no need for that." Makado said.

He lowered his head again and took a step back, dodging the warm hands.

His majesty sighed at this, but did not force it. But his thoughts continued to boil in the non-existent illusory stone chamber, and then heated up, becoming a complex sound that was revealed.

Each one speaks in his shadow, recounting his loyalty, longing to rest or fight again. Their desires drifted from the depths of their souls, weighing on the back of this being, and such a heavy weight could not make him bend even an inch.

He stood with his head held high, his face blurred only by a pair of eyes that showed what he had been, and in those eyes there was only concern for his friend.

There had never been a moment when his humanity could so easily break through the barriers he had set for himself.

The reason for this may come down to two gemstones.

"They're on the move." Macado said coldly.

"I know," the man sighed. "They always have been, haven't they? Primitive creatures, driven by the greed of existence, think they are pure and supreme, but in reality they are nothing more than carriers of chaotic desires and lower logic. ”

"They will not stop, and seeing that the stagnation of ten thousand years will usher in new changes, none of them will be absent from this grand event that is about to kick off. But I would say, Machado, this is just the beginning. ”

His chorus voice became low and wise, and it became monotonous and peaceful. The people who stood in his shadow and supported each other quietly departed, as if to leave the next precious time to the two of them alone.

Machado still didn't want to understand the possible meaning behind this, he just gathered his thoughts, threw the sorrow that belonged to his flesh and blood out of his heart, and forced himself to continue to speak.

"And we must act before they start."

"It's impossible, my friend." The man shook his head. "The subspace is a reflection of the material world, and there is no concept of time in it. Everything we do in the physical realm casts a wave in the tide of chaos. ”

"They don't even have to look at us to see what we're doing. Don't worry about it again, Machado, it won't do you the slightest. ”

The Palm Printmaker raised his head, his cold silver eyes shining as brightly as if they were burning at this moment. This is not a false illusion, but a genuine anger.

"I've been working for this victory for 10,000 years, and I've given everything, so even if I come for another 10,000 years, why not?"

"It's not all." The man whispered sadly. "Everything is a big and cold quantifier, and it is enough to destroy the foundation of a person in the world. I don't want to see anyone give everything, nothing is worth your sacrifice, Machado. ”

The Palm Printman frowned unbearably.

"Your arrogance hasn't changed in the slightest." He clenched his fists angrily. "You are not alone in this empire who is qualified to speak of 'everything', Your Majesty! I know where my limits are, and I still have something to put on the scales! ”

The man sighed again helplessly.

"Let's skip that topic." He said. "You and I are stubborn, and we don't have much time left."

Machado stared at him, and it took a long moment for him to let out a cloudy breath.

——

A shuttle descended slowly, the fuselage was elegantly streamlined, and the emblem of the Holy Blood Angel glittered on the right side of the fuselage. The condensed cold water droplets spread on it, refracting many terrifying rays of light out of thin air.

The cabin doors began to descend a few seconds later, and the guard of honour that had already been prepared played the sacred music desperately, and a choir of innocent children sang in unison on the edge of the red carpet.

Flower petals began to fall in the sky, and the machinery hidden in the clouds of the tall buildings completed this artificial miracle, which also made the crowd of people in all directions let out one cry after another.

At the end of their blurred vision, a god stepped out of the cabin.

The highest local official excitedly stepped forward and saluted him. The Blood Angels stepped out of the Thunderhawk and followed behind their primordial form, majestic and armor so gorgeous that it could match the imagination of everyone who admired it.

The cries and prayers that erupted in the crowd grew more intense, and the Anglican priest began to praise his name loudly, shouting thunderous in his reformed voice.

"Look—" he shouted. "—That's the ninth son of the Emperor, the regent of the Empire, the great St. Giles!"

Then he began to recite a never-ending hymn.

St. Giles walked past him with an impeccable smile, but did not look at the priest.

Instead of armor, he wore the uniform of a high-ranking archon, the bright red mark of the Angel of the Holy Blood was visible on his chest, the cloak fluttering behind him, and the sumptuous golden scabbard of the ceremonial sword reflected the imaginary sunlight of the ecological dome at the edge of the cloak.

People shouted his name on the edge of the wide red carpet, eager to get his gaze. They shouted, cried, screamed, and even fell to the ground with convulsions, and were then carried on stretchers by the medical team.

It wasn't until a full six hours later that the routine ended.

"Push off the rest of today's meeting for me, and say I'm not well. Excuse me, Dante. St. Giles said softly.

He was sitting in a splendid banquet hall with a table full of holy candles, but there was not a hint of food. He removed his cloak and sword, changed into a loose robe, and sat down at the head of the long table.

Astarte, whom he called Dante, stood beside him, dressed in gold armor and with a solemn face. Hearing this, he bowed his head slightly, and immediately turned around to leave the place to convey the words of the original body, but St. Giles stopped him just as he was about to leave.

"Let's leave next month." The archangel head didn't reply. "A warrior's greatest fear is to die in obscurity, your name has not been mentioned for almost four centuries, and I can no longer selfishly keep you with me, my son."

"You should do your job and lead your brothers to defeat the enemies of humanity throughout the galaxy. The last thing I want is for a warrior to have to be nameless because of me."

Dante paused, his lips trembling very visibly for a moment, and then he asked, "Who, then, will take my place, Primordial?" ”

"No one will succeed you, and I intend to abolish this tradition." St. Giles said. "I'm tired of seeing the soldiers being smoothed out, and I don't want to see you miserable in politics for the rest of your life like me."

"I'm proud of you, but I want you to be proud of yourselves, so I must abolish this tradition, and all the Blood Angels should leave me and do what you have to do."

"But but—"

"—There are no 'buts,' 'buts,' 'I request,' and the like, my son."

St. Giles finally turned around with a smile on his face: "I have only one blessing to say. May you prosper in your martial arts and triumph in victory. ”

Dante was speechless, saluted, and walked away quickly.

St. Giles watched him leave, and it was not until the two doors, which had been forced to open by Dante's departure, closed again, that he slowly rose to his feet and began to pace the ballroom.

The resplendent is really just a flat description of the extravagance of the place, and it is impossible to describe one-tenth of its splendor. Still, there was no joy in the eyes of the archangels.

He was left alone, so he no longer had to wear any masks.

The man standing here now is handsome and handsome with wings on his back, but he has no life at all. His blue eyes were filled with the pain he had swallowed for ten thousand years, and numbness and sighing had even reached the top of his throat.

He is the smoothed warrior in his own words.

He had to accept his current mediocrity, just as he accepted the unbreathing weight of the duty of regent.

With his head bowed, St. Giles returned to his seat and began to wait in silence.

He's here for a reason, though he's been visiting fortresses all over the solar system for the past 10,000 years, willing to be a harmless symbol of deification and courage for people.

However, in recent centuries, he has rarely done so. Today is a special case, just because of the call of one person.

A sudden sound of footsteps sounded from behind him, and a man came slowly, pulled out his seat, and took his seat.

"Why meet here, Machado?" St. Giles asked without looking up.

He was staring intently at the glass in front of him, the glass so beautiful that it might be priceless reflected vaguely off his eyes, the azure blue blurring deep on the walls of the glass, mixed with golden light, forming a cloud that rose and fell as the light pulsed.

"It's just a coincidence." The Palm Seal replied calmly. "I happened to be here to inspect whether the reform of the local weapons production line was compliant, and I received a message from my spies that you happen to be nearby, so I invited you to come here."

St. Giles let out a chuckle without a smile.

"Of course, your presence has also been of considerable help to my spies in their investigation and evidence, and it would have been better if none of them had left their posts to take a look at you."

"Do you think I'd love to come here and show my face.?" St. Giles finally looked up from the glass and looked at him. Although the words seemed to be questioning, there was no indignation in his voice, but a little genuine, one of the few smiles.

The palm print stiffened his facial muscles and gave the most vivid response to the archangel's smile.

"You better stop laughing." St. Giles sighed. "Every time I see you smiling, I feel like I see a not-so-distant future."

"You're not going to end up here." Makado replied with a blank face.

There seemed to be a deep meaning in his words, and even St. Giles couldn't help but look at him in amazement. He didn't expect Machado to answer himself with such a humorous sentence, which was a little different from his usual self

The archangel frowned, and soon sensed the slight difference that Machado had hidden through the tacit understanding formed by the cooperation of the ten thousand years, and came to a conclusion.

"Did you go to see him?"

"Yes." The head of the palm print. "And, I'm very angry."

St. Giles looked at him slightly strangely.

"I'm joking, too." Macado said. He still maintained his trademark expressionlessness, and even St. Giles inevitably smiled when he said such things with this look.

Of course, the laughter didn't last long, and St. Giles had too many things on his mind to destroy all happiness.

They haunted his mind like predatory ghosts, and whenever he tried to be happy, they swarmed up, tore those positive emotions to shreds, and roared at him as a reminder that he still had a lot of duties to do.

He does not deserve to be happy until these things are done.

"So—" St. Giles gathered his emotions and spoke slowly. "What are you looking for me for?"

"To get you away."

St. Giles stared at him silently, as if he didn't understand what it meant, until Macardo raised his head and met him.

The palm seal's eyes lit up with a brilliant golden light at this moment, but it was not cold, nor was it high, like a god. The eyes are gentle but powerful, like the staff of a blind man and the love gun of a soldier, which can give people infinite support and courage.

St. Giles couldn't hold back and stood up.

He wanted to say something, but he acted like a drowning man who had just been rescued, just gulping in air and ignoring anything else.

His hands on the table clenched uncontrollably, and the tablecloth began to twist, wail, and shatter. They have been brought here by the hands of countless people, so hard, but now they are completely shattered and turned back into fibers in the hands of those who need to be served.

"What. What do you mean? It took a long time for the archangel to spit out this question with difficulty.

Machado didn't answer, but gently closed his eyes and passed a father's apology into his son's ear.

+ St. Giles, my pride. How have you been lately? +

+ I hear your name every day from the prayers of the people, who wish you good health, and pray to me to see you fly over their heads. They love you, my son, but I can hear the anguish of your heart. +

+ I have seen your efforts for the past 10,000 years. I wanted to persuade you to leave, but I know that your self-esteem and your sense of responsibility will not make you accept my offer. But now the time has come. +

+ Carlil Lohals has returned, he is a man again, but he is still the one who is used to facing everything in the simplest way. I'm relieved that he's still the same, but I'm also worried about him. +

+ You and I both know that Chaos will not ignore this, especially since he is already in a place where the light of the Torch cannot illuminate. Your brother Robert is about to rush to him, but it's not enough. +

+ I can't see what they're going to face, but I can smell the rain and moisture of the storm coming and they're facing a catastrophe like never before, and I know it, and now I need you to go, my son. +

+ You have marched forward in 10,000 years, and have become a shield of the Empire. They sincerely thank you for sheltering people from the wind and rain and enduring hardships, but they don't know that you were a sword and always have been. +

+ Your sharpness has not been worn out in these 10,000 years, you have just hidden it. I need you to turn into a sharp blade again, I want you to cut through the darkness that is about to fall on your brother, I want you to move forward and win. +

+ At this moment, only you can take on this responsibility. +

+ Crucially, I want you to be yourself, St. Giles. +

+ I wish you prosperity and victory. +

St. Giles shuddered and returned to his seat, his wings folded, and a burst of golden light descended from it.

Machado looked at him and tried to smile again. In his stiff muscles, he tapped the table lightly, and the aroma of food came to his face, as well as the mellow blood wine of Baal.

St. Giles looked up, his eyes sparkling, and he saw Machado raising his glass.

"This cup is for you, St. Giles." Makado said.

The archangel looked at him, but did not immediately raise the glass in his hand. He just quietly looked at the palm print, at his elders, friends, and like-minded people. The gaze was extremely sad.

Then he asked, "What do you do?" ”

"I have my own way." Macado said calmly. "Don't worry about me, let go of these useless thoughts, angels, and save them."

(End of chapter)