He wanted to throw up.

He knew very well that he didn't really have anything to make him vomit. He hadn't eaten anything serious, and had barely managed to make ends meet. And since time began to flow in his body again, he didn't have a corresponding opportunity.

There are corresponding concepts in the memory of those that do not really belong to him, there are impressions of different kinds of food—color, aroma, taste, taste, texture, extremely detailed. He could even deduce his likes and dislikes from this, but these overly detailed memories didn't change, and there really wasn't anything in his digestive system that could make him vomit.

Nor is this reaction really due to some kind of physiological problem. His "innate" and delicate brain calmly analyzed the cause of this phenomenon for him. In the moment after he broke free from the stasis field, his brain itself unnaturally received too much intelligence information. He had no way of knowing where so much intelligence information came from or why it was forced into his brain, but the excess data did affect his brain function, and as a result, it sent the wrong signals to his other organs.

Fortunately, this mistake was quickly corrected by himself. His body itself is inherently capable of correcting errors. Even if his mind was still too busy to deal with and analyze such an overload of information, he was still a sharp and dangerous weapon - as determined by its original design.

The amount of information that came from an unknown source, that could drive a mortal insane countless times, or blow up a psyker's brain, only made him retch twice. He didn't spit out anything, and the thread that his innate warrior forced his brain to "pay attention to" told him that it was rightfully true.

Then he realized that he was wearing a sumptuous set of purple and gold armor—ornate, but lacking the necessary functionality, even practicality. He didn't know its structure, but he was naturally aware of how to "use" it: it wasn't easy to wear, and even the design of the armor itself constrained and restricted his movements. It would be uncomfortable to try to act without ruining the outfit itself.

He had never worn anything like it, but he naturally understood how to move gracefully under such constraints. His hands and feet were still a little weak, but they were enough for him to slowly get up from the cold ground.

He saw the faint reflection of the golden Aquila on his chest in the simple light of the faint green on the light-seekling ground. He unconsciously smiled wryly, which was also vaguely reflected on the ground. He saw his silver hair, which was as silky as silk, and his face, which was as handsome as a god even if it was blurred in the mirror. Then, an unconscious wry smile widened on his face.

At the moment, he doesn't have much brain power to think about the current situation, so he doesn't understand why he makes the same expression. It was a very indifferent question, and its importance was at the bottom of all the questions that had to be analysed at the moment—and the most important of all was obviously the intelligence information that had been poured into his mind without regard for his own will.

Or rather, some other memories that do not belong to him.

The amount of information was so great - it had not been selected at all, and it was filled with redundant useless data, and it was forced into his mind in a daze, forcing him to read everything in detail. He already knew some of it, and the knowledge, the skills, the stories that had happened had been naturally implanted in his mind before he was born with the well-compiled genes that made up "him". And now, the information that poured into his consciousness that he didn't know told him that the stories that had happened had an end.

In the short period of ten seconds after falling out of the stasis force field, he read the life of "Vogrim" for 10,000 years.

Fogrem landed on Chermos like a phoenix rising from the ashes; Fogrem was welcomed back to Terra by the Emperor and led the Emperor's son to join the Great Expedition; Fogram gradually fell from the alien sword, leading the entire legion into the abyss; Fogrem rebelled with his commander Horus, killing his former best friend and falling into the arms of Chaos and Slaanesh. After sacrificing his brother, Vogrim was promoted to the rank of Demon Prince, where he indulged in pleasures in the Silver Palace of Slaanesh; Fogham allowed his legionnaires to wantonly on the empire for which he should have given his allegiance and fought for it; Vogrim ...... Vogrim ......

Eventually, Fogrem became a terrifying monster, permanently decapitated by the god-aided warrior, his former best friend, with the sword he had received in the past, and his father's sword against the enemy.

Fogham's end was a slow dissolution to ashes in the golden flames. And this time, the "Phoenix of Chemus", which gave up the name of the noble phoenix, was not reborn from the ashes.

Forced to read all this, he did not know the reason for this, but he was vaguely aware that it was this "ending" projected onto him for some reason, forcibly pushing those "developments" that had been stagnated by external forces, causing them to extend again, thus breaking the blockade of his "cause and effect" by the static force field.

He didn't know why he was aware of this, and he didn't have any knowledge in his genes about these "metaphysical" things. The small part of his perception that was watching the outside world told him that there were some "bugs" that shimmered green and were approaching him in a way that was a little too fast for the "bugs" as a life form, but still seemed slow in his eyes, but he still didn't think it mattered.

In his consciousness, confused by an overabundance of intelligence, another voice that apparently did not belong to him, as if hanging above the heavens, drooped down and asked: Who are you?

Vogrim. He thought so. I'm Vogram.

You're not Vogrim. The voice replied. The real Vogrim had betrayed the Empire 10,000 years ago, thrown himself into Slaanesh, and had been completely slain by Ferus Manus, who had been reborn in the flames. Who are you?

In the midst of these questions, a kind of resentful anger inexplicably grew in his heart.

"I'm Vogrim!" He unconsciously cried out, a voice as grand and magnificent as the original echoed through the empty and dark halls, "The self-willed depravity—he can't afford that name!" He is not perfect enough, he is depraved by it! ”

His anger was evident in his tone and words, but it didn't cause anything else. The green beetles had come to his side, trying to push him back into the stasis force with a force that "bugs" should not have. At this time, his chaotic perception finally made him realize that those things were not real bugs, but some kind of incomparably delicate mechanical structure. He should have realized something, but anger and confusion hindered his thinking. He just angrily ripped the stupid machines off of himself, instinctively slammed them to the ground with far more force than necessary, and finally stomped them one by one.

A softer voice uninvited joined his consciousness: glad to see that Ling was still chasing perfection. I think we'll get along.

"Shut up! You wicked! He roared into the air, "Don't you think I don't know your tricks?" ”

Then, a sigh and a chuckle came from his consciousness. Thoughts that weren't his own vanished in an instant, as if they had never existed. Immediately, his consciousness became clearer, and his perception of the outside world became clearer. Some instinctive attraction caused him to look up in place and look to his right, where the green mechanical beetles were coming from:

He saw a strange-looking ...... Anti-gravity ...... Vehicles? ——

Sixteen standard hours later, Talasin the Endless One, director of the Solemnath Museum, was lost in thought as he faced the empty stand.

He called in a technician and went into battle himself, and with his men, he double-checked all the operating records in the venue. Led by an Overlord himself, and running at the speed of space necrons, they checked the potentially problematic part of the record tens of thousands of times in an instant, and when they found nothing, they began to try to expand their search for any signs that something was wrong—but he still didn't come to any reasonable conclusions other than a handful of netherworker scarabs that had been destroyed for no apparent reason.

Tarasin couldn't figure out how his exhibits had disappeared into thin air. Either there are ghosts among his subordinates who can tamper with operational records-

- Jokes, and even if he had, he couldn't have been exposed in the tens of thousands of inspections he had done: before the transformation took place, Tarasin was the archivist of the Death-Fears. This part of his working life has allowed him to develop a more honest personality and an extremely keen eye for a piece of data, and of course some quirks that don't fit well with his status as a hegemon...... Far from it. All in all, if someone manages to manipulate Solemnas's running record, and has the ability to hide it in front of Tarasin himself, then this is a Roman emperor in terms of physical performance - no disrespect, he just wants to use some fantastical metaphor to illustrate that "this thing can't happen".

Or, someone or something has developed some kind of transportation that bypasses the Solem NAS security system. For Tarasin, this is still a relatively acceptable possibility. Even if he was the space necromancer and had full confidence in the history and technology of his race, he had to admit that something would happen in this world beyond his calculations and predictions: most of the similar annoyances came from his kindred, a few from subspace (including the one on the Golden Throne), and he had already experienced a lot of similar losses, but after all, there was a precedent.

So the question is, who did it? Who has the ability to do so without a trace? Even in the Solemnas Museum, which is heavily guarded and has three sensors almost within a step, there is no evidence left enough to confirm the existence of outsiders?

After three microseconds of lengthy contemplation, Tarasin decided to give up:

There is too little evidence, so let's go and beat Orican first.

Miwoo (six o'clock)

(End of chapter)