The Iron Warriors marched along the passage in a standard tactical formation.

It's been 10,000 years.

Everyone felt the long-lost blood and vitality following their pace—every breath, every footstep that fell, something ten thousand years ago was being revived along the veins and nerves, just as the scorching lava began to turn the magma channels of an extinct volcano into the same red destruction, and the silent rusted steel was on its way to his furnaces and anvils.

Although they know that the other side is very likely, there is only one person.

A recruit.

A recruit with the face of Roger Dorn.

Both Soltarn and Dassadra have changed into their Terminator Armor, and the traces of countless battles of the past have been preserved intact, but the interior of the Warframe has been repaired. They led the team in silence, and even though each of them was already familiar with the terrain data, their sensors shone with the same lights that worked as they did before each battle.

"Soltarn." Dassad's voice rang out abruptly in the communication channels, which was unusual, as the war blacksmiths, especially the Guards officer corps, who had qualified to be close to Perturabo, were in fact in a tense state of competition for most of the time, and each of them had wanted to be promoted to a position in the Trident as the pride of the Originals.

In the beginning, the others would only compete for the remaining two spots in the trident, as the first one undoubtedly belonged to Kydomor Frix.

But after 10,000 years, everything has changed, things are not people, and the Fourth Legion has essentially become a mess of scattered sand.

But now it's different.

The original body walked out of his Iron Palace.

The Iron Blood set sail again, carrying their genetic father through the galaxy.

Now that Al Harin is firmly at the bottom of the trident, the other two still unappointed positions naturally begin to turn into carrots hanging in front of everyone's eyes.

In this case, private communication between war blacksmiths is virtually non-existent, but Soltarn does have a knack for making things different.

From 10,000 years ago when he was still a company lieutenant, he had been favored by the Primordial for his unique and powerful talents, but the Primordial had never offered to pull him out of the Trident, and the Stonesmith was very calm about it from beginning to end, even one point - Dassada suspected that he didn't actually want to serve as the Primordial's trident at all.

Therefore, communication with Soltarn became the only and reasonable thing to do.

The distinctive voice of the old stonemason's damaged vocal cords rang out over the communicator, "What's the matter, Dasada." ”

"I ...... I do not know. Dasadra hesitated for 0.01 seconds, swapping "Do you think our plan will go smoothly" to "How long do you think we'll need to take the infirmary and that recruit?" ”

Soltarn didn't answer the question directly, he just replied, "Just do it, Dassadra, we are the Iron Warriors, if you are confused, recite the Steel Prayer." ”

There is one last corner from the pharmacist's workshop.

-----------------

Parogov had never been so calm, and he even had a strange sense of self organizing his defenses with terrifying calmness and efficient use of whatever resources at his disposal, and on the other side he was quietly watching all this.

The Apothecary Apprentice was the second recruit to leave the surgical sleep chamber, and from the very beginning he had been learning about potions and medicine with Honso without being with anyone else.

His teacher always said that if he taught the knowledge of martial arts and shooting, he privately taught it to the little apprentices, which was completely enough for the time being, and when his pharmacist expertise was more abundant, it would not be a big problem to go to the training ground to sharpen it.

His work was always well organized and used to the minute by himself, and the only way to relax was to go to the library with Julius, for whom he was able to consult and read a book was a very comfortable way to relax.

Parogov rarely even went to the cafeteria to pick up food during busy hours, he always went early, and returned to the laboratory after he had enough for himself and his teacher.

Therefore, he didn't know where the instinctive masterful knowledge of combat and defense like this now came from his own brain.

As he began to defend himself, he also contacted Julius on the other side through his private channel, who promised to come immediately and find a way to contact the Warlord and them.

Until then, Parogov only needs to hold himself and his teacher here for nine minutes.

But it was really perfect, the whole defense arrangement was around the infirmary where the patient was, from the inside out, designed to the specifications of multiple lines of defense and multiple gates, cleverly using all terrain and sight angles, and these defenses were designed to be completely devoured by the future offender, without any moral or theoretical constraints or constraints-

Parogov shuddered as he shoved the last vial of biological reagent into a pipe ballista converted from a mechanical injection arm.

A thought pierced his mind like a terrible, poison-filled dagger.

What a horrible situation would it be if such a great power decided not to choose the Empire anymore?

Suddenly, a noble, strong, but extremely tired voice almost gave up sounded in the defensive line.

"So now it's over, and you don't have to suffer about it. There is no more domination, he wins, you are free, my son, do what you have to do. ”

Parogov's hair exploded with horror, and his adrenal glands and other hormones caused him to quickly retreat with an inhuman agility and draw his sword.

But there is nothing behind him.

A deep sense of sarcasm, bitterness, self-deprecation, and even greater emptiness and powerlessness struck him.

His heart seemed to be clenched by the coldness of despair.

Before the darkness took over, Parogov suddenly realized that the voice had just come from his own vocal cords.

-----------------

"Anyway, are you planning to disobey? Julius. ”

Incense was lit in the private reading room, and Chiko, the director of the Silver Skull Think Tank, was leaning leisurely on his couch, a piece of furniture with a single armrest, between a sofa and a single bed, with several servo skulls suspended above and around his head, flipping through a book for him.

The director of the think tank himself is holding a string of dates dipped in powdered sugar in his hand, and is watching and eating it.

His apprentice stood across from him, anxious and determined.

Emenut was still comforting Julius, "I just did the math again, and the omen given by the tarot is that everything is going well, and I think this matter will be solved well in the end, so why should you rush to make trouble?" ”

Julius simply didn't know how to explain it to his teacher.

Fortunately, the Master Prophet seemed to be very lenient with his apprentice, and finally promised Julius that he could sneak out on his own, and he would "not see".

Very good change. Emenute snapped his fingers to catch the Soldier's attention as he watched his apprentice slip out of the room in a spell apparition.

As soon as he left the station, Julius immediately ran towards where Parogov was.

"Parogov! Hold on! I'll be there soon! It only takes nine minutes! ”