Waiting without an agreed time is really boring.

After the seventy-sixth time had cracked all the sorcery traps and locks set up by his heir in just one microsecond, the psionic advisors of the Silver Skull had finally decided to take a look around the area before the "priest" returned.

Anyway, his authority on this ship should be high enough.

Uther Maatra took his staff and walked slowly and alone through the cold, uninhabited passage of the Destiny Steel.

The exit of the air regulator hissed out of sight, and the temperature inside the ship was kept at a low equilibrium temperature, but it was pleasant considering the environment outside.

All he needed to do was wrap his woolen shawl, and he looked a lot like a thin mortal who was a little afraid of the cold, but could still bear it.

Perturabo and his companion elves set the scent filtering values on their mothership very strictly, and although he didn't show it, Maatra actually loved it.

There is no strife, sacrifice, and unpleasant smell of living here, and a faint smell of ozone emerges from some places and then dissipates, bringing a sense of thinness to the clarity of emptiness.

Those who don't understand the inside story may mistakenly guess that this is to create some kind of experience similar to the air on a snow-capped plateau – and indeed there are many similarities between the two.

Maatra looked at it and thought to himself that the warmth and breath would remind him of the days when he and Perturabo trekked through the snowfields and valleys of Sacred Terra, or, later, when they fought together somewhere else.

He couldn't remember a lot of details. The memory of the scholar he was proud of had been somewhat damaged in the previous process of killing him from the occult, and a look of nostalgia and sadness came to his face as the color of the best incense wood.

But he still remembered the glimpse of the flying planes that covered the sky, the ant-like people who moved along the avenue in despair and panic in the icy rain; The face of Ahriman, the son he once loved, flashed from the reflection of the memory fragments, and the yellow-black striped livery, the black basalt fortress, and miraculously, he actually remembered the name of the Iron Warrior, the City Breaker; Or maybe the majestic Wonder Fortress on the high mountain cliffs covered in ice rock, with huge shadows skimming the white, reflective snow, what do they call it? Crow's nest?

He remembered the giant he had seen that day.

His brother's face seemed carved out of the rock, leaping out of the eternal mountains and rivers. His power armor was recognizable from the original style of the Colossal Terminator, but he attached it with many ingenious ideas and powerful weapons, and adorned himself with gold writing in many ancient languages, a language from the distant era of Terra that had been passed down to Olympia.

The language that wrapped around his brother's armor was not a description of a poem of honor, but Magnus-Maatra stood on the bank of the river of memory, looking down from the perspective of a third man, watching the golden light, the most terrible, the darkest, the most vicious words of the curse flowing before his eyes.

Why did I turn a blind eye at the time?

The Fourth Primordial is far more powerful than his sons and warriors in every level, and in contrast, he resembles a mythical moody god with thunder and lightning in his hands, or a giant vortex storm of lightning and thunder on the ocean.

It suddenly occurred to the viewer that the rumors that Perturabo was able to crush an entire force with a single blow were perhaps not exaggerated.

But he did not fall into the feeling of blindness, stubbornness, and disbelief in everything, as he later did, although his strength was undisguised, as if he knew the answer to everything.

Ma'atra saw his brother smile at him in the picture of his memory, shallow and unaccustomed, but it was genuine.

"The weather technician told me that I was very worried that you would be swept away by a superstorm or something here," Perturabo's voice echoed with a force, a kind of unequivocal fall.

"My answer to them is that if anything can sweep away my big, red brother, it's not enough for a storm that can destroy only one area, they need something more powerful."

Ma'atra was saddened to see that he had replied with a hint of a smile, but he couldn't remember what he had said to Perturabo.

The water surface of the river began to become unstable.

Two god-like genetic primordials approached and embraced each other, and the collision of the two powerful forces was reminiscent of the competition of primordial beastlines.

They were a little separated, but the final picture was still warm and beautiful: the happy mood brought by family affection flashed in their eyes.

The water mirror of memory dissipated like a ruined player screen, and Maatra did not react, but quietly let her thoughts flow to the rhythm of the stroll.

The picture just now was clearly mixed in with something else, they were not as coherent and solid as they had been, and sometimes there was an obvious random splicing of memory fragments when viewed, but as long as this power was not used or deliberately pursued, there was a limit to what Ma'atra had to do now.

In order to achieve a clean occult "death" of Magnus in the occult sense of the fifteenth genotype, so as to sever the close ties he had formed with the supreme conspirators a long, long time ago, these losses now seem worthwhile and fully acceptable.

Only the more regrettable loss came from the fact that his psionic link with all his children was also severed at the same time.

Maatra knew that if the person had not been in the same place as the demon prince Magnus and had been able to witness that the entity wrapped in lies had not yet dissipated, then that level of psionic screaming and the sense of broken links would have caused him to be scattered across the galaxy, and the other intelligent children could easily come to the only possible conclusion: the genetic prototype of the Thousand Sons Legion, the crimson Magnus, had truly died.

In other words—

The undisguised footsteps behind him interrupted the psychic advisor's thoughts, the trait of this psionic energy he had recorded in his list, the one he was waiting for.

At this point, he suddenly realized that he had walked exactly one circle, and circled back to the place where he had set out, the door of the library of his innocent son.

Ah, another example of extremely ingenious design, Perturabo's talent for building labyrinths and Rubik's cubes is still amazing no matter how long it takes.

Then Peturabo said that this apprentice will give me a very, very good surprise, and it is also very exciting.

The psionic advisor slowly turned around with a quiet smile.

"It's been a long wait, Maatra Gu...... Ask? ”

Magnus - The smile mask on Ma'atra after seeing the face of the person who came was now shattered into a thousand pieces like his soul.

The psionic readings in this place quickly soared to the point of sounding the alarm.

"How- it's your ——!!!!!!!!!!!!"

The Fifteenth Primordial screamed in his brother's face out of shape.

Wail.

Like the surprises you see, Magnus?

(End of chapter)