Perturabo used his four feet with fleshy pads and fluff to glide lightly and silkily through the winding streets of the ancient.

The evening breeze with the temperature of the setting sun blows from the direction of the desert, blowing through the unfolded triangular awning, and the canvas hunts and rattles. The night was falling, and the stars twinkled - except for the heavenly dome that Perturabo was so familiar with, there was no evil "eye" that stared at him eternally, and instead there was a scarlet, evil band of light.

Like a wound cut through the sky, the Great Rift will become the most striking symbol in the night sky no matter how far you look at the Milky Way.

Will this represent the ultimate triumph of Chaos, or the prelude to the accomplishment of one of his ultimate goals by a brother who has been stealing his undeserved position for many years and who is more capable than him?

Peturabo doesn't care about any of this now, these are just some of the mud and sand destined to be swept away by the flow of time as part of the Border Collie's grand plan for humanity.

With the help of each return to the Iron Blood, the genius Shepherd first succeeded in creating a mini time device with the help of a certain legend to help re-establish his only existence in the River of Time - this is very important and must be done first, and the result of not doing this special anchoring can be seen in some of the Thousand Son Wizards who feel that they can get away with it on the reef of the River of Time - even when nothing happens, they can't stabilize their bodies "now", It can only appear in the eyes of others as a superimposition of oneself in the eternal blur of multiple times.

And according to the pattern of so many jumps he made so many times, in fact, more than Perturabo told Ramizane, because there were some more troublesome events: he found himself in his past self, and then jumped from there to various points in time. For various reasons, Perturabo didn't think there was any need to complicate Lamizane's brain.

He was now more concerned about the target he had come to for this jump, and the miniature Bell of St. Kiestal, in addition to reinforcing his presence, would also help him mark the possible targets of the jump, and try to keep his jump closer to that target than possible among the countless random values.

Perturabo thought that his creation had completely surpassed anyone else before and since, not even the one that had made the bigger and more golden one!

The city, which was mostly made of sandstone and clay, was built on a platform of hills, the sand of the desert was brought here by the soles of the shoes of the people who entered the city all the year round, and the mud of the streets was replaced by yellow sand and gravel, which was suitable for the footpads of the canine, and he could feel the fine particles of sand slipping through his toes, leaking down, and the surface of the gravel that had been polished by the pedestrians and carts passing by for many years still had a slight coolness.

His flattened paws made a rhythmic "click" on the ground, and the dog flattened its ears back, tightened its tail, lowered its body and melted itself into the shadows of the eaves of the street—the suspected target he was trying to track appeared in his night vision.

Navigating the city in the form of a fluffy canine is not a very pleasant experience, especially when the sun is still set and there are always small children trying to get close to him.

The chirping, screaming human cubs with an audible explosion would either try to grab his big, slightly wagging tail or catch him, or a maiden and a woman would stop for him, pulling pieces of cheese and leavened dough from their baskets or baggage, trying to get the handsome creature to come and eat from them, so that they could take the opportunity to touch its pretty white mane or the white hair on the top of its head.

Of course, the noble, wise, and arrogant Fourth Primordial could not be caught or tempted by mortal children and women, and he just trotted away with his head held high and walked away with beautiful steps, leaving behind a voice of regret and even a crying voice.

And the night was a good time for him to move, and he lurked in the shadows outside the square, his eyes fixed on the tall figure who had just left the door of the church.

Even if he used a burqa to disguise himself, and did not wear the iconic terracotta steel power armor of the Space Marine, it was impossible for an ordinary genetically enhanced thral to inadvertently and lightly fake Astarte's extraordinary reaction speed and combat literacy, and the dog pretended to be an animal passing by in the shadows, carefully observing the other party.

A Space Marines veteran, he concludes, is definitely a veteran who will not have served for less than two hundred years, and is not yet in a desperate state; The dog's brilliant dynamic vision captured the veteran's hidden weapon beneath his robes, and there was doubt in his steps, but not out of fear or cringe, in fact, there was a strange sense of pride in his whole temperament.

"Interesting." The dog muttered to himself, sounding like an animal snorting to others.

He was far away with the person being followed, and the streets he had stepped on during the day formed a concrete image of the city map in his mind, so this guy was going to the slums?

Okay, let's see what happens next.

The Border Collie saw his target stop for a moment in front of some of the buildings, and it made him distract himself from the buildings, oh yes, look at the markings, and Perturabo felt as if he had touched the edge, but the prospect seemed to be a little unpleasant.

The dog easily avoided the sinkholes on the ground and the stagnant water in the ruts, the smell of the slums was not as bad as the city of Fangcai, it was quite bad, but it was bearable, but it was difficult to say if he went deeper, but Perturabo looked around, it was indeed a good place to hide some special big guys.

Eventually, the self-proclaimed capable Astarte agent (Perturabo was suspicious of how the veteran's scout training had been accomplished) stopped in front of the cheap door of a sandstone building, and though the thin plastic door should not have stopped him from kicking, he politely raised his hand and knocked lightly.

Perturabo also saw another graffiti on the door. His black-and-white brow furrowed.

A threat that no mortal could hear floated into his shaggy sensitive ears.

The stalker responded.

Very good, another Astarte, in this kind of place, oh, to fix it, if this is the case of the dialogue, then there is at least a third Astarte, wonderful, what kind of meow little potato is this? A shovel down, a dig, a string up?

Then he heard the stalker report his legion and name, and they began the classic mutual recognition session—

The tall pretender opened the door and stepped in, and the dog heard the special bass of two additional power armor servos coming from the darkness of the room.

Very good.

You little Caliban potatoes.

Wail.

Good book friends who know where this is, don't rush to spoil it hahahaha!

And it's really cold, it cools down, my head hurts-

(End of chapter)