Chapter 36: Kiliman’s Sleep Soother—This Dog Smells Like a Bird

Forty-two thousand and six hundred years later, there are three days remaining until the *Macragge's Honour* completes its warp transit.

At this moment, no news from the outside world can penetrate the ship. Guilliman, sitting in his rest chamber and reviewing the battle reports over and over, does not feel as exhausted as one might expect. The Primarch’s quarters are no more luxurious than those of any other Astartes; one can still smell the faint scent of machine oil here, and hear the ticking of servo-skulls flying past the outer walls.

The Primarch rubbed his eyes—his vision should not be failing, after all. Yet, at least processing combat data was easier than handling the administrative burdens of the Imperium. Because now, there was only one primary issue: the bugs. The damned, omnipresent bugs.

Beside Guilliman sat the unopened box. It was not yet time to open it; once the casing was lifted, inside lay the Father—the seal placed by the Emperor himself forty thousand years ago, protecting the contents through tens of thousands of years of history. Guilliman felt a certain resistance to the psychic traces emanating from it. It reminded him of the sensation he felt in Nurgle’s Garden when he raised his father’s holy sword. That flame, that sun—it had once resided within his own mind.

"Let’s try again. Father, forty thousand years ago, wasn't quite so bad."

He reached out to touch the power once more. A faint fluctuation arrived:
"By my decree, Primarchs are strictly forbidden from boarding actions!"

*Zap!*

The box was forcefully shut. Guilliman did not truly understand the warp, and it was still not the time to open it. But in that instant, he caught a glimpse of a necklace, and beneath the necklace, a clay tablet inscribed with ancient characters. Was this something Father had prepared for him forty millennia ago?

Father, why did you not tell us what you knew? It had been this way since the moment we were created over ten thousand years ago. If there was no trust, why create your sons?

As Guilliman pondered this, a wave of sleepiness washed over him—a truly incredible anomaly for a Primarch. He ignored the psychic residue on the necklace his father had crafted. Only the clay tablet at the very bottom of the box remained in his mind, soothing his thoughts, lowering his defenses, and lulling him into a deep slumber.

"Brother—"

He felt a hint of fraternal presence, not psychic in nature. If he were to take out the entire tablet and see the text within, what would change? But there was no time to dwell on it; he craved rest. Perhaps the ailment that prevented him from truly resting had finally found its cure.

Forty-two thousand years ago.

That morning, before Aaron had fully awakened—and without having encountered his adorable brothers in his dreams—the tent housing the three of them was dismantled from the outside.

The priest’s attendants arrived to dress them, placing a real metal one-handed sword and a wooden, iron-rimmed round shield into Aaron's hands.

*Real weapons,* Aaron thought with excitement, raising his sword to take a few practice swings. It felt much better than those wooden toys.

Anda, meanwhile, was veiled in light fabric to conceal her form and sent to Dalet’s side. Before she was covered, she snuck out a thumbs-down gesture.

Aaron looked curiously at Malum beside him and asked, "What does that gesture mean? Is she looking down on me?"

Malum mused, "In the Roman arenas, it signifies the victor’s desire for the enemy to be executed. I suppose it means the Master hopes we defeat the enemy and leave no survivors."

The Emperor had never shown any mercy toward his enemies.

Aaron sighed helplessly. "I don’t think it’s a good sign. From last night until now, he hasn't said a word, and the same goes for you. Could my words last night have struck a nerve? How old is he, and how old am I? How can he not understand that?"

Malum thought to himself that even when the Emperor was tens of thousands of years old, he still wouldn't understand.

He adjusted his attire and followed behind Aaron toward the crude arena. The arena itself was neither tall nor magnificent; its structure was simple, built from piled stones. Many ancient structures were like this; those labeled as "wonders" lead many ordinary people to believe the ancients possessed supreme skill. But in reality, most architecture looked like the small mounds and stone ruins seen in scientific documentaries. Even the ruins of alien civilizations Malum had read about in Legion history were much the same.

The arena was not fully enclosed; they lacked the time to build vaulted passages, instead leaving an opening to serve as an entrance. In the center of the arena sat a platform made of large stones and a wooden frame. At the four corners and the midpoints of the edges of the platform stood seven wooden racks, constructed in stable triangles rather than crosses. A human skull hung from each rack. A tall man, Erster, was carrying an eighth rack toward the final empty spot.

Aaron whispered, "He is so cruel. Does the sacrifice to Sekhmet require human skulls? In Athens, we always used bulls or other livestock, because that old thing liked to turn into a bull. The meat given to the gods is just skin stretched over bone—it looks complete, but there’s hardly anything to eat inside. The edible meat is all taken away to be divided among the priests."

Malum found it strange. Eight skulls, axes, blood—this was undoubtedly the work of a Khorne worshiper. Yet, he could sense no trace of a Khornate daemon emanating from Erster. Strange. He wondered if the Master had noticed.

He didn't realize that the Master was busy correcting the perceptions of the pervert beside him, trying to prevent any grotesque sights.

The surrounding boulders were filled with spectators. Dalet sat in the seat of honor, with Anda by his side. He tentatively reached out to take her hand, wishing to comfort the poor beauty who was about to lose her son, but he could never find the resolve, as if some strange force were blocking his cognition.

"This is the eighth one this year; you are quite lucky," Erster shouted, squinting as he jammed the eighth rack into the edge of the platform and raised his massive axe. "I, Erster, offer this battle to Sekhmet! My opponent, step onto the stage! Step up!"

The audience cheered, but it felt listless. Most of them were Erster’s slaves, serving as a "hype squad," and they also bore blood-red tattoos.

Malum frowned deeply. The emotions of these people were not right, especially Erster himself—his muscles didn't even tremble with excitement. Was this truly a follower of the Blood God? This squinting, head-bobbing manner—it felt like nothing more than a charade, a distinct air of "bird-like" trickery. Having seen nearly every type of daemon on the Forge Worlds, he knew exactly how to identify them.

Something was wrong. Very wrong. If this fellow was merely imitating the behavior of a Khorne worshiper, it suggested that the war-daemon behind him was actually of the Tzeentchian faction. Only those bird-men and lizard-men enjoyed such theatrics. Or perhaps, because that storm had never occurred, the human civilization’s religious deities still carried heavy, primitive, syncretic traits. Sekhmet represented both war and plague; now, adding a layer of trickery seemed normal.

No wonder the Master needed to enter the fray personally, to guide the development of human faith so it wouldn't continue to descend into such chaotic confusion. Otherwise, sooner or later, something truly wretched would echo from the warp.

But did these mixed characteristics also represent humanity’s longing for the Emperor? A god who is omniscient and omnipotent, representing all things. The reason the Master could contend with the Four Chaos Gods had been found!

This thought was recorded by Cawl’s internal programs.