"Ha!"
A short, wild laugh broke the silence.
Russ gripped his wine glass, a smile on his face, but his wolf-like eyes held no hint of drunkenness, only the scrutinizing gaze of a warrior assessing a top-tier prey.
"Look at that wretched body."
Russ pointed at Mortarion kneeling on the screen.
"His internal organs have turned to Water, his bones are smoking. Even a Titan beast would have fallen."
"But this guy..."
Russ shook his head, looking at the real Mortarion, who remained sullen and silent.
"Anyway, brother, your flesh and blood are indeed tough."
"I admit, even I, after drinking that much poison gas, probably wouldn't have the strength to curse there."
Ferrus Manus looked at his metal hand, then at Mortarion, and snorted coldly:
"Your physical body is indeed formidable."
"But it is precisely this strength that has become a breeding ground for your excuses of weakness."
"Because you can't die, you think you have the right to be overly sentimental?"
This was the most absurd feeling in the hearts of many Primarchs in the hall.
They looked at their brother struggling on the brink of Death on the screen, and should have felt sympathy, or admiration.
But as the narration revealed the root of Mortarion's resentment—"The Emperor stole the kill"—this admiration instantly turned into an unspeakable sense of speechlessness.
"So..."
Guilliman rubbed his temples. This Primarch, known for his rationality and logic, felt his logic processor was about to burn out.
"Let's sort this out."
"Your lungs are gone."
"Your life hung by a thread. You couldn't possibly win against that Xenos Lord."
"Then Father appeared, and he saved your life."
"He helped you kill the tyrant who tormented your Planet for hundreds of years."
"And your reaction is..."
Guilliman spread his hands, with a 'you've got to be kidding me' expression.
"...to resent him? Because he didn't let you die?"
"This is honor!"
Mortarion suddenly let out a hoarse roar. He yanked off his rebreather, revealing a face covered in scars and boils.
"That was my prey! That was my revenge! He deprived me of the right to personally end the nightmare!"
"He made me look like a good-for-nothing!"
"You were a good-for-nothing at the time."
Perturabo coldly added a jab.
Although the Lord of the Iron Warriors also grumbled often, he valued practicality.
"If you died, what good would revenge be? Or do you think becoming a new corpse on that mountain is more honorable than living to liberate your people?"
"Look at us."
The Khan leaned against a pillar, a smile on his lips, his gaze sweeping over all his brothers present.
"Konrad Curze is a psychopath who revels in torture, treating flaying as justice."
"Lorgar is a giant baby who can't live without a god. To find a father to kneel to, he doesn't hesitate to sell his soul to demons."
"And now there's Mortarion."
The Khan pointed at the Lord of the Death Guard.
"Because Father helped him win a fight, he holds a grudge for life, and even turns to a Loki who wants to turn the whole World into a cesspit because of it?"
"We possess bodies like gods, and power capable of destroying stars."
The Khan's voice deepened.
"But our minds... are even worse than a sensible shepherd boy on the Chogoris Steppe."
"Is this 'demigods'? A bunch of giant babies with the power of nuclear weapons?"
These words struck everyone's hearts like a whip.
Even the most loyal Dorn was silent now.
He looked at the screen, then at his brothers, each with their distinct personalities and obvious flaws, and a sense of irrefutable powerlessness welled up within him.
Too fragile.
Their emotional defenses, compared to their power armor, were like being made of wet paper.
A little setback, a little misunderstanding, a little feeling of being ignored, could lead them to destruction.
As the Primarchs complained about each other's flaws,
Malcador, the Regent, standing beside the Golden Throne, had a slight twitch in the muscles of his wrinkled old face.
His clouded but wise eyes obliquely glanced at the Emperor, who sat expressionless on the Throne.
An extremely faint psychic sigh, audible only to the two of them, transmitted through their mental link.
[Sometimes, my old friend, I truly have to admire you.]
Malcador's voice echoed in the Emperor's mind, carrying a helpless tone of disappointment, a tone only an old friend who had accompanied him for thousands of years would dare to use.
[You possess the greatest wisdom in the entire Milky Way Galaxy. You can design bio-engineering miracles like the Primarchs, and you can plan grand schemes like the Webway, capable of changing the fate of humanity.]
[However, in the course 'How to be a normal human being,' your score is practically negative.]
The Emperor's eyelids twitched slightly, and a golden thought coldly retorted:
[Efficiency.]
[That wager was the fastest way to bring him to heel.]
[The Great Crusade's timetable was tight then.]
[Efficiency? Ha!]
Malcador almost rolled his eyes. He gently tapped the staff with the fingers of the hand holding the scepter.
[Let's look at your so-called 'efficiency.']
[You did indeed dispatch a Xenos warlord in five seconds, saving possibly tens of minutes of combat time.]
[But at what cost? A father-son relationship that you couldn't mend in two hundred years!]
Malcador looked at Mortarion on the screen, whose eyes were gradually becoming lifeless, and his urge to complain was like a bursting dam.
[According to a normal script, what a perfect father-son reunion scene this should have been!]
[Imagine this.]
[You descended.]
[You saw your son struggling in battle.]
[You didn't make any damned wager, nor did you stand aside and watch.]
[You rushed forward, stood by his side, and shouted to him: "My son, fear not, Father is here! We fight side by side!"]
[Then, father and son united, you block a fatal blow for him, perhaps ease up a bit, giving him a chance to swing that scythe and personally cut off the head of the foster father who tormented him for years.]
[Finally, he collapses exhausted in the sunset, and you walk over, give him a warm hug, and tell him: "You did well, you are a hero, you are my pride."]
Malcador's psychic fluctuations became increasingly intense, as if forcefully pounding on the Emperor's stubborn social nerves.
[If that were the case, Mortarion would be taking bullets for you right now!]
[He would be the most loyal, most passionate son in the entire Milky Way Galaxy!]
[He would engrave your name on every one of his bones!]
[But what happened?]
Malcador glanced at the gloomy, resentful Mortarion in reality, who wished he could poison all of Terra.
[You insisted on a provocative challenge. You insisted on proving you were stronger than him.]
[You insisted on instantly killing that Xenos, like an adult snatching a toy, at the very moment he most yearned for revenge.]
[You turned the most important 'highlight moment' of his life into a public execution.]
[You weren't saving him; you were humiliating him.]
[You forcibly turned what should have been an inspiring, heroic journey into this awkward, oppressive, resentment-filled melodrama.]
Facing his old friend's barrage of complaints, the Emperor still maintained his majestic, inviolable expression.
But Malcador could feel a minuscule, almost 'embarrassed' ripple in the Emperor's vast psychic field.
[His lungs had already dissolved then.]
[If I hadn't intervened, he would have died.]
The Emperor tried to justify with logic.
[That was a technical issue! You could have healed him! You could have used your psychic power to protect his heart!]
Malcador roared internally.
[The point isn't whether to save him or not, it's the attitude!]
[Attitude, do you understand?!]
[Even if you had said something soft afterwards? Even if you had explained, "I couldn't bear to watch you die"?]
[Nothing. You said nothing.]
[You just made him kneel and fulfill the wager.]
Malcador closed his eyes wearily.
He thought of Perturabo, of Angron, of Konrad Curze.
Behind every such 'problem child,' one could seemingly see the suffocating parenting methods of the 'Emperor of Mankind.'
He looked at the screen.
There, Mortarion bowed his head, following behind the Emperor.
That figure appeared so lonely, so out of place.
That was the beginning of the rift.
Not because of Nurgle's corruption, nor because of some grand ideological conflict.
Merely because a father, when his son most needed affirmation, chose to crush his self-esteem with power.
[Sometimes I truly feel,]
Malcador concluded faintly.
[Compared to unifying the Milky Way Galaxy, teaching you how to speak normally to people is the true 'Great Crusade.']
The Emperor did not respond again.
He simply sat silently on the Throne, his gaze profound.
The image on the screen gradually faded, and a new title was about to appear.
But the awkward silence in the hall was even heavier than before.
Because this time, everyone vaguely felt that the director of this tragedy might not only be the Loki.
But also a clumsy father, who was currently sitting below, pretending to be just an audience member.