Warhammer: I don't want to become a stinky can!

Page 624

Terra

The cold wind howled in the night, and the twinkling lights in the sky were no longer distant stars, but fleets anchored above Terra's orbit.

The palace was brightly lit.

The room was in a mess, with over-the-top guards running around and occasional soft, deliberately suppressed screams, but the Pale Lord still frowned in displeasure.

They are currently undergoing a "makeover" so that they can appear gloriously and majestically at the military parade later, giving the soldiers a great boost.

Even Primarchs, the intense work would make them look disheveled, so decoration was a must. Ten thousand years ago, this was a common practice in some image-conscious Legions.

Primarchs don't stay perfect forever; their hair grows longer, their beards grow, and stress makes them look more haggard—their skin looks worse.

Therefore, Saint-Gilles and Guillimans designated this as an official procedure.

Mortarion reacted with extreme impatience. Perhaps the Primarch had learned how to handle political affairs, interpersonal relationships, and psychological issues over the past millennia, but he still hadn't learned how to manage his image.

After he awakened to his true nature, perhaps the Pale Lord became even more self-destructive in this regard.

Therefore, this matter becomes even more necessary. Hades's original words on this matter were:

"Moth, at least you can't scare people."

Even if you don't add positive buffs, you at least shouldn't apply negative buffs to your own troops.

This is Hades' bottom line.

The Pale Lord's attire also leans more towards concealing inhuman features, rather than like the former Saint Gilles, who wore elaborate makeup on his face, or like Guilliman, who spruced his hair and beard.

Regarding Mortalian's design, six stylists resigned and ran away under the pretense of illness. Due to Hades's obstruction, the Pale Lord did not seek revenge afterward.

The new stylist arrived at the palace in despair, thinking he was going to die there, but thankfully Hades promised him he wouldn't.

In the noisy room, Hades sat on the sofa eating snacks. He didn't really need makeup or anything like that, and his armor didn't need waxing or repair—because he could make a new set whenever he wanted.

He doesn't even need a face; he could have it made into the hollow face of a Void Dragon, or perhaps the makeup artist simply felt that Hades' perfect image didn't need makeup.

She asked Hades if he wanted patterns painted on his face, to which Hades immediately refused.

Saint Gilles would paint patterns on her face, sometimes in the shape of teardrops, and also wear eye makeup, all of which Hades did not need.

Therefore, he only needed the stylist to tie some capes to his armor. Since it was a parade, the capes were scarlet velvet—the same color as the Mechanicus.

Hades became the most idle person in the room, watching with glee as others were tortured by the makeup artist, especially Mortalian, whose Primarch was utterly devastated.

Because the Primarch's bone armor appears to grow directly onto his body, it's inconvenient to wax or disassemble the armor. The stylist's solution was to cover the overly gruesome parts with fabric while also designing a new look.

Mortalian's wings were also a big problem. Again, taking Sanguis as an example, the archangels had their own special guards to groom their feathers, to clean bloodstains and to hang gold ornaments among the white feathers.

Hades had never seen Mortarion look at his wings properly; the Primarch seemed to dislike them very much.

Normally, Mortarion's wings are folded together, and the outer side is dark and perforated, like a floor-length rag cloak.

When necessary, the Pale Lord spreads its wings, revealing a screaming skull and mimicking eyes that flash on the inner sides, giving all creatures present a sanchack.

Hades admitted it was cool, but—hahaha, so hot and chaotic.

This is even more villainous than the villains themselves. Hades wouldn't dare say that the Mortarion Wings who ascended to demonhood in the original story might actually be more righteous.

When the archangel spread his wings and flew away, everyone present was overjoyed and their morale soared; when Mortarion spread his wings and flew away, everyone present was terrified.

Hades was incredibly impressed with the stylist. Under Mortarian's murderous gaze, the stylist made Death fold his wings, and then led a few trembling people to apply wax to the outside of Mortarian's wings.

The outer surface of the Grim Reaper's wings looks like the material of a rag, but it is actually scales. Waxing instantly turned the dirty blackish-gray into a passable black.

Mortalian felt the sensation of others touching his wings, and the Primarch was very impatient and extremely irritated—he could never understand the behavior of people like Guilliman Saint Gilles allowing makeup artists to poke makeup brushes near their eyes.

He glanced again at Hades, who was sprawled on the sofa in the distance, laughing heartily at his comrade's suffering. Mortalian felt that the reflection of Hades's bared teeth was flashing in his eyes.

Seeing Mortalian looking at him, Hades laughed even harder, his schadenfreude practically written all over his face.

endure.

tough.

The Primarch remained silent; he couldn't refuse these words—he knew the importance of morale, and he needed to realize the warriors'—could Hades please tone down his laughter?!

At this moment, members of the Cult of Mechanics and the Cult of Hades came over and reminded Hades not to make such an expression during the parade.

Hades stopped smiling and looked dejected.

This relieved Mortarian somewhat, and the guards behind him finally finished the agonizing waxing process and brought out a box of valuable items—

It contains glitter made from polished gemstones.

They began sprinkling glitter on the outside of Mortalian's wings to make the Primarch's wings look more like a deep galaxy.

Motalian became restless.

He couldn't stand it anymore.

But he couldn't just yell and walk away—that was Callas's prerogative; twenty minutes earlier, Callas had stormed off, grumbling and cursing.

He can be absent, but Mortarian cannot.

This step was done very quickly, followed by spraying some kind of stuff to fix these little things in place. After it was done, Hades felt that the stylist's face was so pale that he might collapse at any moment.

But the resilient warrior did not give up. He climbed the ladder next to the Primarch and then prepared to comb the Primarch's hair and adjust his hood.

He was such a responsible stylist, Hades was deeply moved.

Hades sensed that Mortarion was about to kill someone, so as his best friend, Hades quickly used Dark Domain to annoy Mortarion, successfully preventing the Primarch from becoming agitated.

It seems that Mortalian's target for killing has changed from the stylist to Hades.

Hades blinked and mouthed to Mortalianbi.

"Be resilient, you can do it."

Mortarian felt utterly hopeless once again.

At that moment, the door opened, and Macado walked in. Hades turned his head and saw the remarkably neat-looking Magician.

The cloak was replaced with a fabric of exceptional quality, and understated jewels and diamonds were inlaid on the clothing—those who frequently attend such occasions are more aware of their image.

Macado also saw the Primarch, who had suffered greatly. The old man gave a dry laugh, his mood seemingly improving, and then sat down in a corner of the room to rest.

The stylist continued his work diligently, combing the hair and untangling the knots. The Pale Lord's long hair was like dried straw, of extremely poor quality, and therefore required waxing.

A thousand years ago, Angron would also have the good temper to let the palace stylists restyle his dreadlocks.

The shadow cast by the hood needs to perfectly cover the original's eyes. It seems that the stylist gave up on the idea of ​​colored contact lenses, but the alien-like eyes really need to be covered up.

"Sir, will you... will you remove your breathing mask at that time?"

The stylist asked cautiously, and Mortarion nodded. Hades knew that Mortarion would remove his gas mask in situations he considered important, where he could reveal his true thoughts—a move the Primarch considered a form of honesty.

Of course, this is on the premise that he is not familiar with the other party. Once they are familiar, the Primarch rarely does this. Hades believes that Mortarion is simply too lazy to do this.

You no longer need to work.

Mortarian said calmly, and Hades watched as the stylist shuddered, clearly thinking it meant, "You don't have to work anymore because I'm going to kill you."

Hades quickly tried to smooth things over.

"He's saying you did a great job, you don't need to put on makeup anymore, go and rest—you did a very good job."

The stylist breathed a sigh of relief. He bowed a few times nervously, then sprinted away with his makeup team to the side room without looking back.

I feel terrible.

Mortarian said that when Hades removed his gas mask, he suddenly regretted letting the stylist slip away. The lower half of the Primarch's face revealed insect-like jaws, and the texture of his face was more like armor. His mouth was more like a crack-like mouth decoration than a mouth.

It seems that the part of his neck that exposes his jaw is actually his mouth? Hades wasn't sure; the Primarch was truly amazing.

Mortarian calmly retracted his inhuman features, concealing his jaw, and with a surge of psionic energy, his face returned to its human form.

Magic.

Hades thought of it.

"I don't think the resilient Primarch will be defeated by something as trivial as makeup."

Hades said this, and Mortarian sneered.

I'd rather be locked up in prison... I believe this is the last time I'll be tortured like this... Let my other brothers bear this pain.

"Try to think more positively,"

Hades said casually,

“I have the same idea. We’ll go back and capture the other Primarchs, tie them up, and make them work.”

Mortarian cackled, looking even more like a villain.

........................

"I beg you!"

Political Commissar Yilan shouted in exasperation,

"Get yourselves together! Tuck your shirts into your pants!!! Fasten your ammo pouches! And you! Stop using your entrenching tool!"

A small commotion immediately broke out in the Krieg infantry regiment under his command, but most people simply put their entrenching tools away reluctantly.

Commissar Ilan took a deep breath. They were now standing not far from the palace. He stood on tiptoe and glanced at the long army, which stretched out to the horizon.

The sky was still deep black, but the spots of light on it showed a certain pattern, and the ships were forming a formation.

They were in the corps contingent of the parade. Krieg had a large number of people, so they formed their own large contingent. They would then stroll around the corridor in front of the Gate of Eternity and receive the blessings of the God-Emperor and Hades.

Ilan was glad he was Krieg's political commissar, because Krieg was considered to be very disciplined, at least they could march out in a neat square formation—some regiments would have some difficulty doing this.

His official rank was not high enough to warrant his inclusion in the special political commissar formation of the Ministry of Military Affairs.

Fortunately, it only takes one spin.

The political commissar realized that this was just a formality; only when he stood on Terra and saw the crowds of people all around him would he realize the true scale of this expedition.

Imperial Fist soldiers occasionally walked through the crowded army, responsible for security and guard duties.

But in the shadows unseen by people, the eyes of the Raven's Son and the Midnight's Son are equally bright.

After another long wait and march, Ilan felt a little bored. His soldiers were reluctant to speak and began to miss the incredibly talkative cultist.

The red-haired woman went to the cult's formation, muttering before she left why her best friend who went with the fire lizards had not yet returned.

The political commissar's eagle-like gaze swept over the Kriegs once more, making sure no one was secretly opening their entrenching tools to admire them, and that the eerie green light did not appear.

He checked his attire one last time. It was said that Hades and the Primarch would inspect them together—Ilan meant that with so many people, how could they possibly take care of everyone?

But he also felt that since they were gods and demigods, they must be able to notice everyone.

Ilan took off his political commissar hat and rubbed his hair again with the pungent hairspray.

……

"Jin-306 didn't come?"

In the crimson procession, the great sage at the very front, standing out prominently, asked, enunciating each word clearly.

Beside Kirkland, where Jin should have been, sat a female sage. The sage gave a forced, insincere smile.

“My father has retired—he doesn’t have your energy—and he wishes you a speedy death from overwork.”

"Hehe, I'll live three lifetimes longer than him."

Kirkland said, turning his head away from the little brat Jin had raised, a massive amount of data flashing through his mind. At this moment, countless Kirklands were working in different locations—one of them was responsible for arguing with other sages at the Academy of Athens.

……

"Big, dumb guy."

The soulless Cecilia said nervously that they were at the very end of the Underworld Cult's armed contingent.

Behind them was a phalanx of psionic titans surrounded by necromancers and ghost knights. Cecilia felt that with each step the titans behind them took, she was thrown several steps into the air by the shockwave.

Over the millennia, the Silent Order also became an armed force under the Church of the Underworld. They were a separate force, not incorporated into other imperial armies, not under the jurisdiction of the Ministry of Military Affairs, and completely free.

Ahead of Cecilia and her group were seasoned veterans who had fought countless battles. She felt her heart pounding wildly, unsure whether it was from the shock of the Titans behind her or from sheer nervousness.

"I'm scared."

"The soulless Oglin is missing a soul," Oglin said.

“I’m scared too—” Cecilia said softly; she hadn’t been assigned to the Silent Sisters.

She failed the interview because her soulless constitution did not meet the standards. The sage told her that the standards for the Silent Sisters had been getting higher and higher recently. A hundred years ago, she would have passed the interview.