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

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If you want to add ingredients to the actual recipe, the purchase order has to be changed frequently, and the coordination is very troublesome.

Moreover, Hades always felt that adding tens of thousands of tons of onion heads after purchasing tens of thousands of tons of refined iron was a very strange thing.

The legion's high command can naturally designate their own recipes, or personalize themselves further, just like the Emperor's Sons and Ultramarines.

However, because they had a simple Primarch, none of these practices became prevalent. The Death Guard maintained a high degree of consistency, which made Hades' supply list very easy to write.

In summary, to avoid waste and extravagance, the Death Guard maintains a lifestyle that can be described as austere in a sense.

Hades didn't know how other soldiers relieved stress; he only knew that, having been deprived of sleep by work, he needed to find some other form of entertainment.

Life needs enjoyment, and Hades strongly condemned his work stress.

So, Hades encountered an opportunity where he could eat without spending his legion's resources.

It would be ungentlemanly not to freeload off this meal.

Hades, dressed in a formal suit and looking serious, stepped down from the Stormbird.

He didn't eat breakfast, although the Death Guard didn't eat breakfast either.

This is a gathering of Primarchs.

Hades silently reminded himself that Space Marines and mortals were merely bystanders, and Hades had no way to interrupt the Primarchs' conversation.

He can't just jump out and say "Stop, stop" when Mortalian is talking back to the other side, can he?

Hades trusted Mortarian; he couldn't possibly make his relationships worse than in the original story.

Having experienced certain things, Mortarion will shut up on his own.

So what Hades wanted to do was quite obvious.

go to eat.

If he's lucky, he can also catch the Primarch's prime-time family drama.

The castle in the distance, set against the backdrop of the forest, stands majestic and noble, the sunlight casting a golden edge on its walls, making them shimmer and sparkle.

Hades frowned; he had already spotted the outrageously long welcoming party.

Exams are over!

Chapter 253 The Beginning of the Banquet

Without comparison, there is no harm.

It turns out that it wasn't that the Imperials were too high-profile, but rather that the barbarians from Barbaros didn't understand art.

The dome arched, and flames accompanied by gold leaf hung down from above, illuminating the hall. The balance of darkness and light was just right, reflecting each other and creating a shimmering glow on the candlelit walls.

Beneath the chandelier adorned with pearls and gold and silver, lies a sea of ​​bright white silk, with tables and chairs of varying heights undulating, constructing the laws of an empire.

The tallest tables and chairs naturally stood amidst the light and jewels, while the tables and chairs below them, like the aftershocks of the waves, surrounded the giant, bowing their heads in submission and willingly serving as his foil.

Human rulers are always harsh; they cannot tolerate sharing a room with people of equal status, as if equality would kill them.

The cheapest joys naturally arise from comparison; there is a unique kind of beauty in looking down on others; the agreement of the crowd fosters happiness; and conversations with those in power only lead to confrontation.

So although this is a gathering of Primarchs, there are still planetary governors from other planets and diplomats from Garden Planet. If a banquet is likened to an outing, then these people are like the birdsong or croaking of nature.

Actors and dancers twirled on the dance floor, chords drifting from the rich and deep strings, enchanting and mesmerizing. They stood out from the millions, merely impromptu toys for the imperial nobility.

Even though their skills and charm were so great that the king took off his crown and the hero broke his sword, they were still not the main characters of this banquet.

Even most people's gaze and attention were not on the stage; instead, they subtly and restrainedly focused their attention on the center of the stage—

The gaunt giant sat on the most remote throne. He was so simple that he looked desolate. He was dressed in plain clothes, which reminded people of a desolate wilderness covered with dark clouds before a storm. It was vast and oppressive.

People have seen rulers who favored the night, their dark tones conveying a sense of mystery and solemnity. Yet, even so, the jewels and gold threads in the details of their "clothing" still satisfied their vanity.

But the Lord of Death was not dressed with any ornaments that displayed wealth or status; there were no jewels, no pearls, and no exquisite decorations.

The only accessory was a brass skull draped with a cloak, surrounded by six-pronged rays of light, with the Roman numeral fourteen engraved on it, and what appeared to be traces of blood splattered on it.

Such a person, even if they appeared at the funeral of a powerful or wealthy person, would be considered too plain, and would be accused of being impolite and deliberately finding fault with the host.

But he is the Primarch, a demigod, and holds the military lifeline of an entire empire in his hands, so people automatically find reasonable explanations for his actions.

After all, he is the Primarch.

The Lord of Death sat quietly in his seat, seemingly indifferent to everything around him with a discontented disregard. The dishes had been served, but he hadn't even removed his breathing mask.

An aura of death automatically spread around Mortalian, and even the boldest administrators dared not approach him to speak.

But the maids and waiters had to go through the oppressive atmosphere, for no other reason than that a Space Marine at the table behind the Lord of Death kept asking for more food.

Strangely, Space Marines usually align with the Primarch's temperament, but clearly that Death Guard does not conform to this rule.

Galo remained expressionless. He should have realized long ago that the commander of the Death Guard was not a normal person, but unfortunately he hadn't realized this when he chose this kid.

The other legions had not yet arrived; only the Death Guards had entered the main hall first, because they had not "entered normally."

Faced with the tedious and lengthy processions of ordinary people, Mortarian did only one thing: ignore them.

Mortarion did the same when facing the Emperor's Guard; the Primarch despised all ostentatious gestures, including elaborate rituals.

So Garo watched helplessly as Mortarion led them recklessly through the procession, the Primarch ignoring the ceremonial officer who came forward to apologize, and proceeding along the shortest straight line between the two points.

Galo sensed that the honor guard who had been rejected by the legion commander was about to commit suicide with his sword, but fortunately Hades stopped the poor, clueless man.

Galo silently breathed a sigh of relief. Hades' intervention meant that he no longer needed to do this task.

But this didn't make the whole thing any better. Galo had attended similar events before, and their behavior was far from polite or honorable; rather, it resembled that of an intruder.

Galo felt slightly uneasy, an unease that reached its peak when they entered the hall. Their attire was out of place, making them look like they were in mourning.

Garo wore the same clothes he had worn for diplomatic missions, but to match Mortarian's style, he had to remove the parts with intricate patterns.

Hades's clothes were even more unusual; the Mechanicus of Grei had previously given Hades a suit, which he then put on.

Although Hades also removed those overly ornate parts, Galo believed that Hades simply thought they were ugly, rather than for any other, more subtle reason.

Against a dark background, somber dark red and muted mossy green intertwine to outline the symbols of the Mechanicus and Death Guard. The buttons are made of black stone and are dull and lifeless.

Hades' attire would be quite inappropriate if the Iron Hand weren't present—the Cult of Mechanics is generally not a welcome group.

But it didn't matter anymore; they were already here. Gara looked at Mortarian, who was staring blankly at his plate, and Hades, who was calling for more food from the maid.

Mortarian stared at the beans bobbing up and down in the bowl of soup as if he were watching a toad in a swamp; he didn't even take off his breathing mask.

For the first time, Galo felt that Vox might be more suited to this occasion than him.

He could only pray that the other participants at the banquet weren't those even more forceful ones.

Galo suddenly stood up and bowed, pulling Hades up with her. Hades, who had just been destroying everything, instantly became serious.

The horn sounded loudly, the crowd thronged, and wonderful hymns were sung. Bright lights shone as the golden and red guests entered the stage.

It is Rogdorn and Saint Gilles.

Rogdorn was like a moving city wall, wearing a bright saffron cloak and a well-tailored suit that accentuated his powerful shoulders.

A golden halo surrounded his resolute and rugged face, making the original's short, marble-white hair shine even brighter.

He was a true king, magnificent and indestructible.

Rogdorn deserves all the attention, but only if—

The angel Saint Gilles was not with him.

This is a true angel.

Large, pure white wings drooped down, each one possessing unparalleled perfection, fluffy and supple. Delicate chains of gold and red flowed down from the coverts beneath the straight feathers, and the jewels on them trembled slightly with the Primarch's movements.

A soft halo burned around him, radiating a dazzling holiness. His slightly curly blond hair hung down, and his face, though somewhat thin, accentuated his scarlet eyes.

The angel, Saint Gilles, seemed to be radiating light, with a long river of light flowing quietly beside him.

Everything paled in comparison to him—the blazing candles, the jewel-encrusted chandeliers—everything became gloomy, unbearable.

In the face of true perfection, the flaws of mortals are laid bare.

No one could resist Saint Gillespie; people involuntarily stopped what they were doing and stared intently at the angel—

Of course, except for Mortarion.

There was no standing to welcome him; the Lord of Death remained seated on his throne, his posture unchanged from before, except that he shifted his gaze from the bean toad to the birdman's wings, a look of slight bewilderment on his face.

When the two shimmering Primarchs entered, they seemed to be talking about something, which was probably not a pleasant topic, because Garrod noticed Rogdorn's slightly furrowed brow.

Next, both Primarchs noticed the Lord of Death at the same time. They were startled at first, and then the Seventh Legion Commander, Rogdorn, looked at them with even more displeasure.

But instead of keeping his eyes fixed on Mortalian, Saint Gilles' gaze shifted for a moment to the seats behind Mortalian. No one noticed that the angel's expression changed for a split second, as if the angel had always maintained that holy expression.

The blood angels who followed Saint Gilles received a secret message from an angel, warning them to be cautious.

Rogdorn strode directly toward Mortarion, while the angel smiled and gestured for those who had been stunned by his appearance to return to their work.

Hades and Garo took the opportunity to sit down, while the Imperial Fist and the Holy Blood Angels moved toward their location. Garo was busy trying to identify if there were any familiar faces among them, while Hades took a sip of soup with relish.

With angels around, there's even less to worry about, although Rogdorn might have some arguments with Mortarion.

Rogdoryn, a true strongman, enjoys the simplest form of foul language to the extreme. This Primarch, who likens himself to a rock, prefers to be straightforward and believes in the truth that "if everyone speaks their mind, there will be no misunderstandings."

Rondon stood opposite Mortalian's dining table, his shadow casting an oppressive aura.

“You just caused a commotion among the mortal honor guard outside.”

Rogdorn's serious and earnest voice rang out.

"For an oversized banquet, this behavior would lead to chaos."

“If you don’t have a grudge against any of them, then you should respect their work.”

Mortarian's gaze rose, staring straight at Dorn, his amber eyes burning with fury as he glared at him.

Respect? When they waste his life with those tedious and useless rituals?

He was about to spit out his sharp and sarcastic venom when a hand suddenly reached out, interrupting his thoughts.

It was that mutant; his presence was too strong. Mortarian subconsciously shifted his gaze to the angel.

"Perhaps we should start with introducing ourselves."

Saint Gilles, with a gentle and restrained smile, opened his arms, blocking the two from exchanging glances.

Rogdorn glanced at the angels, but Saint Gilles was right; they should introduce themselves.

"Rogdorn, commander of the Seventh Legion, the Imperial Fist."

"I am the father of the Holy Blood Angels of the Ninth Legion. It's a pleasure to meet you—"

The angel looked at Mortarian with polite eyes, but Mortarian saw only cold distance in them.

"The Fourteenth Legion's Death Guard, Mortarian."

"You prefer a short welcome, my brother? Is this a custom on your home planet?"

The angel maintained his flawless smile, gentle yet with just the right amount of curiosity, as he pulled Rogdon to a seat.

The angel chose to sit between the two Primarchs, which was clearly the right decision.

Mortarian simply hummed in agreement.

Rogdorn spoke again,

“You should adapt to the Empire, Mortarian. Perhaps your vision shouldn’t be limited to a single homeworld.”

That's it again.

Mortalian realized that, in any case, his glittering, disco ball-like "brothers" would mock his home planet and his origins.

Is it simply because he did not grow up amidst gold and thrones? Is it simply because he struggled in the mire of barbarity?

Ignorance, shortsightedness, arrogance, vanity.

Mortarian cursed his "brothers" loudly, but it didn't matter. He had nothing in common with these people who didn't know the cruel truth. Only these people who didn't know what was going to happen were wasting their time, throwing away their lives among jewels and silks.

Mortarian gave Rogdorn a slow, resolute look of disdain before turning his gaze back to his pea soup.

A brother who is strange enough, with a unique sharpness.

Saint Gilles thought that Mortarian looked haggard, as if he were ill, and he was worried, but Rogdorn's words clearly sealed off any possibility of further conversation; Mortarian had refused to talk.

The angel realized that if he didn't say something soon, Rogdorn would speak up, and although he didn't want to be in that position, he also didn't want the banquet to turn into a disaster.