Chapter 346: Pray to the God, But Remember to Write the Address

The combat sister's power armor was painted metallic blue?

Among the Sisterhood, there are six major orders, their armor painted silver, black, or red—but never metallic blue.

Does this signify some significant change within the Combat Sisters? Is it connected to that rumor of the Holy Maiden?

But Tiruien had no time to dwell on it; he could not afford to neglect Lady Mo Wen Val, the Grand Abbess of the Combat Sisterhood.

The Grand Abbess of the Combat Sisterhood is among the most exalted titles in the entire Empire, even eligible to become one of the High Lords; even without holding that position, her power surpasses Tiruien's.

After all, Tiruien's authority stems solely from rights granted by Imperial law—without Imperial law, a hive scum could kill him.

But Lady Mo Wen Val is different; her power comes from herself, from her exemplary power armor "Purifying Armor," from the combat sisters who follow her—and above all, from her burning faith and the Emperor's protection.

Though Lady Mo Wen Val is young, having held office for less than a year, Tiruien has already heard many tales of the miracles she has wrought.

She is unquestionably a lady blessed by the Emperor.

Yet this lady is blunt in character, preferring the frontlines and rarely returning to Terra to entangle herself in politics—why had she come to see him?

Tiruien felt strange, yet he tidied his attire and stepped out from his dim room, crossing the gilded threshold to the reception chamber he had spent eighty years crafting.

There he saw the metallic blue power armor—worn by Grand Abbess Magda, as Gigi had described.

This Grand Abbess of the Sacred Rose Order had returned from the Underworld System's Laxio, then entered the Prophet's Monastery, the Sisterhood's headquarters on Terra, to enter seclusion, claiming she would meditate on the Emperor's will—but Gigi's spies had helped Tiruien obtain a different account.

Grand Abbess Magda had brought back from the Underworld a girl covered in burns.

No one knew where the girl came from or her true identity—not even the Ecclesiarchy's Pope.

But Tiruien knew: Grand Abbess Magda declared her to be the Holy Maiden, upon whom the Emperor's will had once descended.

This intelligence did not come from Gigi's spies—Gigi's spies could never penetrate the Combat Sisters' churches.

It came from Tiruien's cooperation with the Imperial Guard; the Guard seemed to have deliberately leaked this information to him, yet took no action themselves—did they truly believe the girl had once been inhabited by the Emperor's will?

Yet a girl once inhabited by the Emperor's will seemed no more implausible than the insane rumors whispered in the Warp.

Tiruien stared at Grand Abbess Magda, guarding the entrance to the reception chamber.

Had Lady Mo Wen Val brought her here because the Sisterhood itself now believed in the Holy Maiden's existence? Had the Guard and the Combat Sisters secretly reached some accord?

"Grand Abbess Magda," Tiruien gave a slight nod of respect: "Is this new power armor? A most peculiar color."

"It is the posture of faith," Magda merely stepped aside slightly, gesturing for Tiruien to enter.

Tiruien smiled faintly, unnoticeably—this was his reception chamber, yet he felt like an outsider.

He pushed open the door and saw Lady Mo Wen Val seated before a stone hearth burning with flames.

This hearth was a relic of the former French Alliance; Tiruien had once been passionate about preserving such ancient relics, to declare to the galaxy and the veil beneath reality: humanity was not only darkness, decay, and war—it also had light, history, and culture.

But since the Emperor's beacon had been extinguished, Tiruien had forgotten this former passion.

Lady Mo Wen Val appeared young; her hair, streaked black and silver, glowed orange in the hearth's fire, and her eyes reflected the flames.

No—it was not the fire reflected in her eyes; her eyes themselves burned with a spirit that raged fiercely.

Tiruien had not seen such a gaze since the Great Rift opened, since the beacon was extinguished—he had never seen another human's eyes ablaze with fire.

As if the beacon no longer guided humanity. Tiruien remembered Leoop Frank, the Master of the Beacon Court, one of the High Lords, who had always clashed with him politically.

But he was dead—he had tried to reignite the beacon after Cadia's fall, yet every attempt brought only disaster, and ultimately killed him.

The beacon belongs to the divine realm—not something mortals may touch, Tiruien thought sadly.

Perhaps, as the mad Warp-voices claimed, only the return of a Primarch could reignite the beacon and bring hope to humanity.

"When the sun dies, mortals remember how much they need fire."

Tiruien had just sat down, not yet spoken, when Lady Mo Wen Val spoke first.

"You mean the beacon?" Tiruien blinked in surprise.

"The beacon, faith, the Emperor, and hope."

Lady Mo Wen Val lifted her gaze to Tiruien.

"All of these are what mortals rely on to survive."

Her gaze left the fire but still blazed fiercely, brilliant and scorching.

"After the beacon was extinguished, I could only fight across the galaxy relying on my faith in the Emperor."

"When I returned to Terra, I was horrified to find my sisters worshipping other things."

"I flew into rage and stormed before the Holy Maiden—but the moment I saw her, I knew: truly, a divine presence dwelled upon her."

"Beyond faith and the Emperor, another flame has ignited—and it shall soon burn toward Terra."

"Prime Minister, are you ready to welcome the arrival of hope?"

Hope? In this dark age, what could possibly be called hope?

Unless—unless a Primarch truly returned.

Tiruien's heart leapt violently; suddenly, he thought of the Primarchs, recalled the rumors in recent communications of their return, remembered the prophecies echoing through Terra's streets, recalled his childhood's childish fantasies.

"Could it be?" he ventured, a flicker of hope in his voice.

Hope, sudden and fierce, sprouted in his heart.

The thought of that possibility—the return of a Primarch—the bloody war cries, the debauched moans, the shrill bird calls, the rotting flies—the hallucinations circling his ears—seemed to fade.

Well, not all of them faded.

"Every day is the same, occasionally I get wild ideas."

"As long as there's Doraemon, fantasies stretch endlessly, sharing joy with me."

"When sad, he stays by my side; reaching into his magic pocket, he makes troubles vanish."

"Seeking legendary treasure, adventuring far away—look at my Door of Anywhere."

"On! On! On! Doraemon and I make dreams shine!" That song—the hymn praising the new god Doraemon—seemed to grow louder.

But it didn't matter; if a Primarch returned to Terra, everything would be fine!

Tiruien's aged, swollen hands trembled uncontrollably.

"Yes!" Lady Mo Wen Val's voice surged with excitement: "The Holy Maiden has conveyed the Emperor's prophecy!"

"He has come! Humanity's hope! Hope from the ancient age!"

"The Great Holy Doraemon shall descend upon the Moon! He shall return with His living saints, Guilliman and Sanguinius!"

"Praise the Holy Doraemon! Praise the Holy Doraemon!"

". uh?"

"Huh? Huh? Huh?"

Faced with the Grand Abbess's heretical words, even Tiruien, who had weathered a century of political storms, felt his heart lurch violently; decades of exhaustion and recent psychic wounds surged into his chest, clamping his aorta shut.

Tiruien's vision went black.

"Hey? Prime Minister? Prime Minister, are you alright?"

"Healer! Where's the Healer?! The Prime Minister has apparently died of old age!"

!

Zhou Yun couldn't help rubbing his ears.

Lately, he kept hearing voices—prayers, pleas, cries for help, and praises for him.

The more intense the emotion, the clearer the voice became.

For example, when Autolama had not yet been fully reclaimed, those Astra Militarum and planetary residents in their direst moments had cried out to him.

Zhou Yun would reach out and rescue them—and then they'd begin loudly praising him. This cycle repeated, and the voices around his ears grew louder and more numerous.

But this voice was different—it didn't sound like it came from near Autolama, it was fragmented, and it used High Gothic, which Zhou Yun barely understood.

""Your devotee Mo Wen prays to You""

""Bless. Loyal Prime Minister Tiruien.""

""Let him. endure illness and decay.""

What the hell? Zhou Yun rubbed his temples as he listened to the prayer.

He was certain this was not a prayer from his own Holy Doraemon Cult.

In his doctrine, he had clearly written: prayers must include the name of the planet; ideally, the exact location—those who violate this rule will have their next ceremony's Holy Communion Bronze Gong Allocation revoked.

Only then could Zhou Yun use the Door of Anywhere and the Seeker's Staff to quickly locate the pray-er and respond.

Also, no archaic High Gothic—only local Low Gothic from Autolama or the Underworld System.

"Praying without an address—what's the difference from meeting Guilliman and not making him work overtime?" Zhou Yun muttered.

Hearing this, Guilliman, who was nearby using assistive tools to draft a plan, wearily lifted his head.

"This is my two hundred eighty-fifth. Number 13285."

Guilliman handed the plan to Zhou Yun but didn't waste time explaining its details.

Zhou Yun didn't waste time asking—he snatched it and placed it directly before the True-False Divination Machine.

"The plan just drafted by Guilliman, numbered 13285, is the one most suited to our needs."

Then Zhou Yun elaborated on every word in the sentence to eliminate loopholes.

A cross flew into the air, indicating the statement was false—plan number 13221 was not the most suitable.

Guilliman sighed bitterly and lowered his head to resume work.

"Try my one hundred thirty-second. Number 09132," Sanguinius also handed Zhou Yun a plan.

Zhou Yun nodded, took it, and repeated the exact same process—again, a cross appeared.

"My plan's number starts with 09—it's unlucky," Sanguinius whispered, shaking his head. "It violates numerology!"

"Then according to you, this one I'm writing now must be the perfect solution."

Guilliman, still writing, spoke wearily:

"This is my two hundred eighty-sixth. Number 13286. 286 is thirteen times twenty-two—perfectly aligned with numerology."

Moments later, Kiriman finished writing the plan and handed it to Zhou Yun.

"Should we build a statue of Mortarion in the office?"

Kiriman looked at the red circle hovering in midair, which indicated that this plan was the perfect one.

(End of Chapter)