Chapter 397: Say, Are You a Good Imperial Guard for Huang Amah?

Tiruien walked up the steps of the Lion's Gate, wearily surveying the battlefield before him.

Almost the entire outer palace had been leveled—war, blood, bombardment, and the rampage of demonic legions.

Now the tide of war had subsided; the Greater Demons had been utterly destroyed, and the surviving low-ranking demons were being purged by the Imperial Guard and Grey Knights, while those suspected of corruption were carried away in batches by the Inquisition.

Tiruien could only thank Saint Guilliman and Saint Doraemon for their mercy; due to his duties, he had witnessed nearly the entire battle, and he felt his will had been shattered by the mad, horrific scenes.

Eight Bloodthirsters slaughtered life, countless skulls floating in seas of blood.

The monsters opened their bloody maws, unleashing terrifying war cries, fire whips shattering fighters, chainaxes grinding tanks to dust—the ancient defenses of the palace crumbled before them like the lowest-grade parchment.

A living saint with a halo, alongside Sister-Matron Mo Wen, slew one; the Grey Knights dispatched another; Archangel Mephiston of the Blood Angels unleashed his terrible psychic power, crushing two Greater Demons outright; Captain Reina and Commander Valerian cooperated to kill one; Marshal Trajan himself severed the head of another.

But they were not what truly ended the battle.

When the beast far more terrifying than the other eight Greater Demons entered the field—Skarbrand—Tiruien heard its name from Saint Doraemon's lips.

The demon named Skarbrand effortlessly shattered the Imperial Guard's lines; whether Grey Knights, Imperial Guard, or even powerful psykers like Captain Reina, none could halt the blood-soaked demon.

They charged without hesitation, yet still could not stop the tide of blood.

The monster seemed the embodiment of rage, savagery, slaughter, and betrayal—nothing in the material realm could stand against him.

Until the figure in a cowboy hat, wielding a revolver, appeared.

Tiruien considered himself dull, yet he still sensed the presence of Saint Doraemon and the Emperor upon that youth.

Then came the gunshot and the screams.

Skarbrand was killed instantly by that single bullet—but it was not over.

Tiruien clearly saw the bullet pierce the veil of reality and plunge into the Warp.

Then Tiruien—or rather, all of Terra, perhaps even the entire galaxy—heard it:

The sound of the bullet tearing through leg bones, the piercing, furious, and delighted shriek of the crimson face that loomed over Terra.

Immediately, every Khorne demon within Tiruien's sight limped; their eyes, once filled only with rage, now held an almost imperceptible fear.

Then the Eternal Gate opened, and the Primarchs and Saint Doraemon entered the battlefield.

Tiruien's memory of the later events became fragmented.

He recalled only vague scenes.

Roboute Guilliman stood amid the storm of blood and gore, not as the legendary rational figure, but wielding the blazing Sword of the Emperor before a demon far larger than himself.

Saint Guilliman cut through the black clouds like a brilliant sun; the Spear of Completion fell like the Emperor's tear, severing the endless sea of blood.

Saint Doraemon smiled as he strolled across the blood and battlefield, snatching demons and shoving them into the pouch on his belly—even Khorne demons, whose minds were pure rage and slaughter, showed fear and fled in terror.

Every time Tiruien recalled those scenes, his heart pounded as if he were a child listening to the Church's myths.

But what he saw was not a story, not a myth, not a legend.

People often say facts become stories, stories become legends, legends eventually turn into myths.

But on that day, Tiruien saw myths, legends, and stories become reality.

Yet having witnessed this,

by all logic, even Tiruien, as Imperial Viceroy, could not escape the brutal scrutiny.

Inquisitorial aircraft swept overhead like flocks of hawks.

No one knew where they had been hiding—they emerged en masse after the battle, arresting those suspected of corruption or those who had seen forbidden things.

Then came interrogation, screening, hypnosis, suppression, and memory removal—the usual measures.

Tiruien would have been among them.

But Saint Guilliman gently healed his shattered will with his psychic power; Saint Doraemon declared him still pure with a red X and a blue circle.

He was allowed to remain in the palace and continue his duties.

During this time, Tiruien moved like an automated machine—finishing one task after another, speaking only when necessary, losing weight yet growing more bloated; his mind held only one sequence: tallying losses, calculating remaining food and fuel, filling vacant administrative posts.

Finally, today brought a sliver of rest; Tiruien had just reported his recent work to Primarch Roboute Guilliman.

The greatest problem remained the unrecovered regions of Terra still out of control.

But the root cause was not disloyalty, nor loss of faith in the Emperor.

It was simply that Terra produced too little and consumed too much.

Food—massive quantities of food and water—were needed to stabilize those lost regions.

But Master Guilliman only wearily lifted his head from the parchment scroll and told Tiruien that Saint Doraemon would resolve these issues.

No further action was needed—only wait for Saint Doraemon to act.

Tiruien was astonished.

Even under the Emperor's protection, Terra had never truly solved its food shortage.

A slightly blasphemous thought surfaced inexplicably in Tiruien's mind:

Could Saint Doraemon be more omnipotent than the God-Emperor?

The thought filled him with shame.

At that moment, Tiruien saw a familiar yet unconfirmable figure hurry past him.

They were figures far taller than mortals—even slightly taller than Astartes—but Tiruien could not be sure.

For they wore no golden power armor, only simple tunics, like factory workers from hive cities or farmers from agrarian worlds.

"Captain Valerian?" Tiruien asked hesitantly.

Captain Valerian, his face ashen, turned his head toward Tiruien.

He nodded in salute, then hurried away.

This left Tiruien bewildered.

"Say: I'm gonna farm!"

"Will you farm or not?"

"Are you a good Imperial Guard for the Emperor?"

"Plant rice along the edges! Still saying farming's beneath you?"

"Is the land good for farming?"

"Smack!"

Beneath the Imperial Palace, in the Holy Sanctum's depths, in a tunnel undetectable by any scanner,

Zhou Yun held a whip he had somehow acquired, tapping it against his palm.

A group of Imperial Guard, not wearing golden power armor, knelt on lush rice paddies spread across carpets, planting seedlings one by one.

Above them floated a miniature sun, with tiny clouds drifting beside it, raining gently.

As they listened to Zhou Yun's scolding, their faces, darkened by the sunlight, grew darker than any black man's.

【Item Name: Holiday Agriculture Set】

【Origin: 22nd Century Earth—Future Department Store】

【Production Date: 261. 3】

【Function: A complete set including rice seedlings, a miniature sun, rapid-growth clouds, rice paddy carpet, and scarecrow. Designed for children to experience agricultural life: plant seedlings on the carpet, the miniature sun provides light, the rapid-growth clouds supply water, the scarecrow wards off pests, and the rice grows quickly to yield sweet, delicious grain.】

At Zhou Yun's waist, the Chrono-Whirl, capable of adjusting the flow of time within a radius, swayed gently.

Terra was now critically short of food.

So Zhou Yun had exchanged for this Holiday Agriculture Set.

The set enabled rice planted upon it to mature and harvest rapidly; its only flaw was that it was originally designed for 22nd-century children to experience farming, so someone had to actually plant it.

To increase yield, Zhou Yun also activated the Chrono-Whirl, adjusting the time flow around the field.

Now, roughly two years passed inside this tunnel while only one day passed outside—a month equaled nearly sixty years.

The problem was that mortal bodies and lifespans could not endure such labor; moreover, many mortals inside and outside the palace had been corrupted, and their loyalty was questionable.

Additionally, many mortal bureaucrats died in the Battle of the Lion's Gate; the Empire's administrative system was already critically understaffed, and all trustworthy, reliable mortals were already overburdened.

Furthermore, most people on Terra had zero experience growing crops; their food mostly consisted of factory-made protein cakes, pastes, or corpse starch.

One needed a group of physically strong, long-lived, loyal, reliable individuals with spare time and rich knowledge to farm.

So Zhou Yun turned his gaze to the Imperial Guard.

The Astartes were busy reclaiming lost territories, purging remaining demons and cultists; most of them understood only war—just think how terrible the grapes on Baal tasted.

But the Imperial Guard—they were born to be the perfect farmers. Their bodies, forged through bio-alchemy, were flawless, long-lived, immune to corruption, and utterly loyal.

When they were created, they were not merely warriors like the Astartes; they were trained in countless arts—including agriculture.

Most importantly, their duty was to protect the Emperor.

Who in the entire galaxy was more dangerous than the Emperor? Did he even need protection?

In Zhou Yun's view, their job was like being a missile maintenance specialist.

Do missiles need maintenance? Does the Emperor need protection?

Missiles might need maintenance—but the Emperor absolutely does not.

Better to spend that idle time farming for the people of Terra!

Is farming less useful than strolling, playing blood games, or protecting the Emperor?

So Zhou Yun borrowed a batch of Imperial Guard from Marshal Trajan and dragged them into this tunnel to farm.

But these Imperial Guard were proud, looked down on farming, felt it was an insult, and constantly complained to Zhou Yun.

"I am the Emperor's guardian! My duty is to protect the Emperor!"

"How dare you make me farm! How dare you!"

"Smack!!"

(End of Chapter)