Approaching the landing zone, Dorn found the scene far from the welcoming ceremony he had imagined.
There were many Imperial personnel to greet him, and the welcoming ceremony was grand and solemn, but it lacked a certain something.
The primarch withdrew his outstretched foot, turned and walked into the room, making a silencing gesture to the excited, kneeling staff, and closing the door behind him.
He walked to the window, drew the curtains to conceal himself, and only parted them with a finger, observing the situation at the landing zone through the gap.
At the landing zone, a denurian shuttle landed, and out stepped sentinels and an iron men.
The newcomer wore white power armor, carried a black-bladed spear, and had a giant Ork skull hanging from his waist.
He had a tall and straight posture, thick eyebrows, large eyes, and piercing, bright tiger eyes. Scars on his cheeks added a touch of cruelty and ferocity.
"Champion swordsman—Harlan Ogilvy," Dorn murmured, speaking the newcomer's name. He was his brother's sworn protector.
The primarch's perception was keen. From the champion swordsman, Dorn saw a lingering, pervasive aura.
That aura was extremely violent, enveloping Harlan.
Dorn didn't think much of it. Within the Imperial Palace, evil things would be dispersed by the light of the Emperor's disc drive. He simply regarded it as some special talent.
Seeing no one else emerge from the shuttle, and no new shuttles landing in the sky, Dorn glanced at the iron men, then left with a furrowed brow.
If his brother had arrived, even if his name wasn't on the welcome list, he would have appeared to greet him.
His brother's protector alone was not worth him going to greet. Their statuses were vastly different, especially in a diplomatic setting where respect for hierarchy and etiquette was necessary.
Rogal Dorn came and went even faster, moving through corridors and shadows without attracting much attention.
He paid little attention to political events, instead heading to the Imperial Fists' stronghold to instruct his new recruits in training, preparing to join the Great Crusade and deliver a heavy iron fist against the enemies of Mankind.
As Harlan stepped out of the shuttle, he felt a gaze flash and disappear. Before he could locate its source, Imperial officials came forward to greet him.
"Welcome, esteemed guest." The diplomatic official bowed, performing a warrior's salute, and welcomed the Argent Nur visitor in melodious High Gothic.
Feeling the gaze disappear, Harlan stopped searching and said to the diplomat in front of him, "I need to see the Imperial Chancellor."
His tone was steady, concealing his inner anxiety.
Blazkowicz had left the Real Universe many years ago and had not yet returned. In desperation, he could only come to the Imperium to ask the Emperor if he had any solutions.
"Lord Malcador is awaiting your arrival." The diplomat nodded, raising a hand to usher the entourage into the inner court, heading to the Department of the Interior.
Harlan nodded, taking the Iron Men Turing to the Department of the Interior.
In reality, he wanted to see the Emperor directly and reach the Celestial Hearing earlier, but circumstances did not allow it.
The Emperor himself was very busy, sometimes personally participating in the Great Crusade, providing strategic command, and also searching for his sons across the galaxy, while also maintaining the Astronomican to provide navigation.
As the Great Crusade progressed, the Emperor became reclusive when he returned to Terra.
Unless absolutely necessary, he rarely appeared before the populace as he once did.
Previously, Astartes Legion commanders or captains could meet the Emperor if needed, but now it was very difficult to see him.
The Imperial administrative structure gradually matured, taking over many powers from the Emperor. Matters that once required his personal decision were now handled by specialized agencies.
Harlan didn't know why, but he always had a feeling.
The Emperor himself was consciously weakening his influence over the Imperium of Man's government.
He strode forward, accompanied by his iron men brothers, and escorted by the custodes, towards the Imperial Chancellor's residence.
Amidst the accompanying retinue, Harlan's gaze scanned back and forth, searching for the intensely oppressive gaze he had felt earlier.
His search yielded nothing, and he eventually shifted his attention to observe the scenery of the Imperial Palace.
Compared to his first visit to Terra, the inner court of the Imperial Palace was even more heavily guarded, and the crowds of people entering and exiting for work were dozens of times larger than before.
Space orbit was even busier; not to mention other areas, the Lion's Gate Spaceport alone, which received important guests from other worlds, had shuttles more densely packed than data points.
Most striking was the colossal, polygonal spaceship, shaped like a mace head, hovering directly above the Imperial Palace.
"What is that?" Harlan raised a hand to the sky, asking the reception personnel.
The diplomat smiled, proudly introducing the shadow that obscured the star: "The mountain array, the Seventh Legion—the Imperial Fists' operational base."
He puffed out his chest, and as he walked alongside the Argent Nur swordsman, the corner of his eye caught the expression on Harlan's face.
Previously, the void wanderer, the flagship of the Lord of the Stars, was officially recognized by the Imperium as humanity's largest and strongest warship.
The strongest human warship, yet not belonging to the Imperium of Man, naturally evoked both love and hatred.
With the return of the mountain array, discussions about the strongest warship became popular on Terra, comparing it to the void wanderer.
In terms of size, the polygonal mountain array was a full circle larger than the rectangular-hulled void wanderer.
However, in terms of firepower, it was hard to say.
A single shot, drawing power from a star and capable of destroying Mars, left a deep impression on the people of the Imperium.
It forced the Adeptus Mechanicus of Mars to the negotiating table, where they signed the "Denurian Accords".
"The mountain array?" Harlan nodded softly, his face as calm as still water, which greatly disappointed the diplomat.
He raised his head, carefully observing the warship, which was larger than a space fortress.
The hull of the mountain array was covered with undulating metallic structures like mountains, along with towering bridges and weapon turrets like peaks, full of vertical lines, spires, arches, and massive flying buttresses.
Macro cannon arrays, laser turrets, and torpedo tubes were densely distributed on every flat and side surface of the hull, as numerous as trees in a forest.
These weapon platforms themselves resembled small fortresses.
Harlan had seen this enormous space vessel when the Champion's Blade docked at Lion's Gate, initially mistaking it for a fortress or an orbital defense platform.
Then, seeing it activate its engines and adjust its posture in high orbit, he was startled to realize it was a magnificent warship.
On the mountain array's dome, which pointed directly to the stars, there was a circular window the size of a capital ship, with a yellow glazed base, and within the circular window was a clenched black fist.
"The Imperial Fists..."
Harlan silently noted the mountain array and the Legion that possessed it, then said no more and proceeded to the Malcador's residence.
Along the way, the escorts changed repeatedly, their authority levels increasing, until the final escort duty was handed over to the Legio Custodes.
"It's getting more and more tedious," the iron man Turing spoke, complaining impatiently, "Since we landed, we've switched vehicles and walked, covering hundreds of kilometers, with a total of four hundred overt and covert security checkpoints and thirteen hundred hidden sentries."
Turing turned to the custodes, "And finally, we need you all to accompany us."
The custodes turned his head to glance at the iron men, surprised internally that the number of overt and covert sentries it mentioned was not far from the actual count.
He couldn't help but wonder if the iron men had revealed this information intentionally or unintentionally.
The iron men seemed to be complaining about the excessive security, but it was actually hinting at a fact: it could calculate defensive vulnerabilities.
The custodes looked straight ahead and said slowly, "Every existence has its necessity. What seems unreasonable has all been tested in real combat."
"Whoosh~~~"
Turing blew a cold whistle. Just as he was about to speak further, a rear sensor detected an attack warning, and his body staggered forward.
Harlan kicked him in the rear, warning, "Don't cause trouble. The custodes are also warriors who uphold their duties. You must respect them."
Regarding his iron men brother, Harlan found one thing very perplexing: Turing's attitude towards Denurian citizens and Imperial ones was vastly different.
For the same matter, he had completely different attitudes.
After reprimanding Turing, Harlan turned to the custodes and explained, "He's not good with words. What he means to express is that there might be some vulnerabilities in the security."
The golden-armored warrior nodded, tightening his grip on his weapon. "There is no flawless defense. We are also improving security to better protect the Emperor."
The group fell silent again. The iron men's heavy footsteps clanked, cracking several floor tiles.
Harlan kicked him again, warning him with his eyes, before he finally behaved.
By the time they reached the Chancellor's residence under custodes escort, it was already late evening, and the escorts had changed from custodes to inner attendants.
Harlan walked into the inner garden and saw a stooped figure. His expression changed, and he raised his eyebrows, growling, "Hey! Old man!"
Under the pavilion, Malcador's body trembled. He felt the shout was particularly harsh, and his withered hand gripped his staff tightly.
His mouth twitched, and he narrowed his eyes at Harlan, retorting with even harsher sarcasm: "This dinner I prepared, if it goes into your foul mouth, it would be better to give it to the common folk."
Harlan was equally impolite, sitting down opposite Malcador with a grand flourish, and taking a shallow bite of steak, he quipped, "Terra's food is truly awful."
"It was sent by Argent Nur."
"Then it's absolutely delicious!"
Malcador's fists gradually clenched beneath his robes. The composure on his aged face disappeared, and he pursed his wrinkled lips, feeling an urge to hit someone.
The two formed a "profound friendship" over the phrase, "Terra is inferior to Argent Nur."
Seeing Malcador's face darken, Harlan felt it was about time. He sized up the fake old man, his expression quite serious, "You look younger?"
As an immortal, there is no such thing as aging or becoming younger; external appearance depends on their inner state.
Deep within the Imperial Chancellor's heart, many dark secrets were sealed, and he had to govern the Imperium of Man.
Numerous pressures, heavy as lead, weighed on Malcador's heart, making it difficult for him to relax even for a moment, and wearing down his physical functions.
His external appearance reflected his truest psychological state: aged, heavy, with wrinkles on his cheeks expressing fatigue.
"Really?" Hearing the rare compliment, a flicker of light passed through Malcador's cloudy old eyes. He conjured a mirror with a wave of his hand, reflecting his old face.
"Heh heh," Harlan grinned, "Of course not."
Crack~
The mirror shattered into several pieces and vanished. Malcador closed his eyes and took a deep breath, wondering how he had ever provoked Harlan Ogilvy, this rogue whose mouth was more devious than his martial arts.
The champion swordsman was unique; not only was his tongue venomous, but he was also very vengeful.
During the signing of the "Denurian Accords", every time the two met, there was an inevitable war of words.
Malcador had a long lifespan and a peaceful mindset. He had worked with the Human high-ranking officials and now navigated among the nobles.
However, his words were not very sharp, and he was no match for Harlan's unscrupulous tactics.
Seeing the Imperial Chancellor's breathing quicken slightly, and his grip on the scepter suggesting a move to fight, Harlan quickly composed himself, pulled over the iron men brother, and said, "You requested maintenance personnel, and I've brought it."
Having gotten the upper hand verbally, he knew when to stop and didn't provoke Malcador further.
Knowing Harlan was changing the subject, Malcador didn't pursue it either and called for a servant to take the iron men away.
No matter how unlikable his words were, Harlan was always reliable in his actions and never equivocated on serious matters.
As the Imperium expanded, too many basic documents needed to be processed. The office machines gifted by Blazkowicz had their lifespan greatly reduced, and their components rapidly aged.
For such basic machines, the Imperium and the Adeptus Mechanicus had relevant technical reserves. Out of respect and political considerations, Malcador still notified Argent Nur.
Harlan's visit to Terra this time, besides meeting the Emperor, had another purpose.
Transporting new document robots, having Turing maintain the machines, inquiring about Blazkowicz's specific information... A massive amount of basic documents was very suitable for machine processing. Having tasted the benefits, Malcador ordered a batch of document robots.
Harlan saying his wrinkles had lessened was not just a jest; there was some truth to it.
The document robots handled many basic files, effectively alleviating the pressure on the Department of the Interior, and the Imperial Chancellor naturally felt a bit more relaxed.
After Turing left, Harlan's expression became serious, and he asked in a voice like rubbing sand, "When can I meet the Emperor?"
"Blazkowicz left the Real Universe five years ago. The Emperor should have known about this long ago, so why has he not acted?"
Malcador picked up his teacup, blew on it lightly, and unhurriedly drank the fragrant tea, "The Emperor will have free time in an hour."
"Regarding your master's matter, the Emperor naturally knows and has ample reasons not to interfere."
"An hour?" Harlan nodded and let out a long breath. With a confirmed time, the stone in his heart also fell.
He rose from the stone table and sat on the pavilion railing, leaning against a stone pillar to rest with his eyes closed.
"Aren't you going to ask?" Malcador put down his teacup and asked Harlan, who was holding a long spear, "On what grounds did the Emperor not help Blazkowicz?"
"No interest." Harlan replied very directly, opening one eye and saying to the old man by the stone table, "I won't satisfy your desire to confide, old man!"
Creak~
The teacup in Malcador's hand creaked, and he felt a lump in his chest, wanting to vent his frustration on the person in front of him with his fists.
He took a deep breath and drank tea to calm the anger stifled in his chest.
The champion swordsman always managed to hit people in unexpected ways, with a very ordinary tone, making them very uncomfortable.
"Harlan Ogilvy." Malcador called him by his full name, asking very seriously, "Has no one ever told you that your mouth is very annoying?"
"Yes!" Harlan straightened his back and replied with a smug expression, "But they couldn't beat me."
"What? Do you want to fight?"
He lowered his leg from the railing, tightened his grip on the Darklight, and a glint flashed in his eyes, "When it comes to martial arts, I'm not afraid of you!"
"Heh heh." Malcador's lips curled, then he fell silent, and then he laughed aloud.
He, who governed trillions of citizens of the Imperium, was made to laugh by a young man in his own mansion garden.
"You are a bit too arrogant."
"A bit, but not overly so. My strength is decent; it can support a little arrogance. If I could also live for tens of thousands of years, the galaxy would be named 'Ogilvy'."
...
Evidently, Malcador once again underestimated Harlan's thick skin and was so exasperated that he kept shaking his head.
A hint of relief even welled up in his heart, glad that Blazkowicz had not been led astray by this charlatan, otherwise he and the Emperor might have been angered to an early grave.
"May you rest in peace." Malcador murmured a blessing, once again thanking King Nowick and Queen Elise.
The two bickered in the garden, exchanging verbal jabs and greetings, creating a strangely peculiar atmosphere, like an old couple teasing each other.
Malcador occasionally shook his head, his old face changing expressions, sometimes angry, sometimes laughing, which indeed released a lot of pressure.
Time passed quickly, and the atmosphere in the garden was "relaxed and pleasant." If not for a timely reminder from a servant, they would have almost missed their meeting with the Emperor.
"Stay close." Malcador called out, shook his burlap robe, and left, leaning on his Aquila Scepter.
A sigh came from behind again, and sharp words, like a club swung at his knees, almost made him stumble.
"Don't you have any other clothes? How many years has it been, and still this tattered robe? Is it because you don't have money to buy new ones? Did the Emperor not pay you?"
"If it's really not possible, I'll bring you one next time. An Imperial Chancellor should dress appropriately."
Various blasphemous remarks poured out, making the servants sweat profusely, praying in their hearts for this lord to leave quickly.
Malcador, however, smiled after hearing them, his old face's wrinkles scrunching up like a chrysanthemum. He turned back and said, "Alright, it's rare for you to have such repect for me; I am deeply gratified."
Harlan's expression changed slightly. He had spoken too carelessly just now, revealing a weakness in his words, which the old man seized to turn the tables.
He patted his chest, his expression proud and confident, "What respect? Respecting the elderly and loving the young is a denurian virtue."
"Unlike the Imperium," his tone shifted again, his eyes downcast and brows tinged with sorrow, "an old man who has lived for millennia toils with all his might, yet cannot even earn a robe to cover himself."
The servant's knees went weak, about to fall to the ground, but was pulled up by a hand encased in white power armor.
Just as Harlan was proudly gaining an advantage, he saw Malcador raise his hand in front, his fingertips tracing a fiery red psychic rune mark.
"Why don't you dare to fight me with real blades!" He cursed angrily, gently released the servant, and before closing his mouth, squeezed out a phrase through gritted teeth: "Playing with psychic powers is no real skill."
"Hmph." Malcador snorted, "Runes were developed by me, so why shouldn't I use my skill?"
Whoosh~~~ Whoosh~~~
Harlan whistled, everything unspoken.
He looked up, admiring the starry sky, the plasma engine lights of thousands of warships illuminating Terra's night sky.
Hearing the silence behind him, Malcador suddenly felt peace, but also lost much of his amusement.
Due to work requirements, the Chancellor's residence was not far from the Emperor's palace; it could be reached in five minutes by anti-gravity vehicle.
Harlan followed Malcador into the Emperor's bedchamber, seeing the Emperor again after many years.
He wore a laurel wreath and casual clothes, seated on the bedchamber throne. The aura and psychic radiance he emitted were many times more powerful than when the two first met.
"Emperor." Harlan lowered his head and eyes, averting his gaze from the Emperor, resisting the psychic power as he performed the warrior's salute.
"Harlan Ogilvy." The Emperor's majestic voice held a hint of softness, reaching Harlan's ears, much like the late King Nowick.
The Emperor's gaze was surprisingly gentle, lingering between Harlan and Malcador. He knew everything that had happened in the Chancellor's garden.
Perhaps he really should get some new clothes for his old friend?
He thought this to himself, his golden-glowing eyes falling upon the champion swordsman.
"Khorne favors you as always." The Emperor's eyes saw through to the essence, observing the many blessings Khorne had bestowed upon Harlan.
The blessings of the Chaos God were so abundant that if the champion swordsman wished, he needed only to utter "Blood for the Blood God" to become a daemon Prince.
"A coward's gaze," Harlan scornfully spat at the Chaos God, "All that he gives is a mirage, ethereal and illusory, unable to shake my will."
______