Chapter 26: Misfortune at the Family Door

Anda surged forward, lunging at his son.

That money—my money! The money they got by selling me!

Under the force of his momentum, he collided with Aaron, and both of them tumbled into the tent.

On the high platform in the distance, Dalet, who had just finished his daily prayers, grew alarmed and looked toward the tent.

Are Romans always this crude, even in broad daylight? These Northerners truly make no effort to hide their emotions; they are so fervent, so intense. Is it because my beloved Anda must part with his young son in two days that he must seize every opportunity? What a passionate soul.

Dalet could not help but shed a tear. Priests of his order possessed a degree of empathy that allowed them to convince the wealthy donors who surrendered their fortunes that the priests truly understood their hardships on behalf of the gods.

"Record these scenes," he commanded. "I want this story turned into a stage play, to be passed down forever."

He then drifted back into his opulent tent, where officials with ready papyrus scrolls were already waiting to present themselves. At the head of them were Modrio, the local lord of Lasvit, and Gert, the captain of the security guard.

Modrio was a slightly stout, bald man in his fifties—perhaps due to the climate, baldness was common here. In his youth, he had been a renowned commander who once crushed rebels under the Pharaoh’s banner. Yet, now, given to indulgence and excess, his frame had begun to sag, and he could barely be called sturdy anymore.

Modrio knelt respectfully and extended his palm, pleading for the priest’s touch. "Dalet, envoy of Sekhmet, please permit me to draw near your person."

Dalet, now draped in black sheer silk, extended a finger and tapped him lightly before immediately pulling away.

"I know why you have come. Lasvit is the border town closest to Thebes. In the event of an emergency march, you could reach the front within seven days to respond to Roman provocations. Tell me, Modrio, are you willing to sacrifice everything to guard the lands of Horus? If the conflict intensifies, your city will become the front line."

In the distance, Malum’s eyelids twitched, as if struck by some strange sensation. He ignored it; his most urgent duty now was to stand guard before the tent and preserve the imperial dignity of the Emperor, ensuring that what happened inside remained hidden from prying eyes. He even found his mind wandering: could this be considered a war between the Emperor and his son, the fulfillment of some prophecy? There was an old saying in Ancient Terra: "A son's growth begins the day he rebels against his father." Though, judging by the sounds from within, Aaron wasn't exactly getting the better of his father.

Inside Dalet’s tent, only the smoke from burning incense and flames remained, and there was no further movement.

The fragrance was, in truth, somewhat pungent, as if intended to mask other odors. The priest waited patiently for the lord’s reply, showing no sign of haste. After a moment, Modrio looked up, his expression crestfallen.

"Lasvit is willing to offer everything to the Pharaoh."

Priests, being holy men, referred to the Pharaoh as Horus. Modrio did not need to do so. Dalet nodded in satisfaction.

"Do not think of gaining any profit from this. Loyalty to Horus is the greatest reward. You brought your captain of the guard, I assume, to secure a future for him, or perhaps to insert your own man so you might grasp the state of the war. That is fine."

His intentions exposed, Modrio began to stammer, "Everything... everything shall be as you arrange, Master Priest."

Gert, meanwhile, bowed his head to the floor. He had hoped to serve as a vanguard, to rise as an imperial military noble, and to become the master of a city through his deeds in battle.

"I fear you have forgotten," Dalet said, his voice heavy with a deep, weary regret. "The Mad Crocodile, Urst, is coming. To appease the anger he harbors—which arrived even earlier than he did—I must even sacrifice the lives of my own attendants to fight him."

In truth, Dalet did not want Aaron to die just yet; otherwise, there would be no witness to the emotions cherished by his beloved Anda. What point was there in a severed head on a bed if it lacked the sting of drama?

Dalet refocused, putting on a bitter face. "You know Urst’s temper as well as I do. Even Horus is indulgent toward him. If you compete with him for the duty of war, you risk his challenge. To this day, Urst has fought a hundred battles and never once known defeat. And the result of failure is death."

Modrio knew there was no room to negotiate. He suddenly felt that his choice to grovel for this opportunity was a joke. He felt as if something truly stood behind Dalet—if that was indeed a god. Why did the Horus behind the Pharaoh not manifest his divine power and destroy the threats to the Empire in one stroke? Unable to resolve his doubts, Modrio could only reply: "Thank you for the warning, Master Priest. We shall prepare the protocols to welcome Lord Urst."

*Sigh,* he thought, better to resolve the most difficult problem at hand.

The Mad Crocodile, Urst, was the most notorious priest in all of Egypt. Although both Dalet and Urst worshipped Sekhmet, Dalet leaned toward her aspects of fire and plague, while Urst was the embodiment of war and blood. Every sacrifice required him to bathe himself in the blood of his enemies. It was said that Urst used a battle-axe half a man’s height to decapitate his foes, then, before the arteries could spray dry, he would hoist the body and lift it over his head.

Every city that welcomed Urst’s arrival was required to build an arena to satisfy his desire for combat. According to Urst’s attendants, this was the martial authority of the goddess Sekhmet, tempering Urst’s will and keeping him ready to guard the Empire of Horus!

Modrio departed in low spirits and immediately began organizing laborers to build an arena. It did not need to be magnificent; it only needed to provide a suitable stage for the fighting. Of course, he made sure not to be clever with the design. Once, a lord had set the arena as his own daughter’s bed, leading Urst to slaughter most of the guards in the manor before finding an axe suitable for a woman to wield, only to then decapitate the trembling, poor girl holding it. Indeed, Urst never fought those without weapons, but he would always ensure his opponents were properly armed.

Aaron, not bruised or battered, sat holding Lorgar’s pen, drawing stories of Urst that he had overheard on the ground.

Half an hour ago, around the time Modrio had left, the "battle" in the tent behind Malum had ended. Aaron lay on the ground, pinning his father’s stiff back, the two of them locked in a stalemate.

Fortunately, the old man had the upper hand. Although the Emperor was not yet as powerful as he would one day become, he was still strong enough to be slightly hindered by his son.

When Malum announced that the morning meal was ready, the father and son released each other, tidying their robes as if the scene had never occurred.

"A disgrace to the house," Anda muttered, rubbing his back. In truth, Aaron couldn't beat him at all—twenty such rebellious sons wouldn't be enough. He could pin him down with one hand. It was just that his back felt uncomfortable from sitting for over ten thousand years. Projections from the future were affecting him in the present.

Anda glanced at his foolish son, who was sitting to the side, focused on his drawing, and sighed. "Very well. Based on current intelligence, it is basically confirmed that Urst is a devotee of Khorne. Before the great storm rises, the power of the daemons is insufficient, so they rely more on flesh and blood in reality to accumulate faith."

"My only concern now is whether the high echelons of the Egyptian Empire have already been corrupted."

He was heavy with worry, calculating how to gently guide humanity through this period of history. Would he have to invent another myth or heroic legend to deceive human civilization?