When Ryan returned to the streets of Sea Gate Pass, three hours had already passed. It had been a long meal, but no matter how long it lasted, it couldn't affect the usual bustling and prosperous atmosphere of Sea Gate Pass. The streets were full of humans and dwarves, especially the expedition army. It seemed that François had already arranged the troops' encampment, and many soldiers couldn't wait to start spending money.
After months away, the expedition army had returned to what felt like a civilized world. People sang and danced, celebrating the massive victory. Even the dwarves and human merchants in Sea Gate Pass were inspired, for this war also benefited them. The victory at Eight Peaks Mountain ensured that Sea Gate Pass wouldn't face another Waaagh for the next three to four decades, if not longer.
Whether it was because of the arrival of the High King or the joy brought by the victory, King Beornulf had lifted the curfew for the night. General stores, food shops, and blacksmiths all remained open, and soldiers of the expedition army strolled through the streets in groups. At this moment, they had money to spend.
Indeed, though the expedition's wages and bonuses hadn't been fully distributed yet, they were part of the treasure hoard from Eight Peaks Mountain. In the piles of wealth left by Skarsnik and the collections of Queek Headtaker, the army found a significant amount of riches, including rare items from Dittany, Nippon, and High Elves. A rough count estimated the haul at several hundred thousand gold crowns, and Ryan generously distributed every last coin among the soldiers.
The king's generosity won him the love and admiration of all. No one disliked a generous leader.
"Greetings, my king!"
"Long live the king!"
"Hail the Knight King!"
Ryan's appearance drew cheers from the soldiers and knights, who respectfully cleared a path for him, bowing as he passed.
The streets of Sea Gate Pass weren't particularly wide and had the characteristic dwarven precision in their layout. Ryan frowned slightly at the sight. Mentally fatigued, he simply waved to acknowledge the cheers and quickly ducked into a corner.
This wasn't like his past adventures. As a king now, he could barely find a moment of peace. Every action he took became the focus of attention. Unlike Emperor Karl Franz, whom the Imperial Court regarded as a "fragile piece of porcelain," Ryan still found it nearly impossible to walk the streets alone. Burdened by endless political and military duties, he seldom had time to himself.
No wonder, Ryan thought. Many past Knight Kings of Bretonnia, after ascending to the throne, saw their personal combat prowess stagnate or even decline. It was no mystery why. The essence of knightly virtue and military training produced military aristocrats, not administrative ones. Few Knight Kings excelled at governance, yet they had no choice but to shoulder the responsibilities.
In this dark age, everyone bears a heavy burden.
"Baklava! Fresh, fragrant baklava, just out of the oven!" Ryan noticed a few Arabyans selling a sweet dessert alongside the dwarves. The corner shop wasn't very crowded, so he approached.
Baklava was a particularly special treat from Araby, made with syrup or honey, filled with chopped nuts, and layered with flaky pastry soaked in butter. It came in square, diamond, or triangular shapes, offering a crispy, sweet, and aromatic flavor.
"Sweet as your first love!" was its tagline. Ryan took out two silver coins and, along with a very bitter cup of Araby red tea, sat alone in the bustling marketplace, quietly eating his snack.
Reflecting on earlier events, Ryan felt a bit frustrated. The High King's wisdom and diplomatic finesse were clearly on a higher level than his. From the start, Ryan had been led by the High King's pace, and Thorgrim had the credentials to back it up. The High King was a thousand years old and could claim seniority dating back to the time of the Three Emperors. Who knew how much this ancient dwarf had witnessed, heard, and personally experienced? Could Ryan really debate him with mere hearsay or historical records?
That would be suicidal. This wasn't a contest of pride; it was a conversation between kings. Any small flaw in his argument would be ruthlessly exploited by the ever-picky and precise dwarves. One wrong step could earn him the dreaded "You're rewriting history" accusation, which would land him in the dwarves' infamous Book of Grudges!
Ryan wasn't joking. Even the universities of Altdorf and Nuln frequently engaged in academic disputes over the accuracy of their own historical accounts, often resorting to asking the dwarves to verify the facts.
Damn, when will I ever reach the diplomatic level of my brothers Guilliman or Fulgrim? Ryan sulked, chewing on the overly sweet baklava, chastising himself.
"Hey! Tohru! Tohru, come over here!" Suddenly, not far away, Ryan heard a familiar voice. A burly woman from the barbarian tribes, with two axes hanging at her waist, dressed in leather armor and a fur coat, and wearing bearskin boots, was strolling with a Templar Knight. She excitedly shouted, "I want this! Give me two... no, make it a large portion!"
The vendor handed her two hot dogs stuffed with ham, bacon, fresh vegetables, and salad dressing. The woman grabbed the food and began to walk away, startling the vendor, who nearly jumped. "Hey, miss, you haven't paid yet!"
"Tohru!" the barbarian woman yelled impatiently. The Templar Knight hurriedly stepped up to pay. "I've got it, I've got it. How much?"
After paying, Alfred barely had time to buy something for himself before Ingrid shoved one of the hot dogs into his mouth. "This one's yours. Let's go, Tohru, let's check out that other stall."
"Mmph! Mmph!" Alfred barely had time to react before Ingrid pulled him along.
You call him Tohru too?
Ryan watched this scene unfold, feeling inexplicably irked.
But then the Knight King smiled wryly.
Yeah, I've started a family, and Tohru should too. This barbarian woman might be a bit... robust, a bit wild, but perhaps that's for the best. She comes with no political baggage and doesn't belong to any faction, which could help keep Tohru...
Damn it. I've been king for so long I've started thinking like this too!
I've become a dirty adult and can never go back to the pure person I once was.
Ryan let out a self-deprecating laugh, scratching his head. He quickly finished the remaining baklava in a few bites, the sugary taste overwhelming his palate.
Business done, it's time to sail home!
—And now, a line you also call him Tohru—
Meanwhile, beyond the immense Warp storms of eternity, in the heart of the human empire within the material universe, lay Holy Terra, the Imperial Palace, and the High Lords of Terra.
It was the 42nd millennium. Even though the Emperor had declared his return, the Imperium of Man still faced endless enemies. Lord Regent Guilliman tirelessly fought the Chaos onslaught with the Indomitus Crusade, yet even in such a critical time, certain sacred ceremonies continued to consume the High Lords' time.
Upon the gleaming, golden world of Holy Terra, a small craft descended from orbit. The messenger inside was uneasy. He was required to attend the High Lords of Terra for a ceremonial routine meeting. Like many such ceremonies, the reason, purpose, and meaning behind it had long been lost in the ten-thousand-year history of the Imperium, but a ritual was a ritual. Since it had existed since the Emperor's rise, it was unquestionable.
A ritual is a ritual.
But today, something was vastly different about this ceremony, making the messenger extremely nervous. The High Lords had convened and decided that, since the Emperor had returned, they no longer had the authority to resolve the matter. The messenger would have to personally meet with the Emperor himself.
Fortunately, everything had been arranged. As the messenger strode into the Throne Room under the escort of the Emperor's Custodians, he finally saw the Emperor—the face that radiated miracles and light, eyes that scrutinized all with icy detachment. The messenger could hardly contain his humility and reverence. After taking several deep breaths, he began to recite the words etched into his very DNA.
"The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland once again requests an extension of the Brexit deadline. We need more time to negotiate and vote."
His voice echoed through the Throne Room, soon drowned out by the hum of instruments and the sizzling of ozone from the Golden Throne. The messenger bowed, awaiting the Emperor's response.
The Emperor remained silent. Two minutes passed. The messenger could feel the growing irritation from the Custodians standing nearby. Every second of the Emperor's time was precious, and he had just wasted two whole minutes!
The messenger wondered if the Emperor had even heard him and hesitated about repeating his request. Just as he was about to speak again, the Emperor raised his hand, indicating that it wasn't necessary.
At last, the Master of Mankind spoke: "I have heard your request and I agree to extend the Brexit deadline for 999 years. Your request has been received, and the time has been granted. In the name of humanity, so it shall be."
The messenger, feeling as though he had been pardoned, quickly bowed again and took his leave. The Emperor returned his focus to the war against the forces of Chaos.
But he was not alone in the Throne Room. The Emperor's authority and power were so overwhelming that the Mechanicus Priests,
Custodians, and Administratum bureaucrats dared not question him. But one curious individual couldn't resist.
"So, Father, what was that all about? The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland? Brexit? What are those?" Magnus the Red, sitting on the Golden Throne, spoke up, intrigued. "What on earth could make my infinitely wise and powerful father spend two whole minutes pondering?"
The Emperor glanced at Magnus, who was flipping through a few issues of Regimental Banner: Weekly Edition and reading an old historical novel dug up from the palace's depths. The novel was once considered forbidden knowledge, but after the Emperor's review, it turned out to be nothing more than a harmless historical fiction.
Even now, confined to the Golden Throne, Magnus maintained his studious nature. Seeing that the Emperor hadn't answered, he pressed further: "This must have some significance, right? Father?"
"...That was an ancient ritual from Terra's 2k era," the Emperor finally responded, sounding irritated. "It's very old, full of historical significance, but utterly useless beyond that."
"A ritual so significant and old that you, Father, who values every second, wasted two whole minutes on it?!" Magnus's curiosity only grew. "Come on, tell me! I want to know!"
"Father, I want to know!" Magnus insisted, badgering from his seat on the Golden Throne. "What exactly did that ritual represent?"
"You're always so curious, Magnus." The Emperor finally turned to his magical son, his cold gaze boring into him. "Curiosity led you astray before. Haven't you learned enough from past mistakes?"
"That's still better than sitting here on the Golden Throne for so long!" Magnus shot back, clearly unhappy. "Think about it! I, a Primarch, one of your sons, am sacrificing myself for the Imperium of Man, for you, sitting on this blasted throne for so long. Don't you think I deserve a little reward for my sacrifice?"
"..." The Emperor knew Magnus was threatening him. The sorcerous Primarch was only good for this one thing. Still, the Emperor was fair and just. If Magnus didn't sit on the throne, then the Emperor himself would have to. For now, Magnus still had some use, so he should be granted small, harmless rewards to prevent any trouble. Otherwise, if Magnus stirred up chaos, the Astronomican would be severely impacted.
That's why the Weekly Regimental Banner arrived in the Throne Room on time, and the Emperor had also opened up a few more of the palace's libraries to keep Magnus occupied.
"Do you remember about a hundred days ago when that woman with the last name Windsor came to see us, led by Trazyn?" the Emperor said icily. "From the 2k era to the present 42k, countless rulers, scholars, and heroes, High Lords and Inquisitors, have come and gone, but there's only ever been one woman with the surname Windsor. That's all I'm going to say."
"?!?!" Magnus's eyes widened, as if he had just discovered a new world. "Is she immortal?!"
"The matter is settled. If you have no further questions, return to your duties." The Emperor had no intention of entertaining Magnus any longer.
"Wait! Father, I have one more question!" Magnus asked gleefully, as if relishing some mischief. "Hey, Father, what are you going to do about Guilliman and Logar?"
"..." The Emperor's expression subtly changed.
Just a few weeks ago, a terrible internal conflict had erupted within Guilliman's Indomitus Crusade.
The Imperial Regent had clashed violently with the newly appointed Ecclesiarch, Logar, who led the Adepta Sororitas. The two fought fiercely, with Guilliman breaking Logar's nose with a punch, and Logar smashing Guilliman's head open with his double-headed eagle staff.
The entire conflict had been sparked by one statement Guilliman made during his victory speech.
"The Emperor is not a god."
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