Warhammer: Filial Piety Makes Power

Chapter 29 You must be joking.
Although Mordred constantly mocked the Emperor's parenting experience, her own level wasn't much better, making her a classic case of the pot calling the kettle black.

Mordred believes that the most important thing in educating children is to lead by example, teach what you are good at, and emphasize mindless copying. So what is Master Mordred good at?

The answer is obviously fraud, deception, heretical technology, blasphemous experiments, and biochemical research. What else could they teach?
Every morning, Fugrim would be woken from his room by his dog-man butler, dragging his tired body to follow Mordred on a tour of the territory, and then randomly find a restaurant for breakfast, which he would pay for himself.

Next came the daily required scientific research. Mordred assigned the third son the role of an experimenter, and he and the Great Sage conducted research on him every morning.

After a fulfilling period of scientific research and study, it was time for Mordred's favorite lunchtime. As usual, she would randomly pick a restaurant and eat like crazy to boost the local economy. Of course, the meal was still paid for by Fugrim.

After eating and drinking to his heart's content, he would need to digest his food. In line with the core idea of ​​all-round development in morality, intelligence, physical fitness, aesthetics and labor, Fugrim would receive martial arts instruction from his good brother. This was also the darkest time of his day.

On the lush grassland, a giant dragon the size of a stormbird soared freely in the sky, its sharp dragon eyes scanning back and forth, watching the flock of domestic chickens migrating below. Given the slightest opportunity, it would swoop down to hunt these delicious chunks of meat.

Just as the dragon spotted its target and used aerial maneuvering to evade the dog-man herders' anti-aircraft fire, preparing to feast, a sudden, loud roar exploded in its ears, startling it into an emergency ascent. It dared not pursue its delicious prey any further, for it recognized the voice—it belonged to the Great Devourer!
"Tom!! Fogg, stand up. Just because I cut off one of your legs, you can't get up again? You still have your other leg."

"Cheer up, don't embarrass yourself. Do you want to be able to watch helplessly as your offspring die on the battlefield, and you can't do anything about it?"

"Summon your courage and attack me, now!"

Fugrim wanted to curse. What the hell? He only lost a leg. Was he supposed to hop around?

But the inherently evil Mo Lao Er was right; he didn't want to disappoint anyone again, he wanted to win!
He thrust his sword straight forward, the dazzling sword light blocking all paths, while his left hand secretly gripped a pistol, ready to fire behind him at any moment.

The slender blade clashed with the heavy sword, creating a fine spark. Even though the numerical difference was far greater, Phoenix was confident that she would never lose in skill to this despicable knight who claimed to be righteous.

But trash-talking during battle is Mordred's good habit, so how could he let his little brother concentrate?

"Too slow, too slow, Fugrim, your sword is too slow! Faster! Faster!"

If I beat you again, you'll have to wear little skirts again!

"what!!"

Provoked by the words, Fugrim finally lost his temper. The thought of this bastard tricking him into wearing a little skirt to swindle people made him want to drag the scoundrel out and execute him.

"You want to be fast, huh? I'll show you what real speed is."

Driven by rage, the phoenix launched a series of powerful attacks, each strike faster than the last, managing to suppress Mordred's Ashbringer even with only one leg.

However, Master Mo was no ordinary man. As the last heir of the Wayne family, he had been raised by old Thomas, who had slashed him sword by sword.

Ashbringer lunged forward, using his broadsword to block all attacks, then used the force against him to deliver a simple and unadorned New Year's greeting sword strike.

The immense force struck, and Fugrim had to use all his strength to block it, unaware that this was also within Master Mo's expectations.

The illusion of the emerald grassland flickered, and Mordred vanished instantly, unleashing his signature move as the Knight of Tranquility, meeting Forgrim's gun barrel.

"Didn't expect that, did you? I was prepared for this! I, Fulgrim, will never fall for the same trick twice. Give me... ah, my eyes!"

Dust filled the air as a handful of lime interrupted the young Primarch's declaration of victory, giving him a direct glimpse into the treacherous nature of human relationships.

Mordred would never lower his guard just because the third brother was handsome. Knowing the importance of finishing him off, he wielded a large cleaver—no, a greatsword resembling a cleaver—and slashed at him.

"Lightning, Whirlwind Strike!" "Pfft~" A spurt of blood gushed out, followed by a live thigh that was twitching involuntarily on the ground, perfectly making the phoenix symmetrical.

But that's not the end of it. Mordred wasn't just hitting the kid to vent his anger; he was genuinely teaching his brother a lesson.

A first-aid kit designed specifically for Primarchs slammed into his chest, and Mordred's urging echoed in Forgrim's ears once more:
"Get up and bandage yourself. As the original body, a little bit of lime won't blind you for long. If you were an ordinary person, you would have bled to death long ago. Open your eyes now."

Although he was in great pain, Fugrim opened his eyes and began to bandage himself with a practiced and heartbreaking technique.

"I lost again."

"Nonsense, if a little karami like you really met me on the battlefield, you wouldn't even know how you died. Before your legs grow back, you'd better hurry up and think about what dress to wear tonight, little princess."

Hearing this title, Forgrim felt a wave of dejection wash over him. He shouldn't have made that bet with that bastard; it had been almost a month, and he hadn't beaten Mordred even once.

As part of the wager, every time he lost, he would have to change into a dress and become the Empire's Snow White, then go with his wicked and mischievous second brother to swindle and deceive people.

As for your question about what benefits Forgrim would gain from winning, the answer is none at all.

To paraphrase Mordred, it means, "I've already taught you how to make money, and you still want more benefits? Dream on."

With the bolts on the fixing plate tightened, Fugrim finally ended his self-rescue, collapsing backward like a salted fish about to die of exhaustion, and began his rare rest time of the day.

"Second brother, are you sure this training method is really reliable? I have a feeling you're just doing this on purpose to beat me up."

"How could that be? I'm doing this for your own good. No one else has the privilege of being personally instructed by me," the giant sitting next to Fogrim continued.

"Back when I was being trained by Thomas, it would have been normal for me to lose an arm or a leg every day, but I still persevered. Do you know why?"

"Why? Are you a masochist?"

A massive beam descended from the sky, instantly raising the sky in Fogrem's eyes by half a foot.

"Bullshit! Because I need to become stronger, otherwise I can't survive."

“You might think that Tranquility is a pretty good planet now, but that’s because I cleaned it up thoroughly. Before, it was full of monsters, and there was even Godzilla in the sea. If you weren’t careful, you could get killed by mushrooms if you went out.”

Putting aside everything else, Oglins are in no way inferior to Space Marines in terms of strength. Even if ordinary dogmen are slightly inferior to Space Marines in terms of attributes, they are not far behind. Moreover, they also possess psionic abilities.

Even so, it took my Atlas clan a full 12 years to unify the planet, and a staggering 80,000 Oglin dog-human mixed army perished. And that was just the Green Grasslands; the Twisted Jungle, a death forest comparable to Katachon, hadn't even been cleared yet.

"Forget it, why am I telling you all this? Get up, have you decided which dress to wear tonight?"

"Second brother, can I not wear it?"

Mordred sneered, yanked the weakling off the ground, and patted his exceptionally handsome face.

"You must be joking, my dear Snow White."

(End of this chapter)