Warhammer: I don't want to become a stinky can!

During a routine reporting assignment, her cold green eyes looked down at you from above.

A cold, dark green throne, intricately carved with emblems symbolizing loyalty and honor, she lies in her forest.

You're used to it. That's the kind of person Johnson is. It's not that she doesn't care about her offspring; the chivalric culture of Caliban has deeply shaped her. She cares, but she can't show it.

Having been in a position of power for so long, she was the queen of Caliban, and she was no longer good at communicating with her peers.

But it doesn't matter, I am your dark angel, a knight under the king's command, and I offer you my eternal loyalty.

"You did a good job on this mission."

His praise was evident in his words.

Simple and clean decapitations, efficient pacification, foolish enemies—her knights are her sharpest swords.

"What reward do you want?"

You look up, which is quite disrespectful, but your deep blue eyes are fixed on her.

She smiled.

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[Second Legion]

She has been forgotten.

You too have been forgotten.

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[Third Legion] Fugen

She is the phoenix of the Phoenicians.

Perfect, elegant, with meticulously crafted purple nail polish on slender fingers, interspersed with shimmering gold powder.

Her smooth, silver hair cascaded down like a waterfall, swaying with her swordplay in a dazzling display.

A perfect body curve, without a trace of muscle definition, yet brimming with power, capable of easily and gracefully decapitating an enemy.

She was the confidante of the third sister, beautiful and alluring.

"We are always on the path of pursuing perfection."

Her purplish-pink lips opened and closed.

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——Galgame route——

You are Phenus Manus. (No)

You are a phoenix child with stunning good looks and moderate obsessive-compulsive disorder.

You stand on the training ground, looking at the training poles with some annoyance. For some reason, you can never execute the most perfect final strike in that sword technique.

You vented your frustration by wildly hacking at the stake opposite you with your sword.

“Oh, my dear daring, this is not right.”

Long, smooth hair falls from the top of your head, tickling you a little, while warm, steady, and long breaths caress your neck.

The Primarch's arm wraps around your waist from behind, gripping the sword in your hand.

She wore no armor; purple and pink beads, along with a gold-threaded necklace, wrapped around her fair arms, dangling in a languid arc.

"That's not elegant; the sword will be sad."

She holds your hand, applying slight pressure.

You hold your breath, follow the rhythm of the Primarch, and unleash that perfect sword strike.

"now it's right."

You look up behind you and see her smiling, purple eyes looking at you.

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[Fourth Legion] Peturabo

She is the ruthless steel of Olympia.

With neat, dark gray short hair, an unattractive information tube extends from his brain, receiving ever-changing information from the battlefield.

He had a rather plump figure, with his muscles bulging powerfully.

She was capricious yet compassionate, prone to self-pity, and always silently accepted her burdens, gritting her teeth and persevering until her demise.

Her dark eyes drowned out all gazes directed at her.

Beneath its steel-like exterior lies a soft heart on the verge of suffocation.

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——Galgame route——

You are an iron-willed warrior with off-the-charts emotional intelligence and a level 10 proficiency in Peturabo.

Since her last joint battle with Emperor Fist, Perturabo has locked herself in her studio for three months.

After the eleven-fold annihilation, the other Iron Warriors no longer had the energy to visit their mothers, and only hoped that she would stop being angry.

You do the math and realize that it's almost time for her anger to subside and for someone to come looking for her.

If I go to her any later, she'll revert to her angry state about why I came so late.

You stand at the door of her studio and knock three times.

"My Lord, are you alright?"

No answer.

Silently count to three Terra Standard Points in your mind, and repeat the action you just did.

When you repeat it for the 34th time, the door opens.

She has her back to you, still engrossed in the intricate machine she's working on.

She was wearing only a tight-fitting corset on top and loose gray-black cargo pants on the bottom.

Her spine was clearly visible. Layers of scars overlapped on her back, rising and falling with her breath.

You sighed inwardly.

"I apologize for disturbing you, my lord, please forgive my overstepping of boundaries."

You walk over and sit down next to her at her desk.

Peturabo is sculpting a small, exquisitely crafted theater with a beautiful, multi-tiered arched structure.

You don't speak, you just watch her carve quietly.

She was very quiet now, with a rare tenderness in her eyes.

"This is what I wanted to give to Guilliman."

After the last structure was carved, she muttered something in a low voice.

You didn't say anything.

Why can't people see us?

You still didn't say anything, but directly grasped the hand she was about to destroy the theater model.

She stopped.

You can feel her hand trembling slightly.

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[Fifth Legion] Chagatai Khan

She is the war eagle soaring above Chogoris.

She had a head of wild, flowing black hair, and her wings were adorned with the distinctive headdress of the Chogoris.

In her thick black hair, strands of bright red, bright green, and white hair ties, symbolizing purity and supremacy, were wrapped around her long hair.

A robust yet aesthetically pleasing streamlined body, with clearly defined muscles, yet also possessing a voluptuous quality.

A woolen robe, wrapped around a free spirit.

On the speeding chariot, she indulged in her unbridled passion.

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——Galgame route——

You are a very wise, gentle white scar.

Although your legion has been ignored or even forgotten, you know that this is all her doing.

She did not have excessive ambition. Chagatai understood the wisdom of the ancient East: to be modest and prudent.

Extremes always lead to disaster, and an excessive pursuit of individuality will only bring destruction.

She skillfully adjusted the legion's direction, precisely guiding you to pursue freedom.

Green cars, plains, high-speed chases—that's how wars you experience.

With the fighting over, Chagatai plans to go for a race on the plains today. Make sure you have your helmet on and get on your reconnaissance motorcycle.

Don't use a combat motorcycle; without the constraints of weapons, it will be lighter and faster.

Chagatai turned her head; she wasn't wearing a helmet, and her eyes were sparkling.

"go!"

Another beautiful day for White Scar.

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[Sixth Legion] Leman Russ

She is a wild wolf on the Fenris ice plains.

Her long, messy, golden hair looked very warm, with bold braids interspersed throughout.

Drinking and eating meat!

The wolf king sat on her filthy wooden table and tore off a piece of bloody flesh with her sharp teeth.

Juice and blood dripped down together, landing on her unfathomable breasts, then slowly tracing their full curves.

Laugh, laugh out loud, and scare those cowards again!

Her hearty laughter echoed through her chaotic dining hall, where her offspring used both hands to haphazardly share the barbecue on the long wooden table.

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——Galgame route——

You are the Lion King. (No)

You are a very strong fighter, even stronger than Lemanrus, a space wolf. At the same time, you are also a very strong drinker and eater.

Besides, you have a brain.

"Hurry up and comb it."

Ruth grumbled, letting out a low, threatening growl, much like a canine.

Without hesitation, you took the large comb in your hand and pulled at the knot of hair that looked like it had been there for over a hundred years.

"Ow!"

She immediately covered her head, and a lock of hair floated down from her head.

"I'm sorry, my lord, your hair really needs to be combed slowly."

The canine's menacing snorts started again, but this time, Riemann was much more docile. She sat cross-legged, propped her feet up with her hands, and idly swayed around.

It wouldn't be difficult for the Primarch to braid her own hair with her abilities, but she always insists on having you do it, tormenting both of you at the same time.

You remember the last time you combed her hair was three months ago, how did she manage to make it look like a hundred years had passed?

Finally, Riemann looked at herself in the mirror with satisfaction. Her long hair bounced up and down with her movements, like a wolf's tail.