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

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——Galgame route——

You are Fugen. (No)

You are a rational, responsible, and serious person with a soft heart, like a steel hand.

Every day, you accompany your Primarch to inspect the various equipment and instruments in the Legion, sort out information, and analyze and organize it.

Every day of yours has been precisely divided into small pieces by her.

She knows exactly what to do and when to be efficient, like a sophisticated electronic instrument.

But Fernus is a human being; she has her own emotions.

She was very rational, rational enough to know that emotions need to be expressed, not hidden.

Finus sets aside time for herself each day, time for her to relax.

As her workday drew to a close, she sat back on her steel throne and silently gazed at you.

You walked over to her with practiced ease and gave her a hug.

Finus smiled, buried her head in your shoulder, and breathed steadily.

It's just another ordinary day for you.

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[Eleventh Legion]

She has been forgotten.

You too have been forgotten.

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[Twelfth Legion] Angron

She is the mistress of the Red Sand.

Her powerful muscles, crisscrossing scars, and bare arms bear witness to her painful yet glorious memories.

The Butcher's Nail was firmly embedded deep within her brain, and silver-gray, blood-stained neural chains extended from her scalp, baring their fangs and claws as they proclaimed their control over the Primarch.

His usually gentle and dignified face was now filled with anger and unconscious nerve twitching.

She is a broken god.

On her lower back, the black line that symbolizes shame and failure is her final self.

From that time on, there was no more Angron in the world.

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——Galgame route——

You are Luo Jia. (No)

You are Kahn. (No, you aren't.)

You are her last comrade-in-arms on the battlefield of Nukliya Star.

But that's a very distant memory.

Do you remember Angron back then, before she was nailed in? She was humble, gentle, always liked to hug others, and selflessly gave them encouragement and support.

She always enjoyed listening to other people's misfortunes and comforting their suffering souls.

She was gentle, she was kind, and she had listened to too much suffering.

But she was the most unfortunate one.

She was nailed to the ground, and you watched her struggle, you watched her plead, you watched her cry.

Finally, an angry roar filled the entire dueling arena, and her roar lasted for three days and three nights.

She has changed, but she is still struggling to hold onto her soul.

She's still the same as before, enjoying hugging and comforting others, sharing their sorrows and joys.

But when she hugs you, you can hear the rumbling of nails coming from inside her head.

She became somewhat irritable, and she started having nosebleeds, with bits of flesh oozing from her prominent nose.

But she remained kind and compassionate; she wanted to get everyone out of there.

On her last day, she shared her flesh and blood with the starving rebels, vowing to die on the battlefield and return to the Red Sands together.

However, she escaped.

That traitor.

Everyone was executed except you. You lay among the corpses, the sword that pierced your heart had not taken your life.

A giant named Kahn found you, took you back, performed surgery on you, and you became a giant as well.

Then you see her, the slave imprisoned in glory and loyalty, the mad Angron pinned to the throne.

She's going crazy, she can't control herself, she's screaming your names, helplessly waving her battle axe.

"Angron"

The madman turned his head and saw you.

She's back again.

She tried to control her expression with a ferocious grimace, but she failed; twitching muscles, drooling saliva, and a mixture of despair and ecstasy appeared.

Angron looked at you and knelt down.

"I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry"

Angron's muscles were twitching uncomfortably, the clanging of nails could be heard from afar, and bits of flesh were dripping from her nose.

You went over and hugged her.

"I'm sorry, I thought you ran away."

Angron closed his eyes in agony.

"Kill me. Kill me."

You didn't kill her.

But afterwards, she was imprisoned forever.

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Robert Guilliman, the leader of the Thirteenth Army Corps

She is the pride of Macurag.

His short, golden hair and the politician's perfectly timed smile were friendly, yet distant.

Her sky-blue eyes held an unfathomable depth of thought and feeling.

With its perfect lines and proportions, she is like a sculpture from ancient Rome.

She and her legion are symbols of imperial glory.

In her embrace, under her wings, in the five hundred worlds of Ottara, humanity lived freely and beautifully throughout their lives.

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——Galgame route——

You're an idealist, but also a pragmatic and capable extreme warrior. (Speaking of which, aren't all extreme warriors like this?)

Q: Where can you find Guilliman?

A: Her administrative office.

You stand beside her desk, categorizing the various government documents that are rushing in.

She sat in her office chair, her usual politician's smile and amiable face gone, staring blankly at the endless stream of documents.

The sun was setting in Macurag, and orange rays slowly streamed through the windows.

Guilliman put down the last document in his hand and let out a long sigh of relief.

“Great, the newly reformed government system has taken effect recently, and there are about 26% fewer documents today than before.”

Indeed, you used to work until late at night.

Guilliman blinked, his sky-blue eyes filled with ease and contentment.

"It's still early, let's go visit my mother."

Guilliman's mother, Mrs. Euton, was an elegant and kind lady, and Guilliman inherited her kindness.

Now, you stand guard at the kitchen doorway, keeping watch for the mother and daughter inside.

Soft whispers kept coming from the other side of the door.

Ms. Ewton loved baking, and naturally, Guilliman learned the art of baking from her.

When Guilliman was little, Euton would knead dough with him and watch the soft dough slowly rise.

“A new policy is like dough; you need to give it time to ferment.”

The aroma of bread wafts out, and your nose starts to itch.

Guilliman opened the door, holding a plate of chocolate and wheat cookies.

She took a piece and held it to your lips.

Her fingers lightly brushed against your lips.

"Can you check how it's baked?"

As expected of Guilliman, she always has the ability to say things that are impossible to refuse.

Beneath her rational exterior lies a passionate soul.

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[Fourteenth Legion] Mortarion

She is the Grim Reaper from Barbarossa.

Dry, frizzy hair, a dull white, lacking luster, parched and sticking up.

They paid no attention to their personal appearance, with pale skin, sunken cheeks, and chapped lips. Their lips were even cracked from breathing in toxic fumes for a long time.

She was tall but very thin, like a scarecrow standing in the distance in a farmland, supported only by a few tree branches.

She disliked decorations; there was no such wasteful thing as decorations on Barbarossa.

She always wears plain clothes, sometimes even clothes that have never been dyed.

She sat among her sisters, the silk and gold thread clashing with her mourning clothes.

Just like herself, a farmer who stumbled into a ball.

She was the harvester; whether her sickle struck wheat or life itself, she didn't care.

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——Galgame route——

You are Horus. (No)

You are Calastiffon. (No, you aren't.)

You are Hades. (Yes, yes!)

Mortarian silently poked the little figure in front of her.

This is an exquisite Death Guard minifigure, with a distinctive mechanical arm marking it as Hades.

After Mortarian looked at Hades speechlessly and asked him why he always left the Death Guard to work for other legions, Hades smiled and gave her a small doll.

(Jiao Lao’s persistence)

Um.

Mortarian gave the little doll a resentful look.