"Great Khan, the Palatine Empire submits to you!"
The court envoy lay prostrate upon the ground, his forehead pressed against the cold stone floor, his trembling body like a leaf in the autumn wind.
He knelt alone before tens of thousands of soldiers, yet what he represented was an entire empire.
This kneel was not merely his personal submission; it was the humiliation of the whole Palatine Empire made manifest. And yet he dared not refuse to kneel. The cities that had been slaughtered to the last had already shown the price of resistance.
Either one surrendered from the very beginning, or one faced the full might of the steppe armies.
But so far, no city had succeeded. Not even one had endured for a single day.
The new emperor was pragmatic, unlike the arrogant fool who had ruled before him.
Otherwise, even if the emperor himself had refused to surrender, the court nobles would have bound him and dragged him here anyway. They feared death more than their ruler.
"Enter the city!"
From his high vantage, Jaghatai Khan gazed down at the prostrated envoy. There was neither mockery nor pride in his eyes.
He did not inspect the letter of surrender. Nor did he send scouts to test the gates. He merely nudged his horse forward and rode straight toward the open city.
Behind him, twenty thousand iron riders surged like a tidal wave. The thunder of hooves shook the city walls, bricks trembling and dust falling.
This was the perfect moment to massacre twenty thousand cavalry, but the defenders atop the walls had no will to fight. They clutched their blades, yet the edges were not aimed at the invaders, but warily angled toward their own comrades.
Because everyone understood: even a single stray arrow could give the Khan an excuse to order a slaughter.
And they could not, must not, give him that excuse.
"Great Khan!"
The young new emperor staggered forward under the "escort" of the nobles. His knees struck the stone heavily, and his forehead pressed against the icy cold bricks.
The nobles had prepared thousands of words of flattery, but the emperor could not utter a single one. Terror drowned his reason, leaving only a broken plea clawing its way from his throat
"I… no, I… I surrender!"
With shaking hands, he reverently offered up the crown, the symbol of imperial authority.
Jaghatai Khan bent forward slowly, taking the jewel-encrusted crown. Under the gaze of all, he raised it high above his head.
"From this day onward," his voice rolled like thunder through the deathly silent palace, "there is no Palatine Empire."
"This land shall reclaim its ancient name, Chogoris!"
The steppe cavalry erupted in a roar like a collapsing mountain range. Curved blades flashed skyward as voices tore the heavens apart.
"Great Khan! Great Khan!"
The Palatine nobles all lay prostrate, none daring to lift their heads, none daring to speak.
In the suffocating silence, all they could hear was the pounding of their own hearts as they awaited the conqueror's judgment.
Jaghatai Khan bent slightly and looked toward the mortal who had remained by his side throughout.
"Teacher," he said softly, rare warmth flickering in his gaze, "I have unified Chogoris."
A smile of genuine pride touched Caelan's lips.
"You, like your brothers, make me proud beyond measure."
"Did they share this glory with you?" Jaghatai asked.
Before Caelan could answer, the Khan sank to one knee. With solemn reverence, he gently placed the crown of supreme authority upon Caelan's head.
Half-kneeling, he clasped Caelan's hand and raised it high. His voice was deep, yet thunderous:
"This glory, I will not keep for myself alone!"
...
"Transferred again."
Caelan lay sprawled on a scorching desert floor. An unfamiliar sky burned overhead, stained an unnatural crimson. A venomous sun stabbed at his exposed skin like countless needles.
A Primarch's homeworld always bore unmistakable traits.
Desert. Crimson sun.
The answer was obvious.
"Baal Secundus."
"So the ninth Primarch belongs to the Ninth Legion… Looks like Little Mo's numerology prophecy really did come true. Numbers really are terrifying things."
Caelan trudged alone across the desert, trekking straight toward the sun.
There was no symbolism to the choice. He had simply woken up facing that direction.
This wasn't his first time finding a Primarch. He had plenty of experience.
He still remembered clearly what had happened before the transition. The moment he and Jaghatai Khan entered the palace, Jaghatai Khan had eagerly shoved him onto the throne.
But as soon as Caelan sat, drowsiness overcame him. His eyelids fell heavy.
When he awoke again, the crimson sun of Baal filled his vision.
After trekking nine kilometers beneath the blazing sun, Caelan climbed a severely eroded sandstone hill.
At the summit, he froze.
A porcelain-like infant sat quietly amid the scorching sand. Clear eyes gazed curiously at the desolate world. He neither cried nor fussed, utterly out of place in this land of death.
The infant lifted his tiny face, gaze locked onto Caelan.
His skin was pale, almost translucent. Behind him folded delicate wings, pure as the first snow.
He was perfect. Perfect enough to inspire envy.
Every feature matched Caelan's memories exactly.
He carefully lifted the infant. An impossibly soft warmth rested in his palms. The wings trembled gently in his arms, like down feathers of a fledgling bird.
Caelan murmured, "Where's your gestation pod?"
The infant merely blinked, an inscrutable glimmer flashing through his clear eyes.
Caelan shook his head with a self-mocking smile. Of course, he could not expect an infant, even if a Primarch, to answer.
The infant curled instinctively against him, small fingers gripping Caelan's clothes, pressing close to his chest. The wings folded obediently as Caelan's arms settled.
"At your age, how can you sleep so easily?" Caelan pinched the angel's soft cheek. "You're already a baby, that's when you're supposed to grind! You need to hustle!"
The infant frowned faintly, cheeks squishing under Caelan's fingers, yet stubbornly kept his eyes closed, even letting out a soft "hnn" in protest.
Once a Primarch is born, the gestation pod has fulfilled its purpose.
Yet as the sole proof of identity, its absence troubled Caelan deeply.
The desert held no wreckage, no footprints, no sign of descent.
Then how had the child arrived in this desolate place?
Unease lingered in his mind.
Caelan didn't leave the desert immediately. Instead, he pressed on toward a towering hill, hoping its height might reveal the desert's secrets.
The infant's lashes fluttered, eyes opening a sliver before closing again, as if he had never woken at all.
He snuggled closer, adjusting into a more secure sleeping position, surrounded by warmth and heartbeat.
Caelan's embrace was spring-warm yet never stifling.
A psychic barrier flowed silently around them, filtering the heat into cool air, refracting the vicious sunlight into a gentle golden glow. It was like a walking air conditioner, so effective that tiny droplets of condensation formed along the edges of the infant's wings.
Caelan kept trekking.
Everything pointed to Baal. Everything said the child was the Primarch.
But Caelan had to find the gestation pod to confirm his suspicion.
He tightened his hold on the child, climbing the jagged ridge. The scorching wind whipped sand against his face.
At the edge of his vision, at the far horizon distorted by heat haze, he saw it.
A smoking impact crater.
And within the haze, it felt as though something was watching him.
"How did you get this far? Did you fly here?"
Caelan pinched the infant's cheek again. The child whimpered in protest, and his white wings suddenly unfurled
Seeing the spread of those pure wings, Caelan laughed softly. "Alright, my mistake, you really can fly."
His fingers brushed the folded feathers. The angel burrowed deeper into his arms, drifting back into sleep.
Caelan leapt from the cliff with the child in his arms. Psychic light flared at his boot, leaving fleeting frost upon the burning sand.
'Psychic power. Neat, right?'
'Still, even if the child could fly, it did not explain why he appeared dozens of kilometers away from the crash site.'
'And if the pod had broken apart mid-fall, flinging him far, the ground bore no marks of impact.'
'This was strange.'
Caelan was not one to pry endlessly. His purpose was only to find the Primarch. But this time was different.
Years of experience screamed a warning in his mind. This was no accident; it felt like a carefully laid trap.
Every odd detail, every coincidence, felt deliberate, like a silent laughter of the Chaos Gods, watching him step into an unseen snare.
And yet that only made him more determined to find the pod, even if it was the final piece of a Chaos God's conspiracy.
"The gods really are damnable."
Caelan despised them. They offered only sweet lies and twisted gifts to corrupt mortals.
Sanguinius was the most perfect Primarch, the most beloved and admired.
Other Primarchs were SR. Even SSR.
Only Sanguinius was SSSR.
Beloved by the Emperor. Coveted by the Four Gods. All desired him.
To claim Sanguinius, no scheme was too great.
With their power, separating him from the pod was trivial. What puzzled Caelan was why they went to such lengths.
'What secret could a mere pod hold, worth the effort of the Four?'
'If it were them, they would not share. Each drew their prize alone.'
'Then which one was it?'
'Khorne, the brute, was most likely.'
'Tzeentch, the schemer, was not far behind.'
'Nurgle was fixated on little Mo.'
'Slaanesh was 'too young', lacking the right to choose.'
'Or perhaps Khorne and Tzeentch were colluding, one coveting the angel, the other sabotaging for spite.'
The emotions sentient beings conceived and shaped the Chaos Gods. They feed on these emotions, yet are also bound by them. This vicious cycle has made the Realm of the Warp increasingly diseased.
But no matter what intricate schemes the Chaos Gods weave, since Caelan has come, he must play the game as a mortal.
Whatever the outcome, at least he did not cower in fear, did not kneel in despair, nor would he be tormented for a lifetime by the regret of "what could have been."
And if he were to die…
Caelan slowly pulled his thoughts back. If he were to truly die on Baal, those Primarchs he had personally nurtured would likely set the galaxy ablaze.
If his journey were to end abruptly here, then Sanguinius would be the last Primarch he 'taught'.
Without him, two more Primarchs would be expunged.
With Sanguinius, exactly half of the Primarchs remained.
Was his teaching of the Primarchs also part of their scheme?
If so, what would happen next? The Horus Heresy or the Konrad Heresy?
If the Primarchs raised by Caelan were to rebel together, the Loyalists would face an unprecedented threat.
The combination of Konrad Curze and Corvus Corax in an initial encounter would be deadly. Curze could precisely predict every move of his target, while Corax's stealth and assassination skills were unparalleled. Any Primarch marked by them would be doomed.
But Caelan believed that the sons he raised with his own hands still carried the blood of loyalty and humanity in their veins.
If he were to fall on Baal, they might become violent, paranoid, or even cold and ruthless at times because of his death, but they would never turn their blades against the Imperium.
Yet, when the flames of vengeance swept across the galaxy, those Primarchs who had not yet returned would be forced to face the judgment of their brothers.
Excessive vigilance and suspicion would push them into the embrace of Chaos, just like the Horus Heresy, only this time, the spark of rebellion would be ignited by their grief over his death.
Caelan frowned in confusion, "But I haven't taught Horus yet."
Sanguinius was the ninth Primarch to return, but he was the eighth Primarch Caelan had found.
Because Horus was still at the bottom, the return order of the Primarchs would be pushed back by one.
Horus was the First-Found Son, but Caelan had not yet taught Horus, and the Emperor had personally told Caelan that he had taught Horus himself.
Caelan murmured to himself: "Perhaps Horus is an insurance?"
He would teach Horus, but he had not yet taught Horus, so he must teach Horus in the future of the past.
This was a time loop, a classic paradox.
Unless the Four Gods forcibly broke the time loop, Caelan theoretically could not die before teaching Horus, because he must have taught Horus.
If Horus was the last Primarch to meet Caelan, then all the other Primarchs must have met Caelan before him.
After all, as the last one, his brothers would naturally have come before him.
If that were the case, then Horus's stay on Terra would make perfect sense.
Horus was protecting him.
If the Four Gods wanted to break the time loop, Caelan and Horus were the key.
Caelan was already roaming the galaxy, and only by staying on Terra could Horus ensure his safety.
Even if the Emperor was not on Terra, there were contingencies in the palace to counter the Four Chaos Gods, and Malcador would intervene.
Horus was the First-Found Son, but while the other Primarchs led their Legions across the stars, expanding the Imperium's territories, he could only lurk alone in the shadows of the palace, forbidden from meeting any of his brothers.
Because he had to be the Last-Found of Caelan.
Caelan's thoughts fell silent abruptly.
If his speculation was true, the burden Horus bore was far beyond what ordinary beings could imagine.
This Primarch, crowned with the glory of "First-Found Son," was actually a prisoner locked in a time loop, forced to maintain the balance of fate alone.
While his brothers wrote legends among the stars, he had to anchor this duty in solitude.
He was both the starting point of the Primarchs' return and the endpoint of Caelan's teachings.
The First-Found Son was not an honor.
The desert's crimson sun stretched Caelan's shadow long, but could not illuminate the darkness surging in his eyes.
Though he had not yet met Horus, it already weighed heavily on Caelan's heart.
Though this was still speculation, past experience told him that his speculations often became reality.
If not for this, he could hardly imagine why Horus would imprison himself on Terra.
This was not cowardice or retreat. This was a sacrifice.
In the silent trek, the crater emitting black smoke was now within reach. The silver gestation pod was engraved with the numeral Ⅸ.
But the moment he stepped to the edge of the crater, Caelan suddenly froze, as if his blood had solidified.
Among the scorching sands, an infant with pristine white wings was staring at him with clear pupils.
The infant seemed to have maintained this posture for a long time. His gaze seemed to pierce the limits of time and space. Ever since Caelan stood on the hill overlooking the pod, the infant had been watching him.
Caelan looked down at the sleeping infant in his arms, then bent over to gaze at the winged infant outside the gestation pod.
The scorching wind swept sand grains across Caelan's vision. For a moment, he wondered if he had encountered a mirage.
Their faces were almost mirror images of each other, the trembling frequency of their eyelashes was identical, and even the patterns of their feathers were the same.
Caelan's thoughts were a tangled mess, completely without direction.
The scene before him briefly exceeded his understanding, but his body acted before his mind. He stepped into the crater, his knees pressing dents into the high-temperature molten glass.
As he slowly extended his arms, the winged infant, as if having waited for a long time, fluttered his wings and lightly landed in the crook of his left arm.
The infant's movements were disturbingly familiar. He adjusted his posture, lying on Caelan's left side while the sleeping infant rested on the right. Four small hands each clutched Caelan's clothing.
In the warmth of their shared body heat, the infant's eyelashes trembled slightly as he closed his eyes.
"Is this right?"
Caelan's mind was still in chaos. 'Was this Sanguinius or the Alpha twins?'
'Was this still Baal?'
Caelan slowly raised his gaze. The Ⅸ on the gestation pod gleamed coldly in the sunlight, as if silently declaring an undeniable fact: yes, yes, this is Sanguinius.
But Caelan looked down at the two identical infants in his arms. 'Who exactly was Sanguinius?'
The infant on the left suddenly frowned, his chubby little feet kicking the wing of the infant because it had just crossed the boundary.
.....
15 chapter ahead in [email protected]/DaoistJinzu