When the crimson sun of Baal Secundus was about to sink below the horizon, Caelan finally encountered the first native, a mutant hunched over and lying prone in the sand.
Caelan gently rocked his arms; the two winged infants in his embrace opened their eyes simultaneously.
They lifted their perfectly identical faces, expressions of angelic confusion on their features.
"Look at him," Caelan's voice was as light as a feather falling to the ground. "Look closely at this mutant."
Grayish skin, covered in tumors like grapevines. Some had ruptured, oozing foul-smelling mucus with each breath.
His finger joints were twisted into claw-like shapes, twitching nervously. A malformed, vestigial limb hung from his left armpit, resembling an underdeveloped embryo, its five fingers fused into a webbed mass.
Seven asymmetrical eyes stared from a festering face, fixed intently on Caelan's throat. When he opened his mouth, overgrown with fleshy growths, putrid drool dripped from his decaying gums.
"This is a mutant. A pitiful being twisted by radioactive toxin. A Baalite."
Both infants tilted their faces upward simultaneously. Their pairs of clear eyes shimmered with a starlike radiance. They were eerily quiet, unlike ordinary infants who would cry or fuss.
They thought Caelan would reveal some grand truth to them, but Caelan simply held the twins tighter in silence and strode past the grotesque creature.
The gaze of the seven eyes never left them. The mutant's deformed arm curled and stretched again and again, scraping uselessly at the sand.
He was hungry.
Drool constantly dripped from his overgrown maw. Instinct told him he should fill his belly; reason told him he should hunt.
And another, deeper need told him he was jealous.
The infants in Caelan's arms were also mutants, yet they possessed perfect features and pristine white wings, utterly different from his own twisted form.
Why must he endure the agony of mutation, while they were allowed to be so perfect?
Jealousy bred hatred. Hunger bred murder.
The mutant suddenly let out a hoarse roar, the seven festering eyes suddenly engorged with blood.
THUD!
A muffled impact. An invisible hand seized the mutant mid-leap as he lunged toward Caelan. Dark red pulp and shattered bone fragments sprayed outward.
A faint blue energy field silently blocked the filth. Droplets of blood slid down the transparent barrier, mixing with the sand to form a dark red slurry.
The twin angels watched this scene calmly. Their clear eyes reflected the blood mist and psychic glow, showing no reaction whatsoever.
Neither sympathy for the mutant, nor hatred.
Only indifference.
Some Primarchs were born bearing the light of humanity, like Vulkan and Angron.
However, more Primarchs, even those who seemed perfect and pursued justice, were innately indifferent.
It was the layering of innate talent and later upbringing that shaped the contours of their humanity.
And upbringing was always shaped by society, whether family or school; each was, at its core, a relatively closed miniature world.
Thus, students of the M3 era who had just stepped out of the ivory tower and into society often carried an untouched innocence, a clarity of gaze tinged with naivety; clear and foolish.
The Primarchs of the original timeline were actually quite fortunate; almost all of them had a semblance of familial care. Only four and a half Primarchs were exceptions: Ferrus, Konrad, Mortarion, Lorgar, and Omegon.
Ferrus and Konrad had no parents. Lorgar's foster father was scum. Mortarion's foster father was a cruel xeno. Omegon only counted as half, because Alpharius was on Terra.
Aside from Lorgar, who was overly devoted to the gods, the other three Primarchs possessed a relatively high degree of innate humanity, but they made different choices.
Corax and Sanguinius were raised collectively, and that collective education also shaped them into righteous individuals.
Horus, Vulkan, Russ, Angron, Jaghatai Khan, and even the Lion had fathers.
Dorn had a grandfather. Magnus had Amon.
But only three Primarchs had both parents: Fulgrim, Guilliman, and Perturabo.
There was a counterintuitive fact: among these three Primarchs, the one with the most humanity was Perturabo.
Fulgrim and Guilliman were equally indifferent.
But Guilliman's parents taught him to grow from indifference into someone with empathy and principles.
Fulgrim's parents were ordinary workers; unfortunately, they failed to teach Fulgrim what humanity meant.
Perturabo possessed a high degree of innate humanity, but his twisted personality turned that humanity into a burden instead.
It was education that made them vastly different people. So, what if their educational environments changed?
What would happen if the collective that raised Sanguinius changed from the pure tribesmen of The Boods to mutants?
Russ was raised by the wolves of Fenris, so in his youth, he also lived alongside wolves, feeling no connection to humans.
Because society shapes one's baseline perception of "normal."
Sanguinius was indifferent enough; Bloods and mutants were essentially no different in his eyes.
If mutants raised Sanguinius, his perception of "perfection" might be completely overturned.
His compassion for mortals might warp into a ritualized worship of mutation, forming a twisted humanity that took pride in deformity.
He wouldn't feel anxious about his wings when meeting the Emperor, nor worry about his Legion's genetic flaws. Instead, he might see the Red Thirst as a mark of honor.
If you have not mutated, you are unworthy of joining the Blood Angels.
And all these changes depended on who discovered and raised Sanguinius in the desert.
Previously, it was The Blood. Now, it was Caelan.
Caelan was confident he was more suited to raising a Primarch than The Blood. He had the experience of raising seven Primarchs!
However, before beginning Sanguinius's education, Caelan faced an urgent choice that needed resolution.
Caelan gazed at the nearly indistinguishable twin angels in his arms, murmuring softly, "Which one of you is Sanguinius?"
'The angel on the right was found in the wild. The angel on the left was found beside the gestation pod.'
'So, the angel on the left should be Sanguinius. Then who was the angel on the right?'
'If Sanguinius had truly split into two like Alpharius, one called Sanguinius, would the other be called Sanguino?'
'Then who would be Sanguino, and who would be Sanguinius?'
"I can't tell them apart, I really can't tell them apart!" Caelan groaned.
How was he supposed to choose?
Who even came up with this problem?!
....
The outsider's ship cast a towering shadow over the palace. The giant clad in golden armor bent down to gaze upon his son.
"I have brought you your Legion."
Jaghatai Khan let out a soft, humorless laugh. "I thought you'd say something else, father."
The Emperor stared at the empty throne. "Everything that should be said, and should not, he has already said for me."
"That is the difference between you and my teacher," Jaghatai Khan replied. "He believes we can transcend ourselves. While you have never truly believed in your sons."
"How do you know I don't trust you? If I didn't trust you, why would I give you the Legion?"
"My teacher was right about one thing."
"Did he say I am a tragic hero?"
Jaghatai Khan nodded, "It seems you know him well. That is exactly what he told me."
"I know because I once taught your brothers in the same way."
Jaghatai Khan was silent for a moment. "That's not what I meant. The teacher told me your plans are always interlocking, like links in a chain. What do my brother think about that?
Jaghatai Khan slowly lifted his chin, a rare hint of relaxation showing between his tightly knit brows. "Your plans are always interlocked. But the more links, the longer the chain, and the greater the risk of it breaking. The failure of any single link leads to total collapse, and you cannot tend to every link."
"But if the links aren't interlocked, if the chain isn't long enough, how can we catch those falling into the abyss?"
"And you don't even have a second chain."
The Emperor slightly lowered his eyes, his voice seeming to carry the weight of tens of thousands of years. "Yes, I do not."
"Then you should cherish it all the more."
"I have already given it everything."
"Giving everything does not always double the result. Sometimes it halves it, or worse, drives it in the opposite direction."
"You question me?"
"If you grip it too tightly, the rope will snap sooner or later."
"And if I don't hold grip it, who will save those falling into the abyss?"
Jaghatai Khan's voice carried a complex emotion. "Yes, you must hold it tight."
Humanity had only this one lifeline, and the Emperor was the only one who could grasp it firmly.
"'If I do not have a sword, I cannot protect you. If I always hold a sword, I cannot embrace you.' This phrase suits you well, Father."
"I have never regretted it."
The Emperor gazed at Jaghatai Khan, but his eyes seemed to pierce through the void, focusing on the rise and fall of human civilization, its suffering and glory.
That was everything he fought for.
Everything he wagered.
Even if he could start over again ten thousand times, he would still grip the rope.
Because it was the only chance he ever saw.
"If even you could regret, then humanity would truly be beyond salvation."
The Emperor had spent his life clawing a single ray of hope from the darkness. To bring it forth, he was willing to stain his hands with blood, no matter the cost.
Even if his own hope was shattered, as long as humanity endured for even one more second, he would sit upon that throne and burn his very soul to keep it alive.
What right did anyone have to condemn and demand more from such a man?
Jaghatai Khan's voice turned wistful. "My teacher taught me something else as well, one cannot see the true face of the mountain while standing within it."
"I thought myself outside the mountain, an outsider looking in. Yet I never realized there were mountains beyond mountains, and I was within a greater one, no different from my brothers."
"And you are the same as I."
"I am the Father. It is you who are the same as I."
Jaghatai Khan neither agreed nor denied. "Even if you stand atop the mountain, seeing all below, you are still within it."
"I must be."
"That is our limitation. None of us can leave this mountain."
"Then we both understand reality."
"Yes, and neither of us regrets it."
A slight curve touched Jaghatai Khan's lips; the Emperor's expression softened in response.
Among all the Primarchs, Jaghatai Khan interacted with the Emperor most like a true son. They spoke like ordinary father and son, even when discussing the fate of human civilization.
"Then will you help me? My son."
The Emperor slowly extended his hand toward Jaghatai Khan. He was making a request, yet every syllable carried the weight of humanity's descent.
Jaghatai Khan slowly knelt and bowed his head. "I will offer you my loyalty, not to the Master of Mankind, but to my father."
The Emperor remained silent, a barely perceptible flicker of emotion passing through his eyes.
And upon his usually sacred and impassive face, a hint of almost human hesitation now appeared.
He raised his right arm as if traversing a vast river of time. His palm finally came to rest upon Jaghatai Khan's head.
"Thank you, Jaghatai."
Jaghatai Khan kept his head bowed, shadow falling across his face.
If the day ever came when the Emperor and his teacher parted ways, he would stand by the Emperor's side.
Because all his brothers would follow the teacher; whether he joined them or not would be irrelevant.
But the Master of Mankind should not be alone. That would not be worthy of his sacrifice!
....
"Alert! Someone's outside!"
On the watchtower of The Blood camp, the guard on duty suddenly stiffened.
His companion instantly drew his blade. "Have those mutants come again?"
"No, wait." The guard squinted, trying to make out the figure. "He looks like a pureblood... and he's carrying children!" "Quick, lower the drawbridge!"
CLANK!
Rusty chains let out a grating screech. The drawbridge lowered slowly amidst the heavy sound of friction.
A dilapidated junker of a vehicle wobbled out of the camp. Its headlights carved a flickering, dim beam through the twilight, as if the desert night wind could snuff it out at any moment.
The vehicle screeched to a halt before the fugitive, kicking up a cloud of dust.
The driver wanted to urge the man to get in quickly. Mutants lurked around the camp; it was sheer luck the man had made it here alive.
But as soon as he leaned out, his gaze inadvertently sweeping over the man's burden, his breath caught.
The infants in the man's arms were pink and adorable, looking like twins. But behind them, pristine white wings were unfurled!
"Mutants!"
The man's terrified shriek was like a sharp dagger thrust toward the camp. The guard on the watchtower immediately sounded the alarm.
The driver slammed his foot on the accelerator. The engine belched black smoke; tires spun frantically on the muddy ground, spraying sand and dust. But the vehicle refused to budge, as if pinned in place by an invisible hand.
Cold sweat trickled down his temples; his heart pounded against his ribs like a war drum.
He could only watch helplessly as the man pulled open the passenger door and calmly took a seat.
As the door closed, he heard the other's gentle voice: "Thank you."
The man swallowed hard. "…Y-you're welcome."
Fear still churned inside him, but the courtesy loosened his nerves just a little.
He sneaked another look. A defined face. Ordinary features. No scales. No extra limbs.
Human arms. Human hands holding infants, not tentacles or claws.
By all appearances, he was clearly a pureblood. But why was he holding two mutants?
His eyes fell upon the two infants again. Their snow-white wings shimmered with a pearlescent sheen.
His dry throat managed to squeeze out: "You... they... who are they?"
The two infants in the man's arms suddenly blinked their eyes simultaneously. Caelan gently stroked their soft cheeks with his knuckles. "They are the children entrusted to me by a dear friend. They are also children I regard as my own."
"But... but their wings..." The driver's voice was broken beyond recognition.
"But they are mutants!"
"They are children first. Drive. Take me to your chieftain. I will explain everything myself."
The driver shook his head. "No! Absolutely not!"
"I can't bring mutants back to the camp, understand? The alarm has already been raised in the camp. They won't listen to any explanations. You should run, now!"
"Oh." Caelan responded flatly.
But the next moment, the vehicle shuddered.
The tires began rolling over the sand on their own, turning and slowly heading back toward the camp.
The driver panicked, trying to wrest control of the steering wheel, but the vehicle wouldn't obey.
"Stop! Stop!"
The driver's boot slammed frantically on the brake pedal. Sweat soaked through his undershirt, to no avail.
Caelan wasn't a Tech-priest or Techmarine; he knew no prayers or sacred chants to placate machine spirits.
So right now, he was essentially using his psychic power to carry the vehicle along; whether the wheels turned or not was irrelevant.
The driver stared at Caelan in terror. "What have you done?"
"I am a psyker. A psyker, understand?"
Caelan's voice was very patient. Unfortunately, the driver's expression held only confusion.
Baal Secundus had only purebloods and mutants, no psykers. Because Baal Secundus's population was too small. Even if a psyker was occasionally born, they rarely survived to adulthood.
And even if they reached adulthood, the probability of being a powerful psyker was extremely low.
In the Imperium, the talents of the vast majority of psykers would never find purpose in their entire lives.
Only those who could use psychic power to alter reality could truly be called psykers. The chance of such an individual being born was one in tens of millions.
On Baal Secundus, mutants and purebloods combined probably numbered fewer than five hundred thousand. They didn't even have the qualification to be terrorized by psykers.
But even without the threat of psykers, Baal Secundus was a death world. Lethal radiation destroyed all life on it equally.
The harm caused by radiation was no less than that caused by psykers.
The light of the drawbridge was now closed. The vehicle continued its inexorable advance.
"Just who are you?" The driver turned to stare at Caelan.
"You may call me the Mentor."
"Mentor? That's a strange name." The driver, having completely given up struggling, slumped heavily into his seat, "I'm Cole. What are their names?"
The two angels suddenly lifted their little faces simultaneously. Four pairs of clear eyes brimmed with light.
"I haven't named them yet. Because first, I must figure out who is who."
The driver scratched his head. 'They were twins; was it really necessary to differentiate so clearly when naming them?'
.....
15 chapter ahead in [email protected]/DaoistJinzu