Zelo had a rare good sleep.
On Stoll Star, he seldom slept.
At first, as a slave, he had been forcibly deprived of sleep.
Later, sleep became a precious rarity; there were far too many things for him to do, leaving him no time to rest.
If he grew too exhausted, Zelo would sit down for a brief nap of ten or so minutes, then continue with his work.
Directing production, establishing new assembly lines, reinforcing fortifications, training recruits, consoling the wounded…
why waste time on sleep?
So, for once, he slept well now, for far longer than any sleep he had ever taken before.
Zelo could even sense that he was lying down as he slept.
His previous longest sleep had been thirty-seven minutes; he woke up to find himself flayed and lying in a pit of Blood Ants.
Although his sleep was more like forced unconsciousness after massive bodily damage, for Zelo it was still a rare period of rest.
Yet he still did not allow himself to sleep for long.
After half an hour of unconsciousness, Zelo consciously tried to open his eyes, but he failed.
He was trapped between waking and deep sleep, unable to move.
He tried to struggle and failed, so he had no choice but to sleep a little longer.
Zelo was deeply worried about the people on Stoll Star.
In his final moments of consciousness, Grandfather Syllax seemed to be dead, but what happened afterward felt like a dream, as if a golden, radiant figure had pulled him aside, spoken to him, and then thrown him back to the ground.
Zelo opened his eyes, and the first thing he saw was the person who had just set him down there.
The figure before him was majestic.
His face was expressionless, yet his presence commanded awe without anger.
Black hair fell around him, and the laurel crown upon his head dazzled as if forged from sun-cast Adamantine.
Light flowed around him, yet he wore only a simple white robe, spotless and immaculate, like a god.
With that single glance, Zelo immediately understood: this was the Emperor, his Father, the sovereign of the Imperium of Man, the most powerful Psyker among humanity.
When the Emperor designed the Primarchs, He had already implanted this prior knowledge into their minds, awaiting only a trigger for activation.
Now, that knowledge had awakened.
Zelo subconsciously swallowed.
He realized he was sitting on a platform, and the Emperor was evidently waiting for him.
He did not know what to say or what to do, but one thing was clear: the Emperor had saved him, and likely also helped kill Grandfather Syllax.
“…Thank you.” Zelo said, his throat and tongue dry as if on fire.
This was his most heartfelt gratitude.
“I think you saved me, and may even have killed my enemy.” Zelo stood up.
“Thank you, but I want to ask: how are my people?
Are they all right?” It was at this moment that Zelo noticed another person standing in the shadows.
This one radiated a powerful psychic light but concealed his face beneath the shadow of a hood.
The old man did not speak, only let out a secretive chuckle upon hearing Zelo’s question.
“You need not thank Me,” it was then that the Emperor finally spoke, in Stollian.
He did not open His mouth; the voice seemed to transmit directly into Zelo’s heart.
His voice was majestic, brooking no doubt, the voice of the strictest sovereign mankind could imagine.
He stared at Zelo like a craftsman appraising his own work.
“The Stollians have been temporarily quarantined on the planet.
The Imperium needs to assess them.” Assess?
Countless thoughts churned in Zelo’s mind.
In the brief silence, he did not speak.
He pondered much, and at last decided to ask in the most straightforward words.
“Why?” “To know is itself a sin.” The Emperor said concisely.
He saw a child who cared for his people.
This was good, for few Primarchs did not care for their people, but it was also a potential threat.
He would be influenced by them.
“You mean those Daemons?
I swear to you by my soul, the Stollians have not colluded with those Daemons.
Everything we have done was to redeem people from suffering.” “You have used the power of those beings.” The Emperor looked at Zelo, studying him, and abruptly added, “You have been changed by them.” “By whom?
Those Daemons?
Or my people?” “That is not important.” In truth, it was both.
the Emperor began reassessing Zelo.
Though Zelo’s actual condition was extremely dire, and he ought to be destroyed, his personality was not as extreme as the Emperor had envisioned.
Not like Angron, who was beyond dialogue and reason.
By contrast, Zelo still retained the Emperor’s original design for him.
But there was a blind spot, a confusion.
If Zelo truly was a rational man, then…
“Your method of killing xenos was utterly reckless.” The Emperor pointed this out.
When He descended upon Stoll Star, He saw chaos everywhere.
He saw His son earlier riding a mount made from Daemons.
He saw an absurdly reckless attack plan.
This led Him to believe Zelo might be more rash, or perhaps lacking real military acumen.
Zelo laughed, a trace of hatred sliding through his smile.
“Yes, a very reckless plan.
There was a risk of failure.” He admitted this easily.
“But I thought the Stollians could no longer wait for a thorough plan.
I could spend decades expanding my territory, designing new attacks, slowly gnawing away at the slavers’ domains.
But I believed the Stollians could wait no longer.” “I do not understand, my son.” Zelo raised his head.
Something feverish flickered in his pale blue eyes, gone in a flash.
He stared intently at the Emperor.
“People,” Zelo said, “when people are in pain, they become irritable and anxious beyond their control.
They cannot control their temper.
They suddenly fall into rage or extreme dejection.” “When a person is subjected to pain, not only does external suffering wear them down; their inner self collapses too, until the day they can bear no more.” Severely ill people are often the most irritable, because sickness has already drained them of all virtue.
“But you are My child.
Pressure will only forge you into a piece of Adamantine.” Zelo shook his head.
“I’m not talking about myself.
I’m talking about the people.
I’m talking about the Stollians.
Not everyone is born strong, born powerful.
“An infant is weak.
A person without talent is weak.
Adults, warriors, any of them can suddenly become fragile.
In the face of immense suffering, they only flee and weep.
This is fact.
This is truth.
“Most of the people in my army are like this.
They aren’t born warriors.
They will rout and wail, they will run in fear.” “Thus, though my fortress is sturdy, as long as the suffering imposed on Stoll Star is not removed, as long as the shadow of the slavers forever hangs over the people, this bastion is also slowly crumbling from within.” “Even if I boost morale, even if I bring them victory, the pain remains real.
It brings collapse, and I rush to forge new hope ahead of it.
My speed must outpace the speed of collapse, or my fortress will decay on its own.” “I sensed the unease in people’s hearts.
That’s why I chose the radical path.
The Stollians could wait no longer.
They were tormented by uncertainty, and I could not bear to let them continue suffering.” Or perhaps it was he himself who could no longer bear it, Zelo thought, but he did not speak.
He could feel the people’s emotions, that restless agitation, sometimes feverish, sometimes desperate.
The people were pushing him to make decisions.
A crowd is both rational and mad.
In the Emperor’s eyes shone a light Zelo could not comprehend.
He merely nodded silently, then shook his head.
The room fell into a brief silence before the Emperor spoke again.
“I will grant you a mighty army.
One that will not weaken.
One that will not rout.” Zelo stared at the Emperor.
“Does such an army exist?” he countered.
“An army stripped of the essence of human nature?
Are they still men?” The Emperor did not answer him.
Instead, He asked back.
“It sounds like you are not frustrated that your army might rout.” Zelo was silent.
He simply could not understand.
People broke apart and scattered because of pain and uncertainty.
To him, this was an inherent attribute of humanity; there was no concept of frustration.
This phenomenon existed, so he guarded against it.
Moreover, that same fragility had another side.
It was precisely these seemingly “fragile” qualities that brought forth empathy and compassion, and the wise choice to scatter in the face of uncertainty to maximize survival.
“This is not their fault,” Zelo could only say.
He felt these matters should not be blamed on the people.
The people were already suffering enough.
They arrived knowing nothing, spent years in utter helplessness, faced random fates, struggled with all their might, and still wanted to help others, or improve their own lives.
They just wanted to survive, or were utterly terrified by overwhelming dread, and so they would break down, they would suffer.
This, too, was what made them human.
They were not like Zelo, who was born with strength and wisdom.
If Zelo were an ordinary man, he thought he, too, would break under the agonies of Stoll Star.
In truth, he had once broken.
It was inevitable, like a stone shattering under the immense pressure of a jack.
These words made the Emperor look at Zelo with a profound, unreadable gaze.
Zelo could not read the Emperor’s gaze; he felt as if he were being examined from head to toe.
the Emperor’s gaze was like a sword, splitting him open.
“I originally thought you would be a berserker, or a rational monarch,” The Emperor said, each word deliberate, as if uncertain of what He was about to say, “but it seems you possess mercy.” Mercy?
Zelo did not consider himself merciful, but he did not care about others’ opinions of him, regardless of whether the Emperor’s chosen word was mercy or cruelty.
“This is your transformation,” The Emperor said.
He had never imagined Number Eleven would become this kind of person, just as He had never expected Number Thirteen, Guilliman, the Primarch originally designed to be a war monster, to become a wise ruler.
“Can you perceive people’s emotions?” Perhaps this was the reason for his mercy, the Emperor thought.
Zelo nodded.
the Emperor extended His hand toward him in a gesture.
Zelo reached out his own hand, suspending it over the Emperor’s palm, and then channeled his psychic power.
A dim, gray psychic light flickered to life.
No…
it was not the same as Number Twelve’s originally designed function, the Emperor considered.
He felt Number Eleven’s psychic power, this psychic power born from contamination and enlightenment.
It was more like a weak psychic chain connecting to the group subconscious, connecting to the collective soul.
Thus Zelo could perceive the consciousness of the group.
But his ability was not outstanding.
Unless an individual’s emotions were strong enough to exceed a certain threshold, he could not perceive that person’s emotions; or when the number of people exceeded a certain range, Zelo could establish a connection.
Zelo himself was not aware of these matters.
He had no teacher to instruct him in psychic arts.
Nor had the Emperor given him the relevant foundational knowledge.
He simply drove his psychic power on instinct, imitating the incantations of the daemon sorcerers of Stoll Star.
Of course, the Emperor did not want Zelo to continue delving deeper into the realm of psychic power either.
He had another candidate for His psychic Primarch: His proud son Magnus was an outstanding Psyker, and that was enough.
He had used psychic force to seal Zelo’s polluted core.
As long as Zelo did not fall into psychic instability, he would not be polluted again.
Therefore, the Emperor did not wish for Zelo to continue using psychic power.
“Some shallow mystical phenomena, barely scratching the surface.” Finally, the Emperor withdrew His hand and gave His evaluation of Zelo’s empathetic gift.
It could not replace Number Twelve’s position at all, but the Emperor had already given up.
He had abandoned Number Twelve and did not necessarily seek a substitute.
Zelo’s gift seemed more like a power acquired later in life.
He would respond to the vast subconscious behind a group, as if he had once been deeply immersed within a massive, emotionally charged crowd, called upon by that crowd.
The Emperor’s words unexpectedly cast a flicker of dejection across Zelo’s face.
The Emperor keenly caught that fleeting melancholy.
“You are not satisfied with this.” “I had thought my ability would be more powerful, for instance, to completely eliminate the pain rooted deep in people’s hearts.” Zelo withdrew his hand and stared at his palm.
It was scarred.
The glow of psychic power faded, but Zelo knew it was precisely this power from the Immaterium that had allowed him to lead people out of suffering.
“And,” Zelo pondered, “I discovered that I can bear others’ pain.
When I look at people and gaze through their eyes into their cowering souls, I can feel their pain at the same time.
Moreover, people say that when I do this, they feel much lighter.” Zelo let out a soft laugh.
“I originally thought my ability would be stronger.
But now it seems it is nothing more than some crude trick.” His words, however, made the Emperor stop and reexamine Number Eleven.
No, the Emperor’s previous probing had not detected that Number Eleven possessed the ability to “share” feelings.
He could empathize, he could perceive and regulate, but not “share,” not “transfer.” Yet in Zelo’s words, the Emperor realized the Primarch’s ability was not perception or empathy.
It was more akin to a transfer.
Or sharing.
Light flickered once more in the Emperor’s eyes.
He stared at Zelo, but no matter how he scrutinized him, he could not probe any further.
This did not seem like a mutation caused by that Warp entity’s taint.
It was like Sanguinius’s wings; no matter how he examined them, he could not uncover the meaning behind them.
But Zelo needed to be given a more rigorous assessment to ensure his purity.
So the Emperor reached out His hand.
He said, “Use your ability on me.
Use your ability to share pain.”