“Use your ability on me.
Use the one that lets you share pain.” In the laboratory, under harsh white light, the Emperor’s words echoed through the sterile space.
Malcador’s expression shifted within the shadows.
The old man tightened his grip on his scepter.
In the next moment, the Emperor “heard” Malcador’s psychic message directed at Him.
+My lord, no.+ +I will keep it under control.
I am merely testing Number Eleven’s ability.
I will create a fabricated psychic interface; he will not touch my true self.+ Yet Malcador remained firm.
Gripping his scepter, he gave a slight shake of his head toward the Emperor.
Such a psychic talent, capable of perceiving emotions, perhaps even of interfacing with the soul, was far more complex than most imagined.
On the surface, it might appear as mere empathy or transference, but at the psychic level, such talents could easily reach directly into the soul, for emotions are part of what constitutes the soul.
Letting Number Eleven use his “pain-sharing” on the Emperor might allow Number Eleven to glimpse truths or secrets he should not see.
For the soul of the Emperor was vast and intricate.
Even to the Emperor Himself, His soul was like an iceberg floating upon the ocean, only a tiny fraction of it visible.
Furthermore, Number Eleven might be unable to bear the weight and agony of the Emperor’s soul, causing incalculable harm.
Number Eleven likely had no concept of this, but Malcador understood the Emperor intimately.
The projection of His soul within the Immaterium was far more magnificent than anyone could imagine.
+My lord, no.
Or let me take your place.+ This was absolutely a bad idea: either Number Eleven would witness what he should not, or he would be crushed by the weight of the Emperor’s soul.
The Emperor vastly underestimated what He Himself bore, and vastly overestimated the capabilities of this Primarch.
But the Emperor no longer acknowledged Malcador’s psychic communication.
He simply turned toward Malcador and offered a smile that was both reassuring and confident, a smile full of charm.
And so Malcador understood that the Emperor had made His decision, and it could not be changed.
Malcador could only shift his gaze to Number Eleven.
the Emperor was resolute, but if Number Eleven sensed something amiss, or even refused the attempt, then the matter might still be salvageable.
Yet when he turned his eyes, Malcador saw a Primarch with bright, eager eyes.
Zelo was eager to try.
“…” Malcador said nothing more.
He realized that this father and son were both utterly confident in their own abilities; there was no need for further words.
The old man took a deep breath, clutched his scepter, and retreated back into the shadows of the laboratory.
He pulled his hood over his face, choosing neither to watch nor listen.
In truth, Zelo had been eager from the start.
How could he not be curious?
The middle-aged man before him was the true master of a star-spanning Imperium, his biological father, and also the tormented human on the Throne whom he had glimpsed in his visions.
In every sense, Zelo yearned to draw close to that pain.
Yet after he had awakened, Zelo could feel none of the Emperor’s suffering.
He was like a calm, middle-aged man: no pain, no despair.
The cataclysmic torment Zelo had briefly witnessed was nothing but an illusion.
And so Zelo was curious as well.
Before this, the hooded old man beside them had let out a faint trace of pain, yet it was so subtle that Zelo wished to speak with him as well.
But there were more pressing matters at hand.
He turned his gaze to the Emperor, who looked back at him.
At that moment, Zelo was certain he had reached an understanding with the Emperor, a silent accord between them.
It was wondrous, and he felt convinced this was the bond of blood.
Malcador sighed again from within the shadows, ignored by all.
“How do you use your ability?” “I usually touch them and gaze into their eyes.
But I can do it without touching; I just need a little time to focus my mind.” The Emperor nodded, giving silent approval to Number Eleven’s action.
He sat on the edge of the operating table while Zelo remained standing.
Number Eleven approached, his pale blue eyes fixed unblinkingly upon the Emperor’s own.
Within them, a strange, sinister light began to flicker.
Number Eleven had originally been designed with black eyes.
His blue irises were the result of contamination, the Emperor thought at that moment.
He awaited Number Eleven’s little trick, having already shrouded Himself in psychic energy to create a subject perfectly suited for the Primarch’s experiment.
But the next moment, the Emperor’s breath caught sharply.
For an instant, that indescribable burden seemed to truly vanish, a fleeting, wondrous sensation.
In that moment of its absence, the Emperor awoke as if from a dream, suddenly recalling that He had, indeed, carried this terrible burden for a very long time.
How long had He borne it?
So long that the Emperor Himself had forgotten the burden He carried.
How long had it been since He last gazed at the stars without a single worry?
The Master of Mankind recalled the great river that had nurtured Him in His childhood: the River Sakarya, its waters shimmering beneath the night sky, reflecting the bright stars.
He had stood barefoot on its banks, fishing, while His father, whose face had long since grown indistinct in memory, stood beside Him, pointing out the constellations in the heavens: that was Orion, that was Andromeda.
What a beautiful memory.
Ever since He had willingly taken up the fate of humanity, those days had never returned.
Until the Emperor was abruptly yanked back to reality by the scent of blood.
He was certain that only a single instant had passed, less than a second, a mere blink, half a breath.
Before the Emperor, Zelo’s pupils trembled violently.
He doubled over, curled tight, his entire body quaking uncontrollably.
To keep from collapsing outright, the Primarch braced one hand on the table while the other covered his face, blood streaming through his fingers.
From his eyes, mouth, nose, and ears poured an endless river of gore.
Zelo gasped for breath, as if he might fall unconscious at any moment.
Beside him, the Emperor’s gaze shifted, landing on Malcador, who stood expressionless, flames roaring upon the golden eagle of his scepter.
It had been Malcador who, seeing the situation turn dire, had urgently used his psychic powers to sever the empathic link between the Emperor and Zelo.
Seeing the Emperor look his way, Malcador let out a cold laugh, withdrew his scepter, and retreated back into the shadows.
Zelo had no time to observe the exchange between the Emperor and Malcador.
The Primarch let out a terrifying, gurgling sound, as if his internal organs were being boiled, his very core seething.
Zelo’s pupils darted wildly within his eye sockets.
Blood continued to flow.
He had seen…
he had seen…
He felt an agony beyond all measure, far heavier and more painful than any suffering he had endured on Stoll Star.
How could anyone bear such torment without groaning, without weeping in pain?
Zelo had been weeping all along, blood flowing in place of tears.
Even for just a moment, Zelo, who prided himself on his resolve, could not endure it, could not let it go.
Within those countless agonies, there was also a faint, blurred phantom slipping by: a possible future of the Emperor, a destiny already set, a single ethereal tear trickling from the withered bones seated upon the Golden Throne, a droplet only Zelo could see.
All of humanity across the Galaxy screamed, war raged, living beings suffered, and those souls pleaded with the withered bones on the Golden Throne, but He remained silent.
The Emperor was crying out to Zelo for help, amid that immense, overwhelming, eternal, and endless pain and despair.
This was His last instinctive impulse breaking through His conscious will; the Emperor’s own consciousness would not permit Him to seek release, but the pain was too great.
The withered bones on the Golden Throne would not allow this suffering to end.
Zelo did not know why, but he thought he could guess: after this suffering ended, an even more unimaginable catastrophe would surely arise, bringing a result He could absolutely not accept.
Therefore, He willingly accepted this catastrophe, enough to destroy any consciousness.
But He was too pained, too despairing, without hope.
He was human, too, and humans are beings who wail, flee, and collapse before calamity.
Even behind the fortresses of will, who was there to listen to the unrest and doubt within His heart?
Zelo knew well that every soul has its fragile side; some simply do not show it, because their strength represents a banner, and they cannot fall.
In the hearts of the slaves, the warriors who rescued them and were invincible were absolutely strong, but only Zelo, who led them, knew that these warriors would be anxious in times of crisis, would feel lingering fear, and would endure unspeakable melancholy in solitude.
And in the hearts of those warriors, Zelo was a city wall that would never collapse from pain, but only Zelo himself knew he had already collapsed long ago.
Driven by pain, his entire life’s purpose had been to lead his people away from suffering.
And what of the Emperor?
Beneath the glory forged of gold helms and golden crowns, what was He enduring?
It hurt.
It hurt unbearably.
Therefore, amid myriad visions, myriad possibilities, causality, and futures, the last human voice on the Golden Throne let out a pained groan.
He looked toward the youngest son He had finally found, toward this son who had already collapsed, and issued a final call.
It was a cry for help knowing it was hopeless, and also a human moan that could not be suppressed under torture.
Perhaps He was not crying out to Zelo for help; He was merely wailing, but only Zelo heard it.
And Zelo’s lifelong wish was to bring rest to all suffering souls; he interpreted every anguished wail as a cry for help.
Under that transfer of perception, in that instant, the immense pain pierced through Zelo, and he made up his mind: he would grant his Father release, no matter the means, even if it meant killing Him.
Death, too, is a release.
He would rather strike down the Emperor than let Him become those withered bones on the Golden Throne, enduring bitterly, unable to die, unable to live.
Death was the final resort, and before that, Zelo would exhaust every effort.
But when the emotional connection was severed, Zelo hesitated once more.
If this extreme agony was meant to avert an even greater pain, then Zelo would surely accept that burden and let the Emperor continue to bear the suffering.
No…
that was wrong.
Zelo wept again.
He accepted neither of these outcomes.
He needed another solution.
He needed to act, to seize the feather before it drifted down into tragedy, even if it cost much.
On Stoll Star, Zelo had always been a miserly tailor, weighing the measures of suffering, though he himself believed no suffering should exist at all.
But people believed suffering could be measured.
In the face of great suffering, lesser suffering could be permitted, could be paid.
And so Zelo measured carefully, trading smaller pains to prevent greater ones, until this moment.
At last, he could no longer weigh these agonies.
Zelo saw a bleak future.
He was at a loss, perhaps merely stunned by the sudden impact, but regardless, the resolve he had long since made now reached its peak.
He would do everything possible to prevent the greatest pain from descending like a cataclysm.
No matter what had to be sacrificed beforehand, he could sacrifice anything.
No matter what had to be paid, anyone could become the price, or the bargaining chip, as long as true calamity was averted.
Zelo came back to himself.
Though still shaken by the immense pain transmitted from the Emperor, he straightened himself with unwavering resolve.
Zelo took a step back, his heart set.
He lowered his hands from his face; bloody tears still flowed, but the scar on his lips made him look as though he were smiling.
“I offer you my deepest respect,” Zelo said, kneeling on one knee before the Emperor.
Now the pain had returned to the Emperor, yet He remained as calm as the breeze.
the Emperor never showed a trace of weakness to outsiders; He deserved Zelo’s most genuine reverence.
“I, Zelo, as leader of the people of Stoll Star, wish to join the Imperium of Man, to fight with all my heart to prevent humanity from falling into ultimate misery.” “Zelo,” This was the first time the Emperor had called Zelo by his name, rather than “son” or “Number Eleven.” Zelo’s actions had clearly puzzled Him for a moment.
But in an instant, the Emperor understood.
He thought Zelo must have chosen to become His sword after experiencing the immense pressure He bore.
This was the innate sense of responsibility and justice of the Primarchs.
The Emperor smiled.
He naturally accepted the gesture as allegiance, but the trial was not over.
He realized that Zelo’s talent was not a mutation caused by Warp contamination, but a mutation brought about by humanity.
This was why Zelo had bypassed the Emperor’s projected psychic image and reached directly into deeper layers.
Zelo’s empathy and pain transference were awakened by humanity, and the deepest foundation of the Master of Mankind’s psychic power was also built upon humanity’s heroic spirits.
Ordinary psychic empathy used psychic power to contact the soul layer of the external world.
Zelo’s, however, resonated spontaneously from within.
It was a decent talent, even if it was not particularly helpful in making him an exceptional military commander.
Considering Zelo’s performance so far, at least in communication, the Primarch’s character was good.
He was not a bloodthirsty war-beast who only roared and butchered his own progeny, nor a madman who babbled nonsense, tormenting himself and others.
People should have long realized that the Emperor had an extremely high tolerance for the Primarchs.
But the most crucial question had not yet been clarified.
“I am willing to accept your fealty, but I have heard you wish to become a god.
Why?” The Emperor’s eyes shone brightly.
“Because I want to end all suffering.” Zelo answered without hesitation.
“First, there are no gods in this world.
Second, becoming a god is not the only way to solve these problems.
Fates and paths are ever-changing.
We need not follow a predetermined path.
Gods do not represent omnipotence; they represent utter corruption and collapse.” Zelo lifted his head.
The Emperor could see in his eyes not belief, but doubt and confusion.
“But the Four Gods exist.” Zelo said.
The Primarch could already sense why the sovereign on the Golden Throne suffered so.
Only those entities could have driven the Emperor, so mighty, into such a desperate situation.
“How do you know of those entities?” “Grandfather Syllax mentioned them in the incantation meant to sacrifice me, the four sovereign lords equal to the unborn suffering.
On Stoll Star, the most mysterious and blasphemous rituals have also summoned Daemons from the domains of the Four Gods…
and also, amidst the psychic turbulence as I lay dying, I glimpsed those figures.” “…” The Emperor pondered whether to acknowledge the existence of Warp entities or to directly erase Zelo’s memories.