Within the fleet anchored above Stoll Star, in a corner no one would ever find…
Countless incubation tanks large enough to hold a Space Marine stood arrayed in the room.
Half-turbid liquid soaked unknown creatures of varying sizes, grotesque shadows of flesh, both human and beast, faintly visible within.
Pipes of every size carpeted the floor and hung down from the ceiling.
The only light source was the shadowless lamp at the center, its stark white light falling onto the operating table and the Primarch lying peacefully upon it.
That was Zelo.
At this moment, he was unconscious, as if merely asleep.
“He has been severely corrupted.” The Emperor delivered His verdict.
He stepped back from the operating table, stripped off His sterile gloves, and His jaw tightened.
From the shadows in the corner came a strange rustling sound.
An old man emerged, darkness draping him in a veil of mystery.
Malcador could clearly sense that the Emperor was far from pleased.
Anyone in His position would likely feel far from optimistic.
Zelo was the Emperor’s eleventh son, Number Eleven, the eleventh Primarch He had created.
Centuries ago, in order to unify the scattered human civilizations across the Galaxy and build a great Imperium to save humanity from the clutches of the Chaos Gods, the Emperor had set out from Earth.
After uniting Earth and the Moon, He decided to launch the Great Crusade into the vast sea of stars.
But the Emperor knew well that He could not accomplish such a feat by His own power alone.
Within the Lunar Laboratory, the Emperor drew forbidden power from the Warp and combined it with long-lost gene-craft to create twenty powerful transhuman embryos.
Every one of them possessed strength and knowledge far beyond ordinary humans.
In the Emperor’s plan, they were named “Primarchs.” The Primarchs were to be an indispensable part of the Emperor’s Great Crusade.
They would become His generals, each commanding a mighty Legion to conquer the stars for Him.
However, His plan angered the four Chaos Gods that dwelled in the Warp.
The Chaos Gods reached through the Veil and unleashed a Warp storm upon the experiment.
The transhuman embryos were scattered across the Galaxy.
Some Primarchs landed in prosperous human realms, others on death worlds thick with poison.
They grew up on their respective planets, living their lives, until the Emperor’s march delved deep into the Galaxy and, one by one, He retrieved His Primarchs, each with their own distinct nature.
“The last one to be found…” Malcador murmured.
He stepped out of the shadows and stood beside the silent Emperor, his brow tightly furrowed, saying nothing.
“…yet in such a state.
I recall you once held high hopes for Number Eleven, did you not?” Malcador walked toward the operating table.
The old man extended a wrinkled hand, hovering it lightly over the Primarch’s horrifying face.
This Primarch had suffered targeted torment, so much so that scars other Primarchs could heal instantly had become permanent on him and would never mend.
“I had anticipated this.” The Emperor’s voice was low and terse.
The golden light no longer flickered in His eyes; only a deep, somber brown remained.
“You refer to the gene-seed flaw of the Eleventh Legion?” In the Emperor’s plan, the Primarchs He created would each lead a distinct force of transhuman Legions.
Using the Primarchs’ genes as keys, the Emperor forged twenty Legions of the Adeptus Astartes.
Each Legion was inextricably linked to its corresponding Primarch; they were bound not only by blood, but also in the metaphysical realm, where Legion and Primarch influenced one another in unseen ways.
Because each Legion employed forbidden biotechnology, the gene-seed of some Legions was unstable, giving rise to mutations, some benign, others malignant.
Certain bio-sages proposed that these mutations were caused not only by defective genes, but might also be related to the Primarch’s influence on the Legion.
The Emperor nodded.
“When I designed Number Eleven, I positioned him to be stable and dispassionate, hard to corrupt and hard to disturb.” His gaze cut like a honed blade across Number Eleven’s body, which lay quietly on the operating table.
The Primarch’s skin was covered in scars, but there were also deeper, barely perceptible presences.
“His Legion was meant to be the most stable of all.” But the Eleventh Legion, the Dawn Walkers, suffered from a serious genetic flaw within.
Their implanted Larraman’s Organ was severely malformed, causing their blood-clotting ability to lag far behind other Legions.
At the same time, their regulatory neural nodes had mutated, rendering their perception of pain insensitive.
These mutations inevitably caused the Eleventh Legion, the Dawn Walkers, to suffer higher casualty rates than other Legions.
Their warriors were easily wounded and prone to death.
This led the Imperium to hold the Legion in low regard.
It was deliberately kept small, deliberately overlooked, its numbers maintained at around one thousand.
“I originally wondered why, but now I know the cause: Number Eleven’s Warp essence has been corrupted, and that affected his Legion.” When the Emperor created the Primarchs, He took powerful psychic forces from the Warp to serve as each Primarch’s fundamental essence, shaping those formless powers into the Primarchs.
Some Primarchs were by nature a storm cloud, others a fortress; the essences of the Primarchs were each unique.
“What was Number Eleven’s essence originally?” Malcador’s withered lips moved as he asked.
He saw the Emperor sigh softly.
“The void,” the Emperor said.
“A stable, empty void: nothingness, not powerful.
When I discovered it, it repelled every force within the Warp.
It was inert in the Warp, and compared to other things, it had no affinity for psychic power.” “On that foundation, I shaped my Eleventh.
He was originally designed to be a cold and loyal general; he would not be swayed by blood or weeping, nor seduced by the whispers of the Warp.” “He would become the sword in my hand to clear obstacles.
He and his Legion would be deployed to conquer those glorious human civilizations that refused submission, to take part in battles that would never be recorded.” “Sounds like you gave him quite a cruel role.” Malcador remarked offhandedly.
He recalled the Emperor’s first son, the Lion.
The Lion and his Legion were executioners, specially designed to watch the other Legions from within.
If problems arose inside a Legion, the First Legion would appear.
“Yes, Number Eleven was specifically designed to wage those dishonorable campaigns.” The Emperor said, standing beside the operating table, His hand resting on its surface, not far from Number Eleven’s hand.
In the Imperium’s definition, the Great Crusade was a glorious and honorable reconquest.
In truth, most wars were just: they slew xenos that enslaved humanity, or liberated peoples from tyrannical rule.
But there were always times when one had to take up arms in dishonor, perhaps to strike down the weak who refused to compromise, or to face enemies that could easily shake one’s resolve.
Thus the Emperor specifically designed Number Eleven for external dirty wars, campaigns that could never be written into the annals of the Great Crusade, destined to be labeled classified and then hidden.
By contrast, for internal, necessary dirty wars, He designed Number One.
Considering the scenarios a Primarch would face, Number One was endowed with extraordinary loyalty and instinct during his design, able to sniff out internal anomalies and maintain absolute loyalty when executing his own kin.
Number Eleven, however, was granted absolute stability and rationality.
He was insensitive to psychic energy, exhibiting inertia that shielded him from the whispers of the Warp.
Moreover, those dirty wars would not lead his Legion into mutation or heretical thoughts.
He would be the Emperor’s most merciless sword against the external world.
But now, the light in the Emperor’s eyes dimmed for a moment.
He stared at Number Eleven on the operating table, a failure, a defective piece, just like Number Twelve, broken.
“But his essence has been corrupted, even more obviously than Number Twelve’s.” Number Twelve was Angron, Primarch of the World Eaters Legion.
When the Emperor discovered him, Angron had a blasphemous construct embedded in his head: the Butcher’s Nails.
Half of the Primarch’s brain and his entire frontal lobe had been replaced by this construct.
This plunged Angron into eternal, agonizing rage.
The Nails tormented the Primarch unceasingly; only relentless slaughter could briefly free him from that torment.
The Emperor had originally positioned Number Twelve as a peacemaker capable of empathy with others, but his homeworld had also completely twisted him.
Angron became an irrational, bloodthirsty madman.
Just like Number Eleven.
No, Number Eleven’s corruption ran far deeper than Angron’s.
Angron’s mutation manifested primarily in his physical body.
Although his Warp essence had been affected by his homeworld’s warlike nature, it was not so obvious.
His essence remained unchanged.
But Number Eleven’s essence had changed.
Worse, he was corrupted.
“I can feel it.” The Emperor said in a low voice, lowering His gaze to stare at the sleeping Eleventh.
A Primarch should have been extraordinary in appearance, perfect like a divine statue carved from ancient Greek marble.
But now, Number Eleven’s face was covered in scars, his mouth torn.
The sculpture had been deliberately defaced, stone chips falling away to reveal dried flesh.
“An unborn, powerful evil entity has chosen Number Eleven, seeking to be born through him.” Its power corrupted Number Eleven, forever tainting that once-empty void, forcibly twisting his essence, turning him from psychic inertia to psychic sensitivity.
“But it clearly failed, didn’t it?” Malcador rasped, reminding the Emperor that there was no time in the Warp.
If a god were born, it would be born for all eternity, forever leaving its mark upon the Warp, just like the four Chaos Gods.
Even Slaanesh was not created by the Aeldari Empire, but rather awakened by it.
Clearly, the entity that had chosen Number Eleven had failed; otherwise, a seat of power for that entity would now exist in the Warp.
The Emperor slowly nodded.
“I drove it out.” He said, reaching out His hand, suspending it above Number Eleven.
Then, golden light flickered, and a dazzling burst of psychic power erupted.
The Emperor was silent; His power pierced into Number Eleven’s body like chains.
Malcador watched the scene unfold before him.
He knew what the Emperor was doing.
The Emperor was forcibly sealing Number Eleven’s essence.
Number Eleven’s essence had originally been in a semi-activated state, and the Emperor was sealing it again.
This was a necessary restriction, if they still wanted Number Eleven.
In truth, the Emperor had been contemplating whether He should simply destroy Number Eleven, along with his homeworld.
The Emperor cherished His Primarchs, but a Primarch could never be a being beyond all forgiveness.
In the previous Rangdan campaign, the Emperor had deployed the First Legion, the Dark Angels, and the Sixth Legion, the Space Wolves, to expunge the Second Legion from the rolls.
Those who knew of the Second Legion also had their memories wiped, causing that unforgivable Legion to vanish completely.
Number Eleven’s position was now dangerous enough, teetering on the edge of annihilation.
He had walked too close to the evil forces within the Warp, sunk too deeply into their influence.
In the Emperor’s plan, the Imperium of Man adhered to the Imperial Truth, which did not acknowledge the existence of entities within the Warp, much less the existence of gods.
This was not willful blindness; it was containment.
The Imperium’s true, final enemy came from the Warp.
The Chaos Gods within the Warp relied on emotions, desires, consciousness, and the like for their existence.
To know of them was to be contaminated, to strengthen the power of the Chaos Gods.
Moreover, the Veil between the material world and the Warp was still thick; the power of the Chaos Gods could not easily penetrate it.
Unless…
Unless someone knew of Them, someone deliberately called out to Them, just like the xenos on Stoll Star.
The creatures that appeared on Stoll Star were Daemons and Daemons possessing humans.
But here in the Imperium of Man, the authorities did not officially acknowledge the existence of Daemons.
They used vague terms like “psychic xenos” to describe these evil entities.
Even the Emperor’s own sons, the Primarchs, were unaware of the Warp and its entities.
Only a handful of Primarchs may have had suspicions or private theories on the matter.
To know was to be contaminated; knowledge was poison in this universe.
But now, Number Eleven not only knew of those Daemons, he also understood exactly what they were.
He even dared to say that he wanted to become a god.
A god, in this universe, was the embodiment of blasphemy.
They were evil, leading people to corruption, bound by the domains they embodied, blindly seeking madness, wanting to create a hell forever filled with war and the wailing of souls, a paradise for Them.
The Emperor had originally thought that Number Eleven might have claimed he wanted to become a god because of the local inhabitants’ native beliefs, and that the “god” he referred to was different from the kind of “god” the Emperor meant.
After all, the Emperor’s sons were so extraordinary; in those ignorant civilizations, the Primarchs would indeed be called gods by the local natives.
But then, Number Eleven spoke the second half of his sentence.
He asked what the Four Gods were.
Clearly, the “god” Number Eleven meant was that kind of blasphemous existence.
What exactly had Number Eleven experienced?
What had he seen?
His homeworld had been tainted by the evil entities of the Warp, bringing catastrophic suffering to its people.
Even after witnessing such atrocities, did Number Eleven still want to become a god?
The Emperor was silent.
He merely used psychic shackles to seal away the tainted parts within Number Eleven’s body.
He had originally intended to destroy Stoll Star directly and then seal it away, but Malcador stopped Him.
The old man simply looked at the Emperor, signaling that this was His son’s homeworld.
At the very least, Number Eleven should be informed.
“I am not certain he can still be of use to the Imperium,” the Emperor said.
He withdrew His hand, rotating His wrist, preparing to awaken Number Eleven.
“The Great Crusade needs to accelerate,” Malcador said.
“The return of a Primarch, you and I both know this is a powerful asset.” “But one misstep, and we go over the edge.” the Emperor said, reaching out His hand again.
“So we need to ask him personally, my lord.
There is precedent for this; even a mad Angron could remain in the Imperium, so Number Eleven can try as well.” Yes, the Emperor thought, Angron could still lead his Legion into battle.
His tolerance for the Primarchs was actually much higher than people imagined, as long as they did not cross that red line.
Number Two had crossed it, so he and his Legion had vanished forever.
Number Twelve was hard to bear, but he had not crossed the red line.
But clearly, Number Eleven now stood directly on that red line.
He looked as though he might topple at any moment.