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She came from a tide of countless grieving souls.
Moving towards a future more distant, more bitter, more solitary.
Morgan blinked.
And blinked again.
And blinked once more…
Finally, that excessively brilliant golden light moved away from her pupils and field of vision, disappearing into the edge of the memory realm like a slowly receding star.
Morgan watched it. Every time her gaze swept across that sharp, dazzling light, her spine involuntarily shivered.
She loathed it.
Or rather, she feared it.
She knew what that silent figure and unhesitating action meant: sacrifice, selflessness, the impartial light cast by a cold sun.
But she also knew that sacrifice, that selflessness, that light did not belong to her.
It belonged to no one.
Morgan realized she was witnessing a rather twisted yet unyielding will, an eerie reality capable of plunging her mind into endless confusion.
The cold sun, in the name of selflessness, overlooked and illuminated all its subjects, yet it also ruthlessly allowed the unfortunate to burn away in its scorching heat, as if its mercy only encompassed a hollow word, and not every living being represented by that title.
This ruthless sun wantonly squandered the lives of those it loved, building a mad empire with belief, treachery, and slaughter. This empire existed and operated solely for itself, yet it sincerely desired that all the ignorant could possess it.
For a moment, Morgan couldn't tell: was this a selflessness so noble it was laughable, or a selfishness so vile it was extreme?
It embarked on a gamble in the name of a race, with its own tranquil eternal life as the stake.
What selflessness.
It built its achievements on the subjugation of countless subjects, yet was so arrogant as to permit only itself to control everything.
What selfishness.
…
[Arrogance]
Morgan softly uttered this evaluation, but she quickly realized that such a simple word couldn't encompass everything. She began to think, experiencing the necessary pain of thinking.
But soon, she also realized that now was not a good time to ponder this question.
So, she set this scene aside.
Her inner instinct told her that she would eventually make use of everything she had just witnessed.
After all, though she held reverence and trepidation for that golden figure, it didn't mean she lacked the courage to confront it in battle.
It was just that the time had not yet come.
When Hector heard that sigh, he too sighed softly within his heart.
He walked across a desolate land, the lady Persian cat, capable of devouring heaven and earth, resting on his left shoulder, while his right hand firmly gripped his ghostly green Phase Blade: even though he hadn't wielded it for some time.
In fact, this was not due to a lack of enemies. As their footsteps gradually led them deeper into the true core of the combat moon, Hector's automatic sensing system in his helmet never stopped screaming.
All sorts of twisted abominations continuously swarmed towards them, but even the most powerful and fearless among them could only vaguely appear at the edge of Hector's vision, then collapse in sudden wails and whimpers, becoming yet another series of chews and slightly satisfied sighs from the Lady.
Even the untouchables were no exception: Morgan simply blew a gust of wind, and in an instant, it became a destructive storm, laden with rocks and metal, sweeping towards the edge of their vision.
Then, the shattered bodies of the untouchables would be scattered everywhere, telling Hector of the true power of a top-tier psychic.
Looking at such a scene, watching one mountain of corpses and sea of blood after another, Hector felt no shock, no confusion, no sighing, and no astonishment.
These emotions had long since been squandered hours ago in the standard Terran time.
Now, looking at this scene, like a natural disaster, Hector's face was numb, endlessly numb.
He was like a clock that had been wound up, advancing towards the target in his mind with the most steady steps, while striving to make his movements and pace align with the constantly feeding breathing sound on his left shoulder. This was the only thing he could do now.
After advancing like this, repeatedly, for an unknown duration, Hector even felt his spirit enter a rather relaxed state. He could even lift his head and look at the stars above.
They were crimson.
Exactly as they were on the day he left his homeland.
Hector came from Priam, an unremarkable feudal world. It was not too far from Holy Terra, but due to its remote location, it had long been ignored by the high echelons of the Imperium of Man.
Until one day, an Imperial warship docked in the sky above this world.
That year, Hector was ten years old, already a royal scion capable of single-handedly hunting and riding.
He was one of the king's eight children. His maternal lineage wasn't particularly noble, but he was born quite strong and tall. By the age of ten, his physique and strength were almost on par with the most powerful knights under his biological father. Clad in armor, he could perfectly pass as one of them.
This god-given power led him to be regarded as the pride of the royal family, blessed by the gods and a harbinger of the future. While his brothers and sisters were still learning rigid etiquette and conversation in the courtyard, he could don armor and weapons, spending an entire day leisurely in the royal hunting grounds.
Until that day, that gigantic shadow swept over the royal hunting grounds and gardens, shrouding the entire palace in shadow and unease.
Hector saw the tall silver-armored warriors emerge from the gigantic iron bird. His biological father knelt at their feet, speaking humble words, like the most respectful royal servant.
He could hear the sighs of relief erupting from everyone's throats when the warriors declared they had not come for taxes.
But soon, these otherworldly guests, who adhered to strict etiquette, stated their demands.
They wanted blood.
New blood for the Legion.
…
Hector was chosen almost immediately.
The leading warrior looked at his nearly two-meter height, then, upon hearing his age, was visibly stunned before nodding.
Just like that, he was chosen.
He vaguely saw his biological father's stiff smile, and his biological mother's quiet sobs hidden in the crowd.
The selection continued for some time. Every young child in the capital was required to participate. They walked one by one into the makeshift building. Most of them emerged quickly, returning to their normal lives. Only a handful remained, and most of them stayed for only a few more days.
After a while, the silver-armored warriors who had gone to various parts of the kingdom also returned one after another. Some came back empty-handed, while others were accompanied by one or two robust young children.
It was then that Hector met Salieri: he followed behind a "refined" warrior wielding a staff, an uncontrolled, bizarre, and sudden aura emanating from him. People said it was witchcraft.
But Hector had no energy to concern himself with any of this. From the moment he became the only chosen prince, the little time he had left was almost entirely monopolized by his biological father, who locked him in the training ground.
The best knights and veterans were hand-picked and trained with him day and night. Even his own father would join in, fiercely wielding swords as if it were a real life-and-death struggle.
During the only remaining moments of rest, he would be with his biological mother. Vaguely, he no longer remembered the specifics of that time, only that his biological mother's tears flowed like a babbling brook, dripping onto his forehead and shoulders.
She always held him, saying nothing. Whenever she wanted to say something, it would be replaced by endless whimpers and sobs. She would lovingly stroke his scars, yet never complained about any of it.
Such days continued for some time, perhaps one or two standard Terran months, until the last silver-armored warrior also returned to the capital.
That night, it was the final training.
When Hector arrived at the training ground, he was surprised to find that the knights and veterans were no longer there. His father stood alone in the center of the training ground, gazing at the statues in the square: symbols of the family's honor, recounting how successive kings had forged a unified great cause with unyielding spirit and cunning.
"They always say I'm the worst generation of kings."
"For three hundred years of rule, I was the only one who chose to kneel to foreign enemies, willing to pay high taxes rather than defend ancient glory with swords and blood, to defend the nation's independence, to defend the ancestors' splendor."
"Those fools, what do they know…"
"When I saw how those fleets obscured the entire sky, this was all I could do."
"I once thought that such a choice would spare me, or at least my family, from war."
"War is never a good thing."
"But now, they have come. They want to take you away."
"Those Angels of Death..."
The King sighed. He seemed to want to say something more, but in the end, he simply raised his sword.
"One last time."
He said.
Thus, beneath the crimson starry sky, father and son engaged in another infinitely realistic combat.
They clashed, they confronted, and so they fought until the bright moon hung high in the sky.
The King suddenly stopped. He lowered his head, casually tossing his sword aside.
"That's enough... Go rest..."
"Tomorrow, you will leave. Now, go spend some time with your mother."
He waved his hand. The crimson stars cast a glimmering light on his shadow.
"I am not a good father, and frankly, I can't even remember the names of all your brothers. Enough time has been wasted on me. I can only train with you… but I can't actually teach you anything."
"I am not a knight, nor a sage, nor a general or marshal. I am just a king…"
He sighed, slowly turning away.
Hector called out to his biological father, asking the question that had plagued him for days.
"Purpose? The purpose of this training?"
The King laughed. He seemed instinctively to want to elaborate at length, but in the end, he merely strung together a few broken sentences.
"Nothing."
"It's meaningless anyway..."
"If there was a purpose."
"Perhaps, I wanted you to live."
"Even if it's just a tiny bit more likely..."
He still wanted to say something, but he had lost confidence.
Finally, Hector watched as his biological father covered his face with his aged hands, hunched over, and slowly disappeared into the darkness.
After a long time.
He looked up.
He only saw crimson stars.
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