Blazkowicz walked into the institute; inside, everyone bustled. Researchers in haz-suits were putting the finishing touches on their work.
The project here was nearly done, the undertaking almost complete.
Tulkun farming had been a success. The creatures were supremely adaptable; vast numbers had been captured and shipped to an ocean world for social re-engineering and domestication.
He nodded repeatedly at the progress chart on the wall. Everything else was finished; once the final marine genetic samples were collected, the tech teams would pull out.
After personnel evacuated, the coastal base would be converted into a military installation—first as a defensive strongpoint, later Blazkowicz had other plans for it.
He had misgivings about the Emperor's soul-binding programme; he had already prepared a contingency for post-upheaval Pandora.
He moved deeper, finally reaching the lab's heart. Machines were shifting cryo-lockers; through the view-ports, tubes of golden fluid were visible.
It was the longevity substance extracted from living tissue.
Blazkowicz's eyes lit up. He opened a locker, took out a vial, and studied it closely, sensing the vigorous life within.
'My lord,' he began, about to return the vial, when his left arm glowed and Blazkowicz's projection appeared. 'Someone requests an audience.'
He meant to refuse; plenty among the Nur Stars wanted to see him, and he had no time for them one by one.
But when he saw the petitioner's details in the holo-image, he changed his mind.
Rolling the longevity substance between his fingers, he said, 'Arrange it.'
The projection vanished with Blazkowicz's nod. Blazkowicz left the storage chamber, boarded a lift, and rode up to the reception lounge.
The lounge was bright and spacious. Blazkowicz stood at the panoramic window overlooking the base; a rugged soldier sat uneasily on a chair, fighting to keep his calves from trembling.
'My lord!' The soldier dropped to one knee as the lift doors opened and a towering figure stepped through.
'Miles Quaritch.' Blazkowicz strode in; an ordinary greeting was enough to make the hardened mortal shudder.
Since arriving in the Gates of Paradise system, Miles had learned the broad situation; everything he saw and heard overturned his worldview.
The man before him was a Primarch—one of the twenty-one mighty beings created by the Emperor to conquer the galaxy and make humanity great again.
Learning this, Miles burned with excitement, yearning for the glory of the Great Crusade; that was why he had asked to see the Primarch.
Blazkowicz sat, gaze falling on the kneeling man: 'Why have you come?'
'I wish to join your Legion.' Miles knew that when speaking with such beings, one should not equivocate; state your need plainly.
Before the Gene-Father could answer, Blazkowicz, standing nearby, spoke slowly: 'You could not endure it.'
He saw the refusal on Miles's face. 'Do not gamble; the odds—one in millions—are that you would die.'
'Other Legions are the same. You're past the optimal age; implant rejection would kill you.'
Miles turned ashen, swaying on his knees, fists clenched until blood dripped, unwilling tears in his eyes.
He could not accept it.
Even Grace Augustine—that arrogant, ignorant woman—had been chosen by the bio-artisans to serve as a lab apprentice, gaining a chance to reach the vast sea of stars.
While he, a loyal champion of humanity, would live and die a mere mortal.
Clack. A soft sound.
'I will offer you another choice.' Blazkowicz sat erect and slid the longevity draught across the table. 'A reward for your fidelity.'
The golden fluid before him, Miles's eyes rekindled; of course he knew what it was.
'Among the lost realms of men, you still uphold a fierce belief in human supremacy and act upon it—commendable.'
Having stated the reason, Blazkowicz continued: 'Becoming an Astartes is virtually impossible for your body.'
'But your conviction is strong; you may join the mortal regiments. How far you go depends entirely on you.'
With that, he flicked a finger, sending the longevity substance sliding across the tabletop to the colonel.
'Thank you, great Primarch!' Miles gave the warrior's salute, rose, and lifted the golden draught, resolve blazing in his eyes. 'To still claim new worlds for mankind is the greatest gift.'
'Hold fast to that conviction.' Blazkowicz nodded, signalling that the audience was over.
Miles bowed and backed away, opened the door with care, and departed.
"Keep an eye on him," Blazkowicz said to Blazkowicz. "If he works hard enough, one day commanding a mortal Legion wouldn't be out of the question."
"If he truly lacks a gift for war, just arrange early retirement and let him live out a long life in the Nur Stars."
"Understood." Blazkowicz accepted the assignment, raising his arm to log the note in his vambraced data-terminal so he would never forget.
That wasn't because his memory was poor—as a Doom Slayer, his recall was almost eternal.
Yet an Legion Archon's duties were endless; he needed the terminal to keep special concerns from drowning amid grander strategy.
"Ready the Legion for war." Blazkowicz rose from his chair, stepped to the window, and stared through the Veil of Reality, voice heavy: "I feel the Warp stirring—Chaos is marshaling hosts."
In the Warp a tide was rising, rolling toward Pandora, seething with powers that would not suffer souls to linger among mortals.
"Understood." At news of the daemons Blazkowicz's dark brows twitched, then settled. He saluted and left the council chamber.
In the churning Warp, where the domains of the Four Gods converge, divine wills met to debate great matters.
"How do we strike?" Khorne spoke first, blood-mist billowing, barely containing battle-lust.
The question was "how", not "if"; the gods had agreed to foil the Emperor's design.
The Dark Gods' gaze was everywhere. They could neither see what Blazkowicz was doing nor foretell it, yet the Emperor's movements had exposed Pandora.
"Blazkowicz is there," Nurgle rasped, flies of decay buzzing round the words, underscoring the crux.
"Perhaps we should let it go?" Slaanesh idly cleaned a nail, languid voice subdued. "A daemon host against him—and scions who inherit his traits?"
"If the assault fails we only strengthen our foes and jeopardize the greater game."
For once Khorne did not roar at the perceived cowardice: "Amazing—your bed-hopping hasn't addled you; you actually think."
The Blood God was no brute; war's dominion is supreme cunning, and sometimes strategy demands retreat.
Slaanesh offered no retort, only a low hum of exquisite pleasure.
At last the three turned to Tzeentch, awaiting the verdict.
Though the gods despised one another, they had pledged common cause against the Emperor and Blazkowicz, leaving the wisest—Tzeentch—to lead.
Tzeentch remained silent, form shifting as it plucked threads of fate to peer into futures.
In the maelstrom of un-time the god traced every cause and effect; destiny bifurcated into glorious uncertainty, a kaleidoscope of colliding possibilities that delighted Tzeentch.
"We cannot know the outcome," a thousand all-seeing eyes opened upon its immaterial flesh, "but I advise we strike."
"Blazkowicz's presence unmoors everything; the ordained end trembles. We must act to secure a fate that favors us."
A withered arm emerged, snatching a fragment of data from the depths of the Warp and hurling it into the Real Universe.
"I have sown the seed of change. Return and prepare for war."
"At last!" The war-hungry spirit roared back to the Blood God's realm, summoning Khorne's daemon Legions.
Slaanesh departed amid languid laughter; from perfumed couches in its palace it loosed soul-shredding shrieks that stilled debauchery so its hosts might craft amusements of war.
Only Nurgle lingered, gazing at its conceptual nemesis, then sighed: "The future slips beyond control; the destination itself may shift."
Father Nurgle saw, in Tzeentch, an almost human hesitation.
Its will rose as a cloud of life and faded from the confluence of realms.
Tzeentch watched the enemy leave; its ever-changing form slowed, mottled colors surfacing as its mind dissolved into sorcerous winds.
The god of fate had indeed hesitated.
An uncontrollable future stirred in it a mortal emotion—doubt.
The fragments Tzeentch cast into the Warp drifted with the tide; the hidden pieces planted by the Chaos God would travel to the land of destiny.
This land of destiny was none other than Prospero, the homeworld of the Fifteenth Legion, the Thousand Sons.
In the Prosperine city of Tizca, pyramids had been constructed—mysterious and majestic, symbolizing the worship of knowledge.
Deep within a pyramid library, a giant sat cross-legged.
He was exceptionally tall, standing over five meters in height.
The giant's entire body was crimson like lava, his hair like flame, and his pupils like blood, resembling a Daemon king from myth who had stepped out of hell; yet he wore the simple white robes of a scholar, turning pages between his fingers in a blend of elegance and majesty.
This red giant was the Emperor's fifteenth son: Magnus the Red.
The drop pod carrying the Primarch cut through the waves of the Warp and returned to the Real Universe, where the Fifteenth Son landed on Prospero.
Since the ancient age of colonization, the number of Psykers had gradually increased. Due to their instability, they often triggered catastrophic psychic events in the cities of colonial worlds.
These Psykers and mutants were exiled by local governments, huddling together in the void until they eventually arrived at Prospero.
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Because it was remote enough and far from Warp routes, it could provide the exiles with a stable life.
The exiles took root and multiplied here, and Psykers quietly gathered. By the time human civilization collapsed and the Age of Strife arrived, Prospero had become an island for psychic survivors.
Without systematic persecution, the residents of Prospero thought they were safe, not expecting a new mysterious disaster to appear.
Hives of Psychic Larvae, a terrifying Warp creature.
It fed on psychic energy. Later scholars unanimously believed that Prospero had gathered so many Psykers that it attracted them to come and feed.
Hives of Psychic Larvae were nearly three meters long and often hunted in swarms.
The males used sharp claws to restrain prey, while the females swooped down, tore through the Warp barriers, and laid eggs in the victim's brain.
In just a moment, the Hives of Psychic Larvae eggs would drain the host's mind and psychic energy; tiny fangs would then bite through the skin, swarming out from a hollow corpse.
The Hives of Psychic Larvae became a plague, and all of Prospero fell, leaving only the city of Tizca.
The survivors used their psychic powers to struggle to maintain barriers, resisting the invasion of Warp creatures and huddling within the city to survive.
At the end of the 31st Millennium, the Primarch's gestation pod broke away from the Warp, penetrated the psychic barrier, and landed in the central plaza of Tizca.
Such an unusual impact naturally caught the attention of the survivors; their nerves were constantly on edge, and they came to investigate the specific cause.
When they found a crimson infant crawling out of the gestation pod, they felt no fear or surprise, but rather a deep and heavy pity.
The people simply thought the crimson child was another mutant abandoned by his parents, feeling a bit of empathy.
The leader of the survivors picked up the child and named him "Magnus," which meant "Great" in the ancient language of Terra.
Soon, the leader Amon noticed the child's extraordinary nature.
Magnus absorbed knowledge rapidly, and his growth rate surpassed that of normal people; in just a few months, his height was equal to that of an adult.
His learning progress was even more terrifying; a mentor only needed to explain something once for him to master deep knowledge. His staggering intellect made the people of Tizca view him as a god.
However, deep within those red eyes lay a hidden truth—he had already perceived everything, and his so-called learning was merely a pantomime performed for others.
After early basic studies, his knowledge already surpassed everyone else's.
A great man is born with powerful psychic abilities. After learning to use this talent, his soul roamed the Warp, crossing the galaxy to converse with the Emperor himself.
The knowledge Magnus possessed actually came from the Emperor's personal teaching.
He could witness the radiance of humanity just by closing his eyes, receiving personal instruction from the Emperor; his extraordinary insight far exceeded that of his brothers.
While other Primarchs were surviving in the wild, guessing where they came from and struggling to find the origin of their bloodline, Magnus knew everything about himself.
His father the Emperor, the Primarchs, the Imperium of Man, the Imperial Truth.
This psychically powerful Primarch had an unimaginably high starting point, and the Emperor placed great hopes in him.
Possessing powerful psychic abilities, gaining the psychic knowledge of Prospero, and having the Emperor's personal guidance, Magnus stood on the shoulders of giants to gaze into the future.
Soon, the one-year-old Magnus left Tizca and went alone into the dangerous wastes.
He gained much in the wasteland.
The haphazardly growing grass, the naturally tumbled rocks, the completely winding rivers—he could always strip away the accidental to find the laws of change contained within.
At the end of his journey, as Magnus passed an ancient statue, it suddenly cracked and collapsed before him with a roar.
The Primarch did not panic, nor was he even surprised; he quietly knelt before the statue to observe.
He felt there must be a deep meaning behind the coincidence. Why did the statue break neither early nor late, but exactly when he arrived?
This was surely some kind of enlightenment, hidden in timing and telepathy, a gift from supernatural knowledge.
Magnus was in no hurry to continue his journey and began to study the shattered statue; from the randomly scattered fragments to the splashing dust, his observation was meticulous.
Just as the Primarch was engrossed, Amon, who had come looking for him, caught up.
Magnus's departure without saying goodbye had worried Amon greatly, and he had organized a search party to enter the wastes; he could not let his extraordinary son perish there.
Magnus was not surprised by the arrival of the seekers; he had long predicted all of this and even invited them to observe the statue with him.
Initially, Amon and the others thought it was absurd—what secrets could a statue eroded by time possibly hold?
Unable to refuse Magnus's invitation, the group thought it was just a child's game and intended to play along with this farce so they could take him home.
So they set aside their prejudices and joined the observation.
This look was no small matter; they indeed discovered extraordinary enlightenment, laid out so casually before their eyes.
The randomly scattered fragments combined with each other to form various shapes: isosceles triangles, perfect circles; abstract pieces pieced together into concrete patterns, containing multiple meanings.
The people were overjoyed, and the Psykers erupted with intense interest, staying briefly in the wastes to continue studying the broken statue.
The group was jubilant, quietly unaware that a crisis had already arrived.
The Psykers gathering in one place released intense emotions like a beacon, attracting an overwhelming swarm of Hives of Psychic Larvae.
The panicked Psykers rushed into battle; in just the first wave of impact, over fifty people died, a truly heavy loss.
In this life-or-death crisis, the remnants felt an immense pressure, but along with that pressure came a powerful surge of psychic energy.
In an instant, fire and lightning erupted from their hands, repelling the Hives of Psychic Larvae swarm and allowing them to escape back to Tizca.
The survivors were incredibly lucky and immediately grasped that spark of inspiration; based on their own areas of expertise, they established different schools of thought to teach knowledge on how to harness psychic power.
Magnus rose even more rapidly, conquering everyone with his profound knowledge and leading the people to strike back against the Hives of Psychic Larvae.
Led by the Primarch who skillfully used psychic powers, the survivors of Tizca swept across the world, completely eliminating the Hives of Psychic Larvae threat and returning clear peace to Prospero.
By virtue of this great feat, Magnus was crowned the undisputed ruler of Prospero.
Having lost their external enemies, the people stepped out of Tizca and began to explore outward again, reclaiming the territories they had once lost.
In a certain moment of meditation, Magnus opened his crimson eyes and walked out of his secret chamber in excitement, jogging eagerly to the rebuilt Tizca plaza.
A golden radiance descended from the sky, pure and beautiful. The Psykers felt a sense of tranquility and one after another closed their eyes to kneel and worship.
The Emperor had arrived. He had crossed the sea of stars to come and retrieve his extraordinarily gifted son.
The two were like old friends who hadn't seen each other in years, embracing warmly; there was a profound closeness between them, with no sense of the strangeness of a first meeting.
Their souls had long ago met in the Warp and communicated in secret for a long time, anticipating this meeting; how could there be any strangeness?
Magnus readily responded to the Emperor and followed his father back to Terra to take command of the Fifteenth Legion, which carried his bloodline.
The first sight of his Legion stunned the Primarch; he never expected that the Legion modeled on his genes would have only a thousand survivors and would be suffering deeply from Flesh-change mutations.
His father, the Emperor, also hinted that if he did not want to take over the Legion, he could create a new one to eliminate the mutations of the Librarian Legion.
Magnus refused the Emperor, secretly vowing in his heart that he must find the knowledge to save the Gene-sons of his Legion.
So he returned to Prospero, spending his days in meditation, selectively forgetting the Emperor's warnings about the Warp as he roamed within it in search of knowledge.
Once again finding nothing, Magnus's soul gave a long sigh, preparing to leave the Warp and return to the Real Universe.
Suddenly, a fragment containing information surfaced within the turbulence of the Warp.
Magnus was overjoyed; his psychic energy spread out like a giant net, seizing that fragment from the turbulence.