Heidrich had not truly rested for a very long time: perhaps days, months, or even longer, so long that he himself had forgotten.
This was uncommon, even strange: his memory never erred; he clearly remembered every single thing since he first opened his eyes.
But now, something seemed to have gone wrong, yet he had no way of knowing what.
This made him even more agitated, his calm, merciless heart beating more fiercely.
For him, time had lost its meaning. He even felt as if he had fallen into one of those cycles or time cages, so boasted in science fiction, doing the same and ridiculous things over and over again, becoming a terrifying nightmare in the eyes of others.
He didn't know when these thoughts began to intertwine with him, like branches scraping against a glass window at midnight, making a hateful, grinding sound, disturbing everything he was most proud of and valued: his rationality, calmness, and mercilessness.
He relied on them to command his Legions, to command his warriors, his rank and file, and his expendables.
He had seen his blood kin brothers call their warriors "children," or "progeny" and "sons." He couldn't understand such titles and connections: what was the use of such useless things, apart from creating those ethereal bonds and causing unnecessary status and disputes within one's Legion?
To consolidate loyalty?
But these gene-modified warriors, the Astartes, had long become loyal servants of the Emperor through countless gene surgeries and brainwashing. There was no need to worry about their loyalty. As for those who might harbor ambitions, making them disappear was the best solution.
Or was it kinship?
That was even more laughable: their great gene-father, the Emperor, created them, the Primarchs, to help him achieve an unprecedented grand undertaking, to make countless Worlds burn or submit. Beyond that, they should not care about anything.
Other than victory and efficiency, nothing was worth caring about.
Other than the Emperor's great cause, nothing was worth fanaticism.
As for his brothers: they had disappointed him enough times, second only to this Human Imperium that he had once infinitely anticipated, but now felt immense disappointment and hatred for.
But it didn't matter, he still respected his blood kin: his only true kin in this mad and dim Universe.
He respected the peculiar incompetence in each of them, and their uniform stupidity: including their affectionate feelings for the so-called Astartes warriors.
Though they perhaps didn't like him: neither Fulgrim, nor Vulkan, nor even Perturabo. He still remembered the Iron Lord's ferocious face, accusing the Golden Beast of raising a butcher's knife against his own progeny for a mere sliver of efficiency.
"No humanity."
Heidrich remembered how the Lord of Olympia had reprimanded him.
In fact, more than one person had reprimanded him thus: "No humanity, Golden Beast."
Humanity… humanity…
What was that?
He couldn't understand: whether it was humanity, emotions, or those invisible, intangible connections that arose between his blood kin and their warriors…
Heidrich could neither accept nor understand what they were. He looked at these so-called "emotions," "love," and "humanity" like a monster in a cave fearfully looking at the sun.
Whenever he started to ponder this question, Heidrich would feel a strange sensation: it was as if a piece of his heart had been maliciously gouged out, leaving a horrific wound.
As if, before he had memory and consciousness, a rampant laughter, accompanied by a hurricane of rage, had stolen something from him.
Had something been stolen from him?
Was he incomplete?
Was that why he couldn't feel those so-called familial affections for these gene-modified warriors?
He didn't know, and he didn't want to know.
Facts proved that even without what was called humanity, it couldn't stop his efforts for the Emperor. So, humanity was useless.
Astartes warriors, or rather, gene-modified warriors he inwardly referred to these inferior creations as "expendables," crude products made out of necessity, a temporary compromise during the progression of a great cause.
He called them so, though he never did it in public. But deep down, whether it was these gene-modified warriors with some biological connection to him, or most other existences in the Galaxy, they were merely expendables.
Except for the great Emperor, his gene-father, the perfect being standing at the pinnacle of rationality and wisdom, nothing in the Galaxy was worthy of his worship and conviction.
And except for his powerful blood kin, the Primarchs who shared his heritage, the eternal incarnations of the Emperor's blood, nothing in the Galaxy was worthy of his respect and equal treatment.
They would be the creators of all, and all things in the world were merely clay in their hands, necessities for them to forge all kinds of great Imperiums and undying achievements.
Nothing more.
He comforted himself inwardly, appeasing that instinctive unease.
When his heart had somewhat stabilized, he turned his head, letting his displeased gaze sweep across the empty Hall.
"Where's Paipel?"
He questioned, but no one dared to respond.
His progeny were all huddled in the corners of the room, focusing all their attention on their desks and communication equipment. He felt no further anger because this was exactly what he wanted.
"Paipel."
He spoke again, his voice echoing in the empty Hall, no reply reaching his ears.
Fifteen minutes had passed since the last report, but Paipel still hadn't delivered the new update.
This was dereliction of duty, procrastination, a tragic hybrid fruit of inefficiency and defeatism.
It was something he could not tolerate: not even from Paipel, even if he was the most useful tool among his files.
Paipel needed a lesson, a lesson to make him understand his mistake. This lesson wouldn't be too severe; after all, he had two chances of patience for any expendable.
Paipel would receive his own battle group and be sent to the most intense front-line World: a 4% survival rate, quite suitable for a small lesson.
He thought this, then continued to wait for his adjutant to deliver the front-line report that was to be updated every fifteen minutes. Every second he was delayed was recorded, to form his next impression of Paipel, this file.
He didn't take the opportunity to rest: he hadn't rested for a long time; he didn't even have time to turn his head and look at the Iron Throne behind him. He hadn't sat on it for a long time either.
Because, as soon as he turned around, he would see the only decoration in the Hall: the statue of the Emperor, a lifelike, most perfect work of art, which even the zealous Word Bearers and flamboyant Emperor's Children combined could not craft with such finesse.
The Emperor and the Aquila, this was the Golden Beast's faith and choice, and the only decorative item he could slightly tolerate that was unrelated to war, efficiency, and victory.
After all, that was the Emperor, his gene-father, the sole incarnation of rationality and wisdom in the entire Galaxy, the being standing at the pinnacle of evolution and all life: his father, who was born to command all, to enjoy the submission and worship of all life, and to sit upon the Eternal Throne, allowing his wisest rule to extend to the end of time.
At the first sight of the Emperor, Heidrich knew this was his mission: to extend the Emperor's rule to eternity. This was his mission, and the inherent mission of all Primarchs.
He scorned Lorgar's idea: the Emperor was not a god; he was a living, real, perfect being rooted in rationality, technology, and thought, an eternal monarch to whom all life should submit and pledge loyalty unreservedly, not a hollow statue or a pathetic product of the imagination of those expendables.
In the Golden Beast's eyes, the most perfect Galaxy was the one in his mind: countless Worlds, countless lives, countless times and spaces, eternally kneeling beneath the Emperor's Throne, with no need for further thought because the Emperor's will could never be wrong and no need for further exploration because the Emperor already stood at the end of all wisdom.
One Galaxy, one Imperium.
One Monarch, one ideology.
The Emperor's will was the will of all life and Worlds; the Emperor's decision was the decision of all life and Worlds. All expendables needed no so-called thoughts; their only value was to carry out the Emperor's commands.
This was the perfect image of the Galaxy, this was his dream.
From the moment he reunited with his gene-father, from the moment his sorrowful and meaningless life was illuminated by that brilliant sun, this ideology had taken root and sprouted in his heart: since everything in this Universe was foolish and inefficient, then let them dedicate everything to true wisdom.
Such thoughts gradually grew within him.
He thought this when he saw the so-called Human Imperium, when he saw the pathetic thoughts and abilities of those Planetary Governors, Terran bureaucrats, and mortal officers.
He thought this when he saw his Legions and warriors, when he saw how those Death Angels, worshipped by mortals, knelt at his feet, tirelessly rushing back and forth at his wisdom and commands.
He thought this when he shattered impossible barriers, annihilated all the most powerful adversaries one by one, and flattened all the stubborn Worlds that had frustrated his blood kin, as he looked at his Legions, at the mortals who followed him, at their unprogressing strength, and at the foolish adoration in their eyes.
He thought this.
They were so useless, so foolish and pathetic, so incorrigible.
He felt as if he lived in a suffocating swamp: when all the Primarchs raised their cups in celebration, envisioning the glorious future the Imperium could have, only the Golden Beast sneered in the shadows.
He knew too well, he was too clever.
He could see at a glance: the so-called glorious endeavor was merely the Emperor and the Primarchs, using their individual strength, dragging humanity to accomplish a fleeting achievement.
Once they disappeared, once the Emperor and the Primarchs could no longer command everything, then what awaited the Human Imperium would only be death: the most painful and slowest death.
Whether it was death by arrogance, death by chaos, death by the continuous collapse and terrifying workload brought by vast territories, or death by the baseness in the hearts of those pathetic lives.
There would only be this outcome.
Heidrich opened his eyes, and he looked once more at everything before him: whether it was the empty Hall, his silent progeny, or the perpetually delaying Paipel, all only served to deepen his disappointment.
Then, he closed his eyes and sighed deeply.
Perhaps, he should continue that plan.
He thought.
Continue the plan he had once had on his homeworld: when he returned to the Human Imperium, he had temporarily abandoned that plan. At the time, he believed the Emperor's domain would be a paradise of rationality, a combination of all wisdom and correct understanding, a place where he could feel warmth and reverence.
He was wrong.
Terribly wrong.
So wrong that he felt he had no more patience.
Perhaps… he needed to do something.
Start now, continue that plan.
Anyway, expendables were everywhere, right before his eyes: since these gene-modified warriors connected to him had proven their incompetence time and again, he would use them for something else.
He thought.
Then, he heard a voice.
——————
"Greetings, Heidrich."
"I am Morgana."
"Your blood kin."
——————
Morgana.
He didn't remember that name.
The Golden Beast opened his eyes, seeing only a silver-white figure, standing at a distance that made him feel safe.
Heidrich was no fool: the moment he saw Morgana, he knew what had happened.
"You are a newly returned Primarch, why wasn't I informed?"
"Perhaps the war is urgent."
Morgana smiled, her posture appearing very impolite. She didn't look directly at Heidrich's face, but instead averted her gaze to the area behind the Golden Beast, as if something there caught her interest.
Her eyes held a smile: a smile that made Heidrich very uncomfortable.
Paipel still hadn't arrived.
The Golden Beast frowned and looked at the corner of the Hall. His warriors remained motionless, clearly, the long war had plunged each of them into collapse.
A pathetic bunch.
"Are you here to reinforce me?"
"Of course."
She seemed to pause for a moment, then chuckled.
"This war has been going on for a long time, hasn't it?"
The Golden Beast nodded.
"Yes, it has been going on for some time, approximately one Terra Standard Year."
"I arrived here in the seventieth Terra Standard Year since the Great Crusade began, which was last year. The Randan Invasion Force was launching a full-scale offensive on the Eastern Galaxy. About eight months ago, Lion El'Jonson and the Dark Angels were ordered to eliminate the invading Randan Invasion Force in the Eastern Galaxy."
Heidrich recounted some basic information to his blood kin; perhaps she already knew it. A smile constantly played on her face, as if mocking something.
This annoyed him, especially when he remembered that Paipel hadn't shown up in nineteen minutes: he was four minutes late.
Paipel had fallen too.
He seemed to be no different from the lowest expendables, just like Heinz: that pathetic fellow who foolishly tried to delay his plans with mortal lives, he seemed to be becoming more and more like him.
Why was it always like this? Why could they never complete his plans?
"So, do you need me to do anything?"
Her face still wore that irritating smile.
"Not for now. We are still in a state of attrition with the xenos. Perhaps in one Terra Standard Month, I will launch a proactive offensive."
He spoke the words that echoed in his mind, words he would forget as soon as he uttered them. He frowned, somewhat disregarding his blood kin, consumed by his confusion over Paipel.
It had been twenty minutes.
"What are you waiting for?"
He heard Morgana's voice again.
"Waiting for my warrior, my adjutant."
"He already..."
"He already..."
Heidrich replied, lifting his head as if to say something more, but a bewildered expression suddenly flashed across his eyes.
But when he lowered his head, everything seemed to reset.
"He should be here soon."
"It's been fifteen minutes."
"He's already two seconds late… three seconds…"
Heidrich meticulously counted, and his mind was then flooded with myriad emotions, memories, and decisions. Then, he looked up at Morgana again.
He paused, then said with a normal expression,
——————
"You are a newly returned Primarch, why wasn't I informed?"
——————
This was the fifth time Morgana had heard the exact same question, and witnessed the exact same waiting and actions.
This time, she didn't answer.
Out of caution, she had observed for five full repetitions, but after confirming there was no danger or hidden trap…
"I would love to keep playing along with you."
She smiled, looking at the bewildered and ignorant Heidrich before her.
"But I truly have no patience or time…"
"…to play any more boring games with a fragment of soul and memory abandoned by its true self."
Saying this.
Morgana reached out her hand.
She grabbed something.
It was an apple, the apple she had long awaited.
Her desired sustenance.
Without pause, without a trace of nostalgia, Morgana had no further thoughts to spend on this pathetic fragment with whom she shared no blood.
She was hungry.
That was the most important thing.
——————
Heidrich froze.
He took one second to understand Morgana's words, and another second to connect the truth.
But Morgana did not give him a third second.
As this "Heidrich," abandoned here by the true Golden Beast, was twisted into an apple by Morgana's greed amidst his bewilderment and madness, he finally looked behind him.
He looked at the Throne.
——————
A body.
A body that had long been dead.
It sat on the Throne, long since wax-preserved, its white bones slowly corroding from exposure to air.
It was incredibly tall, covered in all sorts of experimental marks, countless knife scars and needle marks, as if hundreds of the most horrific experiments had been performed on it.
Then.
He looked at the face.
It was his face.
It was the Golden Beast's face.
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