"My lady, how are you feeling?"
Malcador's gentle voice broke through the storm in Erda's mind. He looked every bit the concerned old gentleman, as if he hadn't just witnessed the brutal extraction of her children's very essence. The contrast was a slap to her face. Hatred churned within her, a silent, boiling rage. She wanted to rip off his pious mask and scream at him, but decades of self-control held her perfectly still. Not a single muscle in her face twitched. Her plan had to work.
"I apologize, Malcador," she said, giving a slow, deliberate curtsy. "I'm not feeling well."
"My lady, there's no need to apologize. You're free to leave at any time." Malcador quickly stepped forward, a polite hand extended, ready to guide her out.
"Truly, I apologize," Erda insisted, bowing her head again with an exaggerated solemnity before turning to go.
Her unusual, almost theatrical behavior raised a red flag. Without a word, Malcador motioned to the Custodes. The two giants flanking Erda stiffened imperceptibly. A silent psychic command from Malcador echoed in their minds: You don't need to return. Continue to monitor her.
The Custodes nodded slightly, tightening their grip on their halberds. Any sudden, unplanned move from the woman would be her last.
The Emperor, however, was oblivious. He was too consumed by the task at hand, his will still engaged in a cosmic wrestling match with the Chaos Gods. The gods, perhaps bored once Erda was gone, stopped prying at his psychic barrier. His attention was now fully on the results of the extraction.
"My Lord," Valdor's deep voice boomed. He held up a transparent box, inside which floated twenty-one cylindrical glass containers. The contents were a deep, unsettling blood-red.
The Emperor rarely showed emotion, but he frowned at the sight. Everything the Warp touched was twisted. Even with his divine genes, the material was still tainted. But then, his gaze fell on the final container. A splash of pristine crimson made him pause.
"Oh," he said softly. "Which Primarch is this?"
"Number Twenty-One," Valdor replied.
The Emperor carefully lifted the container with his psychic power. He saw no Warp corruption, no swirling chaos, just a pure, vibrant red. "Incredible," he muttered. "It has the essence of the Warp, but none of its taint. It perfectly integrates the Warp's power and our genes."
With a gentle tap, the glass shattered. The red essence floated in his palm, pulsing with a serene light.
"Truly perfect," the Emperor said, a rare smile gracing his face. "Valdor, you are my subjective perfection, a reflection of my ideal. But this… this is an objective perfection. The kind I have always yearned for."
Valdor, who had been listening intently, tilted his head, his face a mask of confusion. Another kind of perfection? It was like someone had just told him a Custodes could get a cold.
"Is it safe? Is it stable?" Malcador said, his hood pushed back, his dark eyes reflecting the crimson light. Safety and stability were what truly mattered.
"I don't know, old friend," the Emperor admitted, his expression complex. He lifted the material and looked at the child still sleeping peacefully in cultivation tank number twenty-one. "He might be a gift box. And even the Four Gods have no idea what's inside."
"Then you should make good use of it," Malcador said, a rare, gentle smile on his face. "The others… well, they don't seem very easy to get along with."
The trio then proceeded to a much larger cavern. The Emperor's right hand, which still held the perfect genetic material, made Valdor a little jealous. In this new lab, a small army of scientists, led by the tireless Amar Astartes, was preparing to cultivate the gene-seeds into the nineteen organs needed to create a superhuman warrior.
"What shall we call these new soldiers?" Malcador asked, his eyes gleaming with excitement.
"Stardust Crusaders?" Valdor suggested, as he admired the golden eagles on his armor. "It's got a ring to it."
The Emperor simply shook his head, a stern expression on his face. "Death Angels," he sighed, the words heavy with a somber gravity. He knew the path ahead was dark and unforgiving. The new warriors would bring death and destruction to the stars, but also salvation to the scattered fragments of humanity.
"That's a good name," Valdor said, stroking his chin. "At least it's cool."
Malcador suppressed a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Valdor's sense of humor was pitifully scarce.
But the Emperor was no longer listening. He saw Amar Astartes, working tirelessly. He thought about her last name. Astartes. It was a quiet, unassuming name, a symbol of the selflessness of those who toiled in the shadows.
A romance began to form in his mind. The new warriors, who would one day conquer the galaxy, would bear the name of the scientist who helped bring them to life. They would ascend to the galactic stage, carrying the hopes of ordinary mortals.