The walk from the arena back to the Royal Palace was a long one. As a beacon of warrior culture, the arena sat at the very end of Royal Palace Avenue, the center of the Main Defense Territory. The city was built around it, a sprawling testament to the stubborn survival of humanity.
The pure white avenue was majestic, its massive carved murals on either side detailing the Sentinels' long history, chronicling their rise from the shadows of a fallen age. Blazkowicz was perched on Nowick's shoulders, riding along the King's Corridor, a path exclusively for the King and his heir. On the adjacent Warrior Avenue, Harlan the Champion Swordsman walked, a massive orc corpse draped over his shoulder.
Along the King's Corridor, statues of every Nowick king stood watch, their solemn expressions seemingly scrutinizing their descendants. The city itself, including the Royal Palace, was a gleaming white, all carved from a single, flawless stone that was common to their world. These immense, seemingly impossible buildings were a symbol of human resilience, while their blue domes and giant crystal windows represented the clear soul of a warrior.
Blazkowicz struggled to maintain his composure. Even through the power armor's cold shell, he could feel the warmth of Nowick's hands holding his legs, a comfort that made his heart pound.
"You're nervous, Blazkowicz?" Nowick asked, his voice a low rumble. He could feel the tension in the boy's body.
"Yeah," Blazkowicz replied, his voice a quiet tremor. "I... I never thought you'd accept me."
"Why not?" Nowick asked, raising a hand and waiting for Blazkowicz to place his own on it. The King's hand, huge and weathered, enveloped his son's small one, a heavy warmth seeping through the metal gauntlet.
"Because of my differences," Blazkowicz said, his hand gripping his father's, afraid to lose the comforting hold. "I've seen the amniotic pod. It's an artificial womb, a mix of magic and technology. I'm… an anomaly. A created being."
His voice cracked slightly. He was clinging to his father's hand as if it might disappear at any moment. Nowick squeezed back, a quiet reassurance that he understood. No matter how fast Blazkowicz grew, his mind was still plagued by the anxieties of a child. He was afraid of his own power, his own strangeness.
"Do you know?" Blazkowicz's voice was hoarse. "I'm a creator, but I know nothing about the one who created me. What if they're evil? What if they created me for a dark purpose? Can I disobey them?"
Harlan, walking nearby, pricked up his ears, a faint smile on his face. He knew he had sworn allegiance to the right person. For all his strength, this boy was profoundly kind and gentle. His fear wasn't about being hurt; it was about the potential to hurt others.
Suddenly, Nowick stopped. He gently lifted Blazkowicz from his shoulders and placed him on the ground. He looked into his son's reddened eyes, seeing the deep-seated fear and unease.
Nowick's majestic face softened with a rare tenderness. He ran his hand through Blazkowicz's hair, then patted him on the back, from his shoulders to his waist. "You're no different from us," he said. "You have two arms, two legs, and a head on your shoulders."
He knelt in front of Blazkowicz, his hands resting on the back of his son's neck. "Son, use that extraordinary wisdom of yours. Why were you created?"
Blazkowicz was silent. It was a question he had asked himself a thousand times, and the answer had always eluded him. He was afraid to think about it, terrified that the answer was something dark and monstrous.
"Look at you," Nowick said, the love in his eyes a warm, guiding light. "I don't know who created you, but they made you beautifully." He took off his gauntlet and, for the first time, truly touched his son's skin. Nowick's calloused hand, worn from years of gripping a sword, gently cupped Blazkowicz's face, feeling every sculpted line.
"Your image embodies human hope. You are everything we imagine a great leader to be."
Blazkowicz listened, considering his father's words. Nowick's next question was a profound one: "If you were born for slaughter and extinction, then why would they create such a glorious you?"
He continued to talk, clearing the fog from his son's heart. "The galaxy is vast and filled with all manner of terrifying things. Why did they choose humanity as the template? Answer me."
Blazkowicz looked up, a joyful mist in his eyes. "The Creator is human!" he cried excitedly. The problem that had tormented him was so simple.
"Human!" Nowick said, a satisfied grin spreading across his face. "And a human, or a group of humans, full of ambition. They created you and perhaps your brothers, to be glorious, to be mighty, to be natural leaders who will unite humanity and guide our future."
The Emperor of Mankind might never have known that a king, countless light-years away, had figured out his grand plan.
"You cannot choose your birth, but you can choose how you live," Nowick said, his voice authoritative. "But what if, Father?" Blazkowicz asked, a new worry replacing the old.
Nowick's grin widened. "Then you become strong! So strong you can resist anything that doesn't conform to your will. When they try to enslave you, you look them in the eye and say: get lost!"
Blazkowicz burst out laughing, a true, heartfelt laugh of pure joy. His face was flushed, and his eyes beamed with a pure, infectious delight.
Hearing the King's uncharacteristic profanity, Harlan the Champion Swordsman nearly choked, stifling a laugh.
Nowick smiled, shedding his majesty to be a father teaching his son a simple lesson. "Only by becoming strong do you have the power to choose your future!"
He patted Blazkowicz on the shoulder. "Now go. Prepare your barbecue and mushroom stew. I have many things to attend to."
And with that, the King swept his cloak around him and departed for the Throne Hall. The King was also a father.
Blazkowicz, with his newly recruited Champion Swordsman, carried the Commando Kid's corpse to cook their long-awaited meal.
As Blazkowicz and his new, very tall guard departed, Nowick entered the Throne Hall. The relaxed smile he wore for his son vanished, replaced by the steely gaze of a king. Civil and military officials stood in neat rows, kneeling on one knee as was tradition. For the past three months, Queen Elise had handled state affairs admirably, though a few minor details had slipped through the cracks. Nowick dealt with them swiftly, his mind already on other matters.
Later, in his spacious study, he sat at his stone desk, his fingers tapping a rhythmic pattern on the surface. A King must be perceptive, he reminded himself, seeing the dangers lurking beneath a calm surface. The conversation with his son had opened a new train of thought, and it brought with it a chilling warning. Blazkowicz's arrival was not a coincidence; the king was certain of it. His own act of picking the boy up, however, felt very much like an accident, a slip in a grand, incomprehensible plan.
He knew that humans had created Blazkowicz—that much was certain. But what kind of human technology could produce such a being? And why was such a powerful creation simply tossed into the void? Nowick refused to believe the Creators had just misplaced their most valuable asset. The threads of fate seemed to be tangling around him, connecting a series of impossible events.
"Fourth bookshelf," Nowick said to his attendant, "thirteenth column, twenty-first book. Bring it to me."
He had decided to seek answers in the sealed and forbidden knowledge of ancient texts, knowledge so dangerous it had been locked away for a reason.
Once the book was on his desk, Nowick dismissed the attendant. "Now get out! And tell the guards no one is to enter until I come out!" His finger traced the index, stopping on a familiar and dreaded topic: Warp Energy.
What the Sentinels found most incredible about Blazkowicz's arrival was that anything could penetrate Argent Nur's dimensional shield. Their ancestors had used incredible conversion technology to pull the entire planet out of the real universe, placing it in a "visible but untouchable" state. Normally, a physical object—even another planet—would simply pass through them. Blazkowicz should have flown right past them into deep space. But he hadn't.
Nowick was perceptive enough to know that what was impossible in the real universe was entirely achievable in the Warp. He picked up a quill and wrote "Warp Energy" on a piece of paper. Blazkowicz's amniotic sac must have carried enough raw Warp energy to slip through the shield and land on Argent Nur.
Then he picked up his pen again, and on the opposite side, he wrote a name: Isaac. The High Priest of the City of Truth. How did he know of Blazkowicz's arrival? Nowick would not be so naive as to believe in psychic prophecies. Psychic prophecy required a connection, and Argent Nur had no connection to any outside timeline.
He recalled Isaac's every word from the day of the siege. A grim expression settled on Nowick's face as he wrote a single word in the corner of the paper: God.
As the last stroke was completed, the desktop began to vibrate. Blood seeped from the word, twisting and writhing like a hungry worm. Nowick felt the temperature in the room drop sharply, a clear sign of a psychic reaction. He raised his hand and slammed his palm onto the paper, cracking the stone desk.
"Get out of here!" he roared, his sheer will shattering the psychic reaction.
A snort of disdain escaped his lips. "Hmph! Cheap parlor tricks." He was not afraid of a reaction; he was afraid of no reaction. This confirmed his line of thought was correct.
He picked up the quill and wrote the final corner of the paper: Creator. He drew lines from all four corners, converging on the center, and wrote the final element: Blazkowicz.
With all five elements on the paper, King Nowick's mind went still and clear. He understood. He was just one step away from the truth.
But as he was about to connect the final dots, the study began to shake violently. Not just the study, but the entire building was being pulled and tossed, vibrating erratically like a sock in a washing machine. Bookshelves collapsed, and countless books flew through the air, their pages flipping wildly.
"Whoosh! Whoosh!" The sound was a deafening roar. The books began to warp, their covers twisting and growing eyes that rolled to scrutinize him. Their pages became gaping mouths, their fangs sharp and grim, chanting incomprehensible, maddening knowledge.
The scene was not terrifying to a warrior like Nowick, but it was profoundly bizarre. He remained seated, as calm as a reef in a hurricane, observing the spectacle with detached interest.
"Put away your humble illusions," he said, his deep voice cutting through the noise. "These petty tricks cannot shake me."
The illusion shattered instantly, and the study returned to normal, as if nothing had ever happened.
In the ever-changing crystal labyrinth of the Warp, Tzeentch silently stretched his neck, peering through the veil of reality. He had been watching the mortal playing a simple game of connect-the-dots. Nowick's pursuit of the truth had created a ripple in the Warp, and the Lord of Schemes had noticed.
He casually plucked a strand of fate, reviewing Nowick's past—a history of profound wisdom. But he could not see his future, for his destiny was now bound to Blazkowicz.
"Mortal wisdom can also reach the divine!" a long sigh echoed from the labyrinth. Tzeentch was both impressed and apprehensive. He decided to talk to the mortal.
As Tzeentch's power pierced reality, a book from the ninth row of the ninth bookshelf was pulled out by an unseen force, suspended in mid-air. The book was opened to its ninth page. A voice echoed in the study.
"Mortals are always audacious, attempting to fathom great destiny. Of course, I warmly welcome the thirst for knowledge of wise souls."