"My Lord."
Golden light spilled across the floor, the Master of Mankind's radiance illuminating every corner of the room. He wore golden power armor called 'True One Armor,' yet his steps were incredibly light as he slowly entered the room.
The Custodes, holding Guardian Spears and with banners raised, marched in perfect formation, following their Master into the heavily blood-scented human modification laboratory.
The Genetic Engineers, in a chorus of calls, struggled to express their excitement and reverence from the depths of their souls, yet they hung their heads in shame, silent and still.
They had failed the mission entrusted to them by the Master of Mankind—a glorious duty. With no progress to show, they were naturally overwhelmed with shame, unable to face the Master of Mankind.
The gene-seed, inherited from Primarch Number Twenty-One, a son of the Master of Mankind, had a far lower implantation success rate than other Legions; in fact, it had made no progress whatsoever.
To this day, not a single soldier had been successfully modified. All test subjects had died on the operating table, failing to transform into the "Death Angel" the Master of Mankind required.
The Master of Mankind, shrouded in light, his gaze almost corporeal, surveyed the mess in the laboratory, examining the neatly arranged operating tables, the piles of burnt ashes, and the scorch marks on the tables.
Primarch Number Twenty-One!
His gene-seed once again presented a challenge. The Master of Mankind himself had not come for him for the first time; even burdened with countless duties, he still personally visited the laboratory.
The last time the Master of Mankind came, there was a problem with the gene-seed cultivated from the Primarch's genetic material.
Primarch Number Twenty-One's gene-seed was unlike his brothers'; it wasn't externally ugly, twisted, or growing irregular tentacles, nor did it bear indelible traces of the Warp.
Its appearance was crystal clear, like a flawless blood-red amber, encasing a walnut-sized core, with the entire structure only about the size of an egg.
Such a seamlessly integrated existence made it impossible for the Genetic Engineers to extract material from the gene-seed to cultivate the required superhuman organs.
After countless failures and the investment of vast resources, the Master of Mankind finally came in person to resolve the experimenters' doubts.
Perhaps due to a Warp demigod trait, or possibly a post-natal mutation, the gene-seed provided by Primarch Number Twenty-One did not require external organ cultivation.
Once the gene-seed was implanted into the test subject's chest, it would sprout and grow.
In just seven Terra days, the gene-seed within the implanted individual would spontaneously grow superhuman organs, and even some other organs whose specific functions were unknown.
The naturally formed superhuman organs would not cause rejection in the test subjects. While greatly enhancing performance, the organs and the recipient were in perfect coordination, as if they were naturally one from birth.
This discovery filled the technical personnel with elation. Not only would the modification cycle for the Death Angel be greatly shortened, but safety would also be improved by several grades.
Compared to other Legions, the gene-modified warriors inheriting Primarch Number Twenty-One were taller, faster, and stronger.
They would become the Master of Mankind's sharp sword in future crusades, eliminating humanity's enemies and restoring humanity's glory!
If that were truly the case, the Master of Mankind would not need to come again. The implantation process had encountered an unprecedented challenge: all test subjects had died, and the success rate remained zero.
Other Legions were preparing intensely and had already formed initial combat capabilities, while not a single member of the Twenty-First Legion had survived and successfully left the operating table.
"Gene Artificer, report what you know."
A Custodian stepped forward. As the Master of Mankind's most loyal servants, all of his words were conveyed by them.
The Master of Mankind's voice flowed from the golden-armored warrior's mouth, melodious as a poem, dispelling the despondency in the laboratory, radiating an inspiring power invisibly.
"My Lord."
The Gene Artificer rose, slowly moving away from the blood-stained operating table, his auxiliary arms slowly moving.
The Artificer lamented with great regret: "Test Subject No. 32134, like all previous subjects, had perfectly developed bodily organs. Two weeks after gene-seed implantation, he suffered full-body hemorrhage due to unknown reasons and finally spontaneously combusted into ash."
"My Master, please look here. This is the only preserved body."
The Artificer slowly moved to a refrigerator.
Inside the refrigerator lay the body of a three-meter-tall giant.
He was three meters tall naked, with bulging muscles in his limbs and torso, full of explosive power. His body was like steel and iron, and even though he had been dead for a long time, the body still exuded a barbaric and violent aura.
A powerful body, preserved in a cold refrigerator, lifeless, a regrettable sight.
"My Lord, please look here."
Following the Gene Artificer's robotic arm, the Master of Mankind's gaze lowered, seeing the horrific state of the body.
The body was covered with dense scars: claw marks, knife wounds, bites, axe gashes—almost every type of injury known to humans was etched onto the tall body, terrifyingly abnormal.
Blood seeped from various parts of his body. The giant's body had no unblemished skin, as if it had been tortured a thousand times with various instruments.
The deceased did not look like a test subject or a new recruit, but like a warrior who had endured endless battles, dying on an incredibly dangerous battlefield.
The Gene Artificer pulled over a holographic panel, projecting a three-dimensional image, presenting everything to the Master of Mankind. The lifelike footage recorded the entire process from the implantation of the gene-seed to how the test subject died.
A test subject, limbs bound by several restraints, lay calmly on the operating table. When the technical personnel implanted the blood-red gene-seed into his chest, the drastic change began.
His medium-sized, slightly thin body began to develop violently.
Over the next week, bone density increased, muscle density surged, skin tolerance strengthened, and all organs functioned normally.
All data far surpassed that of warriors from other Legions: taller! bigger! faster! stronger!
As time passed and body development plateaued, the warrior in the footage suddenly began to struggle.
His eyes bulged, crimson with hatred, he gnashed his teeth until they shattered, letting out angry roars. His limbs tensed, every muscle flexed, the restraints creaked, and the operating table tottered from his struggles.
Then, those terrifying wounds appeared out of thin air!
Blood flowed incessantly! Various injuries tore his flesh. The next second, super self-healing began to mend the wounds, only for them to tear open again, then heal again, in an endless cycle.
Injured, healed—unending pain ravaged the superhuman body, gradually leaving scars on it.
The test subject let out a roar, but that roar was not of pain; it was a furious, hate-filled bellow that made everyone present's heart palpitate.
That anger! That hatred!
The Master of Mankind frowned. He had never seen or heard such anger and hatred from a human being.
Eternal! Unrelenting!
The Custodian warriors gripped their Guardian Spears. The hatred conveyed by the projection carrying the image was chillingly real.
The surrounding staff covered their ears, trembling. Having witnessed it tens of thousands of times, they were still awed by that real fury.
"I will slaughter you all!"
His bulging bloodshot eyes were crimson, the angry roar seemed to echo in their ears, and the surging killing intent sent shivers down the Custodes' spines.
What on Terra was this?
These were no longer emotions that a human could express; towering hatred was nothing compared to this, and the fury was enough to destroy worlds!
Hatred and pain intensified, and the test subject's body gradually collapsed. After everything settled, life vanished in an instant.
Golden light rose, chasing away the fear in people's hearts and expelling the fury from the laboratory.
The Master of Mankind said nothing, walking to the refrigerator, his eyes devoid of sorrow or joy. He raised his hand and placed it on the refrigerator, sensing the residual soul in the body, investigating the source of that towering fury.
His arm trembled slightly, a brief tremor unnoticed by the Custodes and the laboratory staff.
The Master of Mankind withdrew his arm but gently clenched his fist. A wave of sorrow welled up from his heart, and he sighed. He sighed that a human had truly died, their soul scattered, completely annihilated in the real universe and the Warp.
Only he knew that the soul of the person on the operating table had been utterly obliterated, burned to ashes by the fire of fury.
"Next test subject."
The Custodes spoke again, representing the Master of Mankind's will: "I will work with you to explore the unknown."
The Master of Mankind sat on his throne in the great hall, filled with uncontainable anger. He wanted to see who had utterly destroyed a human soul!
The Gene Artificer bowed. A Custodian followed him, bringing the next test subject here.
The recruitment office was located on a plaza not far from the laboratory.
Young people who signed up for the Emperor's forces would register here, undergo gene testing, and those who qualified would have the chance to become the Emperor's Death Angel.
In a dark, unlit corner of the plaza, a young man was curled up. He had the distinct black hair and black eyes of an ancient Asian gene.
His body was emaciated from long-term malnutrition, yet there was a naturally untamed arrogance in his brows. He owned nothing, carrying only a single suitcase.
The young man was not a subject of the Emperor. When he was discovered by a patrol, he was free-climbing the Himalayas, crossing the Roof of the World, and illicitly entering the Emperor's territory.
After a series of checks, he was deemed to pose no threat. Inside his suitcase were relics from Old Terra—his family's ancient genealogy, recording names and lineages.
He had climbed the Roof of the World in only a single layer of clothing. When found, he had severe frostbite all over his body, yet he still tightly wrapped the suitcase in rags, protecting those long-lost names.
His ability to cross Mount Everest was purely sustained by a powerful will. As for why he could endure, he chose to remain silent.
He now held his suitcase, living on relief porridge at the recruitment site, grateful for the generosity of the local warlord.
Although the porridge was thin and watery, he was immensely thankful. After all, Terra had been in chaos for thousands of years, and a ruler who provided relief rations to wanderers was truly a rare and wise king.
He savored the porridge, enjoying the rare feeling of fullness for the day. Then, his nimble eyes scanned the recruitment plaza, taking everything in.
The plaza was vast, paved with bluestone, with high walls rising at its edges, capable of accommodating tens of thousands of people simultaneously. A recruitment office was set up deep within the plaza, accepting registrations and providing gene testing.
Based on the test results, the recruitment office would recommend qualified young people to the Legion best suited to their genetic traits, allowing them to better utilize their innate advantages.
People formed long queues, and at a glance, all sorts of individuals were present.
There were nobles wearing family crests, soldiers in uniform, ragged wasteland wanderers, and even gang members.
Shaking his head, the young man didn't understand.
These people were a mixed bag, of varying quality, yet without exception, they dedicated themselves, and even their sons, to their lord, participating in the brutal Terra war.
He heard that the lord of this land called himself the "Emperor," vowing to unify Terra and bring unity to humanity's home planet.
"What a grand ideal!" The young man drank the last sip of porridge, licked the residue clean from the bowl with his tongue, and slowly stood up, his tone sincere: "I wish you success!"
Since the Age of Strife, humanity's home planet had been ravaged and scarred.
Countless heroes rose to try and end the chaos, only to be swallowed by the conflict. The grand ambition of unifying humanity, or the aspiration to return to deep space, had yet to be achieved by anyone.
He respectfully returned the bowl to the relief station with both hands, then sat back in the corner with his box, waiting for tomorrow's relief.
A quiet intensity emanated from the young man's dark eyes, yet his gaze was exceptionally fervent as he scanned the tall warriors.
They stood on the walls and throughout the plaza, clad in power armor, proudly puffing out their chests, standing out like cranes among chickens.
A small giant in the distance turned to look, and the young man immediately lowered his head. Those genetically modified warriors had keen senses and were very powerful.
A strong sense of envy showed in his eyes. He had already undergone gene testing a few days ago, and the results were quite good.
His genes were very pure and excellent, but he did not pass the selection.
He was twenty-one years old. Although he was at the peak of human physical ability, he had missed the optimal age window for genetic modification.
New genetically modified soldiers, according to insiders, had an optimal modification stage during adolescence, and the older they got, the higher the risk of modification.
The risk didn't matter. For someone who wanted to gain strength and have a foothold in the terrifying Terra conflict, risk was nonexistent.
Ultimately, the Emperor was unwilling to waste time and resources on unnecessary materials for an unstable success rate.
The young man also refused to join the Auxiliary Army; his pride would not allow him to be a servant.
He pulled at the rags on his body, trying to cover himself completely to avoid excessive radiation dust and skin diseases.
He quite liked this corner, near Primarch Number Twenty-One's recruitment office; it was quiet and comfortable.
It might be for a special troop type, as not many people seemed to sign up here, and the recruitment office staff were quite idle.
What the young man didn't know was that many people on the plaza were watching him in his corner, with strange expressions on their faces.
Primarch Number Twenty-One's recruitment office, known by insiders as the Death Recruitment Office, had yet to see anyone survive the gene modification surgery.
Earlier, Primarch Number Twenty-One's entrance was also bustling, with people eagerly signing up to offer their lives to the Emperor.
However, after several months of news spreading among the nobility that no one had survived the modification surgery, the number of people signing up at Primarch Number Twenty-One's gradually decreased.
To date, a large number of excellent candidates had lost their lives in modification experiments, dying on the operating table.
To die for the Emperor, to disregard life and death, was naturally a duty, but no one wished to die humiliatingly on an operating table.
Some powerful noble families had already warned their family members not to go to Primarch Number Twenty-One's recruitment office.
Wasting precious lives on a certain-death modification surgery would betray the Emperor's expectations, bring shame to the family, and invite ridicule from others.
If there was even a one percent, or even a one-thousandth of a percent, success rate, countless people would still eagerly sign up for the modification surgery to dedicate themselves to the Emperor.
Tens of thousands entered, and no one survived; the 100% mortality rate had yet to be broken.
There was pity, ridicule, schadenfreude, and more often, anticipation. Countless gazes intersected, constantly sweeping over the young man.
Primarch Number Twenty-One's recruitment office was no safe haven.
With fewer and fewer voluntary subjects, the Gene Artificers had begun to grab people nearby. Perhaps at any moment, this poor wanderer might be taken away for experimentation.
Of all this, the young man was oblivious. He didn't have superhuman senses. He rested quietly in the corner, holding his suitcase, avoiding wasting energy so he wouldn't miss the next meal of porridge.
"Where are the people here?"
As the young man was about to fall asleep, he heard a voice. He had never before so directly perceived the power contained within its owner from a voice!
It was deep and resonant, like spring thunder exploding in his ears, like a ray of sunlight dispelling the gloom that enveloped his heart.
All sleepiness vanished. The young man propped himself up, stretched his neck, and looked. A golden-armored warrior stood there, clad in magnificent golden armor, with a red plume on his golden helmet, a red cloak hanging behind him, and a spear in his hand.
"My Lord!"
Exclamations filled with reverence, countless voices coalesced into respectful words. Inside the recruitment plaza, the surging crowd receded like a wave, everyone kneeling on the ground, shouting "My Lord."
Everyone present trembled, moved by the appearance of the golden-armored warrior. The Custodian's presence was like the Emperor himself.
The young man quietly swallowed, forcefully suppressing the urge to prostrate himself, his eyes fixed on the golden figure, yearning for that kind of power.
He thought to himself, "Is he the lord of this place?"
Perhaps only a lord could possess such power; only a lord could have such majesty and nobility.
The Gene Artificer behind the Custodian stepped forward, explaining softly with a hint of embarrassment: "My Lord, after tens of thousands of failures, many people have lost faith in Primarch Number Twenty-One. No noble scion or military family can long endure losses with no end in sight."
"They sent their best offspring to undergo Astartes modification, only to receive grim news and bodies."
The Custodian pondered for a moment, then nodded, his helmet plume swaying in the wind: "I understand."
After speaking, he took a step forward. His power armor clanked on the bluestone path, metal and stone performing a symphony, his spear clanging and rattling.
His majestic, deep voice, amplified through the helmet's speaker, resonated throughout the recruitment plaza: "I am the Emperor's Custodian! I need a brave warrior to offer his life!"
"Whoosh!"
In the plaza, almost everyone in the kneeling crowd raised their arms, no one shrinking back, all eagerly signing up.
Even if they understood that the Custodian emerging from Primarch Number Twenty-One's door meant a path of certain death ahead.
"Very good!" The Custodian was very satisfied and was about to choose a promising young man. Just then, his superhuman senses caught a scrutinizing gaze.
He looked back to see a ragged wanderer, half-reclining in a nearby corner, supporting himself with his hands on the ground, staring eagerly at him.
His emaciated body was extremely weak, his gaunt face sallow, yet only his eyes were clear and bright. In them, there was no fanatical worship, but rather scrutiny and assessment.
The Custodian's brow furrowed beneath his golden helmet. He disliked such scrutinizing gazes, but the yearning for power in those eyes was also as hot as fire.
So, the Custodian's superhuman mind quickly pondered, and an idea surfaced.
The Gene Artificer had said that Primarch Number Twenty-One did not pick the recipient's age, and the compatibility level was extremely high; any person would do.
He raised his golden arm, his middle and index fingers together, pointing at the thin wanderer in the corner: "He'll do!"
The Golden-armored Warrior's words came through the respirator grille, somewhat muffled and hoarse, but still clearly audible.
Countless young people, willing to sacrifice their lives for the Imperium of Man, were stunned, not understanding why the Emperor's representative would choose such a frail person.
But they dared not question it.
The Custodes held supreme authority granted by the Emperor himself; they were the Emperor's mouthpiece, representing His will to some extent.
"Ah?" The young man's mouth was slightly agape, standing there in a daze, not understanding why the golden giant had chosen him. He blinked blankly, then woodenly raised a hand to point at himself: "Me?"
Before he could react, two blue-robed attendants behind the golden-armored giant rushed forward, unceremoniously grabbing his arms and dragging him towards Gate Twenty-one.
"My box! My box!"
At such a critical moment, the young man disregarded his own life, a burst of immense strength erupting from his emaciated body. He struggled to shake off the Gene Artificer's attendants and lunged towards his leather suitcase.
Before he could reach it, a sharp pain shot through his leg. His body spun three hundred and sixty degrees in the air as the golden-armored giant precisely grabbed his ankle, leaving him hanging upside down.
The Custodes watched with interest; the slender Blazkowicz was like a scrawny monkey caught in his hand.
"My box!"
Once he realized what was happening, the young man showed no fear, a fierce expression on his face. He kicked back at the Custodes' gauntlet with his foot, completely ignoring the blood being rubbed from his ankle.
"Crack." A crisp sound of bone breaking echoed. His desperate struggle resulted in his fragile calf fracturing on the spot, yet the young man, utterly fearless, continued to attack the Custodes.
The young man braced his other foot against the Custodes' arm, biting his lip to suppress a cry of pain, trying to tear off his captured calf.
"Hmph!!!!!!!"
A suppressed groan of pain was clearly audible in the silent square.
On the city wall, the Thunder Warriors and Astartes who witnessed everything secretly admired him. A Mortal, even resorting to self-mutilation, dared to resist those arrogant Golden-armored Warriors.
This tragic act earned their respect.
The kneeling crowd was all sweating profusely. The sunlight, obscured by the dust clouds, seemed to pierce through the clouds, fiercely burning their will.
Resisting the Custodes? That was resisting the Emperor's will!
Just as the wanderer was about to tear his muscle, the Custodes finally let go. The wanderer, dragging his injury, crawled to the corner and hugged the small leather box to his chest.
"Remarkable courage!" the Custodes spoke again, showing no anger at being defied, but rather praising the wanderer loudly.
The young man slung the box around his neck, then raised a hand to stop the blue-robed men who came to help him, stubbornly raising his head and saying word by word: "I'll walk myself!"
With that, he leaned against the wall, struggled to his feet, and limped towards Gate Twenty-one.
The high-speed elevator descended, revealing the bustling external scenery through its open grilles.
Factories spewed thick smoke, and the hollowed-out Himalayas were undergoing massive construction.
"This is My Lord's palace," the Golden-armored Warrior said leisurely, initiating conversation, his tone filled with pride: "Once completed, the magnificent palace will be the tallest building on this planet."
The young man remained silent, holding his beloved box, his gaze wandering as if not looking at the scenery, lost in thought.
The Genetic Engineer subtly wiped the fine sweat from his forehead, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly beneath his hood, yet he dared not utter a sound.
It was fortunate that this particular Custodes had a good temper; any other would have already taught this ignorant wanderer what it felt like to be punched a dozen times in a second.
"What's that?" The Custodes, not annoyed, pointed at the small box in the young man's arms and asked again.
The young man still said nothing, instinctively clutching the leather box tighter to his chest, his body stiff and visibly tense.
The Custodes didn't dwell on it, nor would he inspect it.
Anyone appearing in the conscription square must have passed security screening; there would be no unexpected incidents.
He certainly didn't think that a young man with a broken leg, sallow complexion, and emaciated frame could cause any trouble in front of the Emperor's personal guard.
"What's your name?" the Golden-armored Warrior asked again.
This time, the young man reacted. His black eyes carefully scrutinized the Custodes from head to toe. After a moment of contemplation, he still shook his head.
"What a pity," the Custodes shook his head helplessly: "I find you very interesting, a remarkably stubborn person. Your name is worthy of being etched inside my armor."
But he saw a hint of disdain in the young man's eyes, though it was deep and undeniably real.
His fingers twitched slightly, and the Custodes re-examined the young man, hoping to discover something more, but ultimately found nothing.
The elevator began to decelerate, indicating they were nearing their destination. The young man's face was calm, showing neither fear nor anticipation. His voice, hoarse from hunger and weakness, asked the Gene Artificer: "Will I die?"
"Yes!" The Gene Artificer answered rationally and without hesitation. Then, remembering the Emperor was present, he immediately added: "Or perhaps not!"
When the laboratory doors opened, the young man refused assistance, still walking forward stubbornly, drenched in sweat.
Cold sweat streamed down, and he gritted his teeth.
The Custodes watched, shaking his head, wondering where the young man's pride came from, and why he was so stubbornly defiant.
"Plato~" The call, filled with surprise, echoed from a radiant glow.
It was vast as the sea, clear as a bell, yet with a slight linguistic pause, as if it hadn't spoken for a very long time: "You have brought me an extraordinary gift."
Plato knelt on one knee, leaning on his spear. The Custodes hadn't heard the Emperor's true voice in a long time; most often, His great, emotionless voice resonated directly in his mind.
The young man also heard that voice. He looked up, and then he saw the most sacred radiance, the greatest leader, the most divine countenance.
Everything was as he had seen in his dreams. So familiar, so intimate, so captivating.
The young man's knees buckled uncontrollably, almost making him kneel on the spot, to accept His teachings and become His servant.
Unexpectedly, he did not kneel.
The moment his knees bent, he forcibly took a step forward with his broken leg; the sharp pain from his bone marrow awakened him.
"Hypocritical illusion!" The young man still looked up, directly at the sacred radiance. Blood streamed from the corner of his mouth; he had bitten through the tip of his tongue:
His hoarse voice trembled, letting out an unyielding roar: "Don't think you can deceive me! Don't think you can control me!"
His exhausted shout echoed in the laboratory. His lucidity surprised the Custodes, and it surprised everyone.
The Emperor's personal guard had seen many strong-willed individuals, all of whom had fallen prostrate in the Emperor's radiance.
This young man truly resisted the radiance emanating from the Emperor with his will.
"Blazkowicz!" The Emperor called out the young man's name—a surname from the age of Terra, representing a truly ancient noble bloodline.
"Who are you!" The moment Blazkowicz's name was called, an alarm blared in his mind. He wanted to turn and run, but found he couldn't move his body.
He felt that everything about him was seen through. Every thought was perceived by the radiant figure, his past and future scrutinized.
Blazkowicz felt... no! He was certain he was like a book, naked and defenseless, being read page by page.
"You don't know me, and before this, I didn't know you," the Emperor said from within the radiance. He rarely smiled: "But I know your genetic ancestor!"
Blazkowicz's eyes held only distrust; he wouldn't believe these lies!
The golden figure said "knows," not "has seen." This implied that the golden, shimmering person before him had lived for at least thirty thousand years!
"Hmm~" The Emperor was uncharacteristically nostalgic, His true-form armor gently tapping the ground: "In the seventh century, he established a powerful, unified dynasty on this land. Tangkhan! I clearly remember, that's what people called him then!"
"All nations came to pay tribute, the four barbarians submitted." The Emperor uttered a phrase in an ancient pronunciation.
Those present couldn't hear it, but the Emperor's power made them understand its meaning.
The Custodes Plato looked at the proudly standing Blazkowicz, a hint of understanding in his eyes, realizing where the slender young man's pride came from.
A bloodline inherited from the Age of Ignorance, having endured the Colonial Age, and witnessed the Golden Age, truly dared to look at anyone with disdain.
The so-called nobles of Terra now were forces conquered by the Emperor or those who voluntarily joined the Imperium of Man, ennobled by the Emperor himself.
Though they possessed legitimacy and authority, in terms of the antiquity of their bloodline, they were vastly inferior to the person before them.
"Although I dislike fate, I cannot help but marvel at its wonder. At the dawn of a great age, some people always inexplicably converge."
"Blazkowicz. One named after a great dynasty," the Emperor said: "I see your pride, your unyielding spirit, your resentment, your confusion."
"There! No one can do it now!" The Emperor pointed to the blood-stained operating table: "Now I offer you a chance, a power that can let you revive your ancestor's glory. Will you seize it?"
Blazkowicz looked at the operating table, then at the Emperor.
He saw through the golden figure's words; though highly persuasive, he knew he had no other choice now.
He didn't believe that refusing would allow him to leave this place.
"Keep it safe!" Blazkowicz handed his leather bag to the Golden-armored Warrior, then without any hesitation, climbed onto the operating table.