"Alright, I admit everything that's happened today is shocking. But you still haven't told me, what exactly am I supposed to do?"
Malcador and Neoth treated Caelan with surprising friendliness, like they were long-lost friends reunited after many years. They spoke openly, hiding nothing, even though they had only known him for five minutes.
But instead of easing his doubts, Caelan only grew more suspicious. The plotlines of Warhammer were too many and too messy, but he knew the broad strokes well enough.
So why would they treat an ordinary mortal like him with such kindness?
Even among friends, there's always an agenda. Fake friends want your money and your women; true friends value sincerity and loyalty.
But sincerity? Between him and them? Impossible. So it had to be the former.
"Don't belittle yourself," Malcador said. "Your role is far more important than you can imagine."
"If I'm so important, then why didn't you find me earlier?"
Neoth: "The time wasn't right."
"And now it is?"
Neoth: "It still isn't. But I have no choice, my sons are lost."
"Then go look for them yourself. At worst, settle the score with the Four. Do you expect me to find your sons or to help you take revenge on those Four?"
"Exactly."
'Exactly what?' Caelan's mind went blank; he had only been speaking off the cuff.
He pointed at himself. "Me? Find your sons?"
"Yes."
"And… fight the Four?"
"Yes."
"Wouldn't that make me your golden ticket?"
"You could see it that way."
Caelan studied Neoth's face. He didn't look like he was joking. The Emperor didn't waste time joking with mortals.
Could it be that Caelan really had some quality even he didn't know about?
"…Am I a psyker?" Caelan asked.
"No," Neoth shook his head, then nodded. "But you could be."
"Then I could also be perpetual?"
"Yes," Malcador confirmed.
"If I'm that badass, why the hell don't I know it myself?" Caelan was stunned.
Malcador: "The Primarchs also didn't know they carried the essence of the Warp."
Caelan's face twisted into a grimace. He turned to Neoth: "Wait, you mean I might be your son too?"
"You're different."
"Doesn't look that way."
Caelan glanced down at himself, dressed like a laborer, no different from any other mortal.
Sure, maybe his genes were purer than most, but he wasn't the only one. The Perpetuals were pure. The Custodes were pure.
If anything, the only thing that set him apart was that he could still reproduce.
"Fine." Caelan nodded. "So what exactly do you want me to do?"
If he truly couldn't do anything, he'd just slack off.
But if he could… then he'd at least give it a try before slacking off.
The Emperor and the Sigillite weren't the type to waste time trolling an idiot for fun. And if they really were trolling him, well, this trip was already worth it. Not everyone got the honor of being pranked by the Emperor of Mankind.
"In our original plan, everything was perfect." Malcador waved his hand, and the environment shifted again. The underground lab gave way to the throne room, where psychic energy painted a glowing image in the air.
In the vision were many figures, but three stood out: a black-robed old man, a golden warrior, and a radiant maiden glowing with holy light.
"Neoth would lead the Great Crusade. I would govern Terra. Erda would guide the newly-born Primarchs, teaching them responsibility as humans and instilling them with the ideals of the Crusade."
"But now, that perfect vision has been torn apart."
The part belonging to Erda was ripped and marred by oily, ink-black stains. The twenty infants surrounding her dissolved into mist.
Malcador continued: "Now, I still govern Terra. Neoth still leads the Great Crusade. But we need someone to take Erda's place."
Caelan pointed to himself. "Me?"
Neoth nodded. "Yes, you."
"But your sons are missing."
"Which is why your first task is to find them."
Caelan: "That's not hard. I know which planets the Primarchs ended up on. Just send fleets to fetch them back."
"That won't work," Neoth said. "Their scattering wasn't just across space, but across time. The Four could overcome countless barriers to steal them away. Do you think they wouldn't have anticipated me sending fleets? Even if I know where they are, no fleet could ever arrive. Not unless I go myself."
"Then why don't you?"
"I must lead the Crusade. I have no time to waste."
Caelan shouldn't have gotten his hopes up; this was exactly what the Emperor was like. Too many tasks, too little time, and the Warp Gods forever screwing up his plans.
Caelan frowned. "So it really has to be me? I'm not unwilling, but can I actually do this?"
"As long as you want to, you can," Malcador said with a faint smile.
"…Fine," Caelan remembered something important. He looked up at Neoth. "Before I go, shouldn't you give me some kind of help?"
"What do you want?"
"Oh, nothing much. A few hundred Custodes, a few thousand Astartes should do."
"No."
"…Fine, then a few old Imperial Army regiments at least?"
Neoth: "No. We cannot provide manpower."
Caelan muttered: "Then what? A blessing? That'd work. With the Emperor's power backing me, even if the Primarchs act up, I can smack them into line. The question is, where do I even start?"
For the first time, Neoth looked surprised.
"I will give you my blessing." Neoth laid a hand on Caelan's shoulder and tapped it three times. "You may use my power. Go now, Caelan, carry the hope of all mankind."
Darkness swallowed Caelan's vision. His consciousness sank into an endless abyss.
"Are you sure about this? To place all hope on him?" Malcador asked quietly.
"I know," Neoth said to the empty air. "But he's all that's left."
"You shouldn't have let him go. He's far more important staying on Terra than chasing after the Primarchs."
"It wasn't my choice. He wanted to go. He believes this is the right path. We cannot stop him."
"And you're sure he can raise your sons properly? He doesn't seem… stable."
"Maybe." Neoth himself sounded uncertain.
…
"Father! Wake up! Father, wake up, there's danger nearby! Hurry! He's going to kill you, I can't hold him back much longer!"
Caelan jolted awake, drenched in cold sweat. Someone had been urgently calling his name.
He looked around. Everything was pitch black.
But within the darkness, he saw it: a circular metal pod, alien to its surroundings.
Etched on it was a number: VIII.
A pale-skinned, black-haired child had already pushed the pod door open.
He clutched a sharp shard of metal, eyes fixed coldly on Caelan.
Caelan's heart nearly froze in his chest.