The Crimson Canyon sounded intimidating enough.
But on Baal Secundus, canyons like this were everywhere. It wasn't a landmark at all; if anything, few people even knew it existed.
Yet to Albert and The Bloods, this wasteland carried heavy meaning.
Hundreds of years ago, this had been their home.
The radiation level in the Crimson Canyon was relatively low, and there were not many dangerous predators. Still, it was unsuitable for survival, because another threat lived here, the natural enemy of the purebloods: mutants.
What truly made the Crimson Canyon important wasn't the surface environment, but the gigantic shelter buried deep underground. The shelter was self-sufficient, capable of producing enough food and water on its own.
Thousands of years ago, when the catastrophe that destroyed two worlds erupted, the purebloods survived precisely because of this shelter and continued living here.
However, a thousand years ago, a group of mutants seized the shelter and drove the purebloods out. From then on, the mutants openly occupied it, while the purebloods were forced into a nomadic life.
Sanguinius said, "But that's only the Purebloods' side of the story."
Fulgrim immediately pressed the point.
"You suspect they're lying?"
Sanguinius gently shook his head, "Perhaps not deliberate deception."
The history the Purebloods spoke of occurred a thousand years ago. Albert, the oldest among them, was only sixty, he wasn't a witness to those events.
The so-called truth was merely an ancient legend passed down through generations.
Across a millennium, the story could have been altered countless times.
Even if it wasn't intentionally distorted, the original version might not have been factual either.
Because any historical narrative inevitably carries subjectivity, that is the nature of history.
A history told by the purebloods would naturally favor the purebloods. Their "truth" might have been false from the very beginning.
So even if Albert did not subjectively intend deceit, objectively he might still be misleading Caelan with a lie.
Caelan asked gently, "Why do you think their account is false?"
The sudden question made the two little angels fall into thought. Yes, why did they doubt the Purebloods?
Was it their inborn insight as primarchs?
Or Caelan's daily teachings?
Those were reasons, certainly, but clearly not the answer Caelan was probing for.
Fulgrim realized they might be trapped in a mental pattern and began seriously reconsidering the problem's essence.
Sanguinius said, "Because of the mutants?"
Fulgrim frowned, "What do mutants have to do with it?"
"It has everything to do with it."
Caelan smiled and asked, "If you replaced the purebloods and mutants in the story with purebloods and Baalite Fire Scorpions, would you still doubt the purebloods' narrative?"
The answer was obvious, they wouldn't. No one would seek justice for fire scorpions.
And within that question, the real answer emerged.
A glint of thought passed through Fulgrim's purple eyes. "Empathy?"
"Exactly. Empathy."
Empathy, also called sympathy, is part of human nature. Yet humans are selfish creatures: empathy is usually reserved for one's own kind.
Ordinary people do not empathize with criminals, because criminals are not "their kind."
But they might empathize with another identity the criminal has, for example, an unpaid worker.
The lower classes do not empathize with capitalists. Yet they might sympathize with a capitalist in another identity, say, an entrepreneur oppressed by larger powers.
Across the galaxy, the Imperium might mourn the suffering of lost human civilizations, but it would never empathize with xenos.
If a human mother lost her child, Caelan would show genuine sorrow.
But if an Aeldar craftworld were annihilated, Caelan would clap in satisfaction: Serves them right!
However, if the Aeldars who once helped him fell into hardship, Caelan would lend a hand, what he empathized with then was not race, but gratitude for saving Fulgrim.
On Baal, purebloods would not pity mutants, and vice versa.
They did not consider each other the same kind, so empathy was impossible.
Mutants attacked Caelan. Purebloods helped him when he was in trouble. Both could be explained by whether they could empathize with him.
Purebloods never questioned their own narrative because mutants were their enemies. No one would speak up for mutants.
The Imperium also doesn't care whether narratives about xenos are truth or lies. Whether these xenos were enslaved by humanity during the Dark Age of Technology or betrayed humanity during that era, they are, first and foremost, xenos.
No one empathizes with inherently evil xenos scum. Unless it can be proven these xenos allied with humanity during the Dark Age of Technology and have consistently guarded human civilization for millennias, then perhaps humanity might see them as their kind.
Such xeno civilizations did exist, just not within the Imperium.
Under Caelan's guidance, Sanguinius and Fulgrim possessed awareness beyond the limits of Baal and the purebloods.
Thus they did not view mutants as inherently evil creatures. These twisted beings were simply victims ruined by radiation.
They could empathize with both purebloods and mutants.
Therefore, they would not blindly trust one-sided testimony.
"Empathy is a virtue, but don't let it override rational thinking. Unchecked humanity can be more destructive than cold reason."
"In ancient Terra there was a common phenomenon: a good person committing one bad act became unforgivable, while a bad person doing one good act was called redeemed. That's empathy overwhelming reason."
"Likewise, some people, because of upbringing, empathize with certain groups or races. But as they grow and open their eyes to the world, they stop empathizing, not because they lose empathy, but because they realize some do not deserve it. That is the moment rational thought shines."
Thunder and rain, both are the grace of the sovereign.
A Primarch's empathy can be a welcome rain from heaven or a catastrophic flood.
Empathy was indispensable to humanity, but if emotional empathy overwhelmed rational judgment in a Primarch, the consequences would be disastrous.
Excess empathy weakens necessary authority. Absolute coldness loses legitimacy. The optimal answer lies in a delicate balance between humanity and reason.
Wasn't that, too, a form of compromise?
Fulgrim tilted his head slightly.
"Father, how do we find that balance?"
"In ancient Terra, the Greek Pythagoras proposed a mathematical idea, the golden ratio: when the ratio of one segment to another equals that of the latter to the whole, people perceive beauty."
"That is also a balance."
"But in practice, each individual's 'golden ratio' differs slightly. It isn't a fixed number, it changes with the person."
"I can tell you to achieve balance, but I won't tell you what balance is. My golden ratio may not suit you. You must find your own."
Caelan fell into meaningful silence, letting the seed of thought take root in the twins' hearts.
The winds of the Crimson Canyon carried the smell of rust. The metal door embedded in the cliff reflected cold light beneath the midday sun.
Even after a thousand years, this Golden Age shelter door still stood firm. Yet time had etched mottled scars across its silver-gray alloy surface, marks of weathering, beast claws, and clearly, weapons.
Over centuries, countless intruders had tried to enter, yet the door remained intact.
Fulgrim murmured softly, "I'm starting to doubt the purebloods' truth even more."
If the purebloods once lived here, and the shelter was self-sufficient, how could mutants have bypassed this door and seized it?
Sanguinius glanced sideways.
"Unless the mutants were inside from the beginning."
Fulgrim asked, "Are they still alive?"
The purebloods' knowledge was only oral history. They had never entered the shelter nor met its occupants.
Even if mutants once lived inside, after a thousand years who could guarantee they still survived?
If they had perished long ago, it meant the life-support system had failed, and this journey would be pointless.
Sanguinius said, "Either way, we must go in."
Fulgrim nodded.
"But how do we open it?"
Sanguinius blinked his clear eyes.
"My super intelligence tells me… we should use super strength!"
He waved his little fists. Fulgrim's violet eyes sparkled eagerly, and the brothers said together:
"Then let's open it!"
With Caelan's help, it would have been easy, but the two brothers wanted to try themselves.
Boom!
A deafening crash shattered the silence of the canyon. The metal door trembled, shedding dust, and slowly opened with grinding noise.
The brothers froze mid-punch, then flapped back beside Caelan, staring into the dark corridor.
"Dad, stay behind us!"
They spread their wings protectively before him.
Caelan smiled helplessly.
"If you want to block bullets for me, at least wait until you grow up."
'They weren't even a year old yet, what could bodies that small possibly block?'
Fulgrim puffed his cheeks.
"We can catch bullets!"
"After you grow up."
Caelan grasped the backs of their necks like lifting cubs and placed them behind him.
"I'm still your father. It's my duty to protect my children."
They immediately quieted, folding their wings and sitting obediently on his broad shoulders like delicate porcelain dolls.
The metal corridor was empty, lit only by cold white lumen lamps.
At the end stood a massive elevator, faint blue light flowing along its edges.
There were no buttons. Once they entered, it began descending, the doors sealing behind them.
A holographic panel appeared before Caelan. The floor numbers climbed rapidly:
0 → 490.
"490 floors?"
The shelter's scale exceeded his expectations.
Even conservatively, it could house hundreds of thousands, possibly more than Baal's total population.
The doors slid open.
A dense crowd stood outside, making Caelan frown instinctively.
He did not discriminate against mutants, but aesthetic differences were objective reality.
Mutants twisted by radiation were grotesque: two heads of uneven size, three asymmetrical eyes, writhing tentacle-like organs, extra limbs…
One word described them:
Imitation humans.
Enhanced by the uncanny valley effect, these almost-human mutants were more unsettling than diseased wastelanders.
The moment the doors opened, the mutants surged forward in excitement, only to be pushed aside by invisible force.
They carried no weapons, so Caelan merely moved them away with psychic power.
A two-headed mutant wept with joy.
"Great Holy Child! Have you come to save us?"
Now Caelan understood why they had opened the door.
Like the purebloods, they worshipped angels.
Fulgrim hovered forward, voice childish yet dignified: "Who is the shelter's administrator?"
"I-I am, Holy Child!" the two-headed mutant raised his hand.
"What is your name?"
The large head trembled with excitement while the small one fainted.
"Iven. My name is Iven!"
Other mutants stared at him with envy, the angel had asked his name!
Sanguinius folded his wings and spoke gently, "We need to know this shelter's history, Mr. Iven. Could you tell us?"
Iven's large head fainted too.
Mutants accepted angels even more readily than prebloods.
Purebloods first debated whether angels were angels or mutants. Mutants didn't care. After thousands of years as mutants, they understood them well.
Perfect faces. Pure white wings.
If they weren't angels, who was?
After being slapped awake by others, Iven led them to the administrator's office. The shelter's entire history was recorded in the cogitators database.
The catastrophe began in the first year the shelter became operational.
Originally all survivors were normal humans. Radiation had not yet affected them.
The shelter had 490 floors and a capacity of six million, but only a few thousand people initially lived there.
So the leaders sent rescue teams into the wasteland to find survivors.
Population soon grew to tens of thousands.
And with people came conflict.
The rescued survivors soon developed mutations, and their descendants were grotesque.
At first, normal humans sympathized. Golden Age humans understood science: radiation and war were the cause, the mutants were victims.
At this time, the shelter's builder, Dr. Iven, stepped forward, devoting himself to curing mutation and restoring humans to normal.
But the current state of the shelter showed, he failed.
Ordinary humans could not survive Baal's radiation: swelling on day one, chromosomal destruction day two, immune collapse day three, death soon after.
Yet paradoxically, human genetics were extraordinary.
Mutation created mutants and abhumans, but also allowed humanity to survive Baal's lethal environment.
Because every mutation differed, Dr. Iven couldn't create a universal cure. He could treat a few individuals, but not all.
So he changed approach.
Instead of curing mutation, he studied how to guide it, trying to make mutations stable hereditary traits.
He almost succeeded.