Chapter 3: Father and Daughter
"My lord, I must return to my duties."
"Go."
When the door closed, Yuki found herself alone with the Emperor once more.
Even after learning she was a Primarch — his daughter — the pressure of standing before him remained immense. The air itself felt heavier in his presence, saturated with restrained psychic force. Yuki suspected that if she were still an ordinary human, the aura surrounding him would crush her outright.
"Well," the Emperor said calmly, "what do you think?"
What kind of question is that? What thoughts? Are you some sort of riddle master?
Even as she inwardly scoffed, her transhuman cognition instantly grasped what he meant.
"Your vision is admirable," she replied. "To reunite humanity beneath a single banner… it is magnificent."
"I will not be angered," he said. "Speak truthfully, child."
Yuki met his gaze.
A surge of courage rose within her chest.
"Father… what you are doing now looks no different from the warlords who ravaged Terra. If I did not know you were different, I would believe you to be an ambitious tyrant."
Silence settled between them.
The Emperor remained seated. Yuki sat on the edge of the bed, refusing to avert her eyes.
(Inner thoughts: Don't be weak. Maintain eye contact. Don't lose points.)
After a moment, the Emperor nodded.
"You are correct."
He had long been aware of this perception. Even among his allies, such thoughts existed.
But to him, such judgments were insignificant.
Empires were tools.
Armies were tools.
Even conquest was a tool.
Humanity's survival required something greater — a future free from the predations of the Warp, a destiny beyond the grasp of daemonic powers. Everything he built served that distant objective.
Reputation meant nothing.
If history condemned him as a tyrant, he would accept the verdict without hesitation.
"So," he asked again, "what are your thoughts?"
"Uh… well…" Yuki blinked. "How about I draft a few proposals tomorrow for you to review?"
In truth, she had initially wanted to ask permission to leave Terra and find a peaceful world where she could live in leisure and comfort.
Then she remembered where she was.
There was no leisure in this universe.
Only war.
If she could not escape the future, she might as well improve it.
At the very least, she might ensure cleaner sanitation facilities.
Changing the Emperor's reputation suddenly felt urgent. If his image improved — if his sons saw him as a father rather than a distant sovereign — perhaps fewer tragedies would unfold.
Perhaps fewer betrayals.
Perhaps… a better ending.
The Emperor smiled faintly. For an instant, Yuki noticed a certain austere handsomeness in his resolute features.
No wonder Horus had inherited such striking looks.
Genetics were undeniable.
"Very well," he said. "Tomorrow you may study within the palace librarium. I will also arrange instruction to train your martial skill and abilities. Does this meet with your approval?"
Yuki flashed an "OK" gesture.
She was already a Primarch in prototype form. There was no intention of remaining a weak one.
"Good. Rest today."
"Okay. Bye-bye, Dad. Good night."
The Emperor watched as the massive gates closed, briefly obscuring three pairs of pristine white wings.
Across his long existence, he had fathered many children — perpetuals, gene-sons, and lost bloodlines — yet few had ever behaved so freely in his presence.
Most stood in reverence.
Others trembled in fear.
None were playful.
Yet he sensed no disrespect in Yuki's demeanor. She simply refused to burden their interactions with excessive solemnity.
He found that… acceptable.
"…Um, Dad, how do I get to the palace dining hall?"
The door opened a crack. A beautiful head peeked through.
"Down the stairs," he replied, "turn right, then proceed straight."
"Okay! Bye-bye, Dad!"
The door shut again.
…
"Dad, where am I sleeping tonight?"
Less than an hour later, the same head reappeared.
For perhaps the first time in centuries, the Emperor felt a hint of fatigue.
"Diocletian," he called, "escort the Princess to suitable quarters."
"Eh? The Princess? Me?"
A Custodian approached from down the corridor, his expression one of profound skepticism as he studied her.
"Come," he said. "Princess," he added, with deliberate emphasis.
"Thank you, sir. You're very kind."
Walking ahead, Diocletian nearly stumbled, then continued as if nothing had happened.
The Emperor observed the exchange, an unfamiliar unease stirring within him.
The future Emperor might have said:
This is nothing.
Just wait until you see what comes next.