Cold and trembling...
The unconscious Mordred felt utterly exhausted. Hunger filled his mind, but even more unbearable was the itching all over his body, making him desperately want to scratch himself.
Amid a series of crackling sounds like crispy roast duck skin breaking apart, Mordred finally opened his eyes.
"Not bad. You're the best specimen among this batch." A cold voice rang out.
Mordred turned his head and saw a huge golden giant wearing golden armor and sunglasses, staring down at him with a cold smirk.
Their eyes met. The confusion in Mordred's eyes gradually turned to disdain as he glared at that obviously despicable Yellow Skin.
"Is pretending to be some cold-faced guy in sunglasses really that fun?"
"It is!"
Looking at the Golden Giant before him, Mordred resigned himself and closed his eyes. Judging from the situation, this scumbag must have looked through his memories. He might even know about how he had secretly worn little skirts as a child.
"No, I didn't look through your memories of wearing women's clothing as a child. As your father, you have to trust my moral standards. Also, I'd like to make one comment: a red dress matches your hair color better than a black one."
Mordred finally snapped. The thought of someone casually browsing through his Dark History filled him with such intense shame that he wanted to kill the witness. He propped himself up and charged at that bastard.
Just as Mordred was about to perform a God of War leaping strike, a wave of excruciating pain struck him and sent him sprawling back onto the Operating Table.
Seeing that he had nothing left but half of a ruined body, Mordred grew even angrier.
"Where's my ass? Damn Yellow Skin, you Dogs and Donkeys actually shot me with a Lance! What, did you get addicted to selling your ass as Rome's She-Wolf back then? Are you jealous of me? You want me to call you 'Dad'? Pah! Go take a piss and look at yourself in the mirror. I have only one father in this world, and that's Thomas Wayne!
"And besides, how do you know so much?"
Before he could finish, a golden slap descended from the heavens and smashed into Mordred's skull, forcing the rest of his foul language back down his throat.
However, Mordred was not the kind of person to give up easily. He had already been seething with anger ever since entering this shithole of a world. And now this damn mutt had shown up neither early nor late, but precisely when he was about to start chopping people up.
Showing up was one thing. At worst, Mordred could simply give up and do whatever he was told, becoming a useless freeloader waiting to die. But this bastard had actually sent people to bombard him with cannons. That was absolutely intolerable!
But just as Mordred was about to continue his oral gymnastics, the Emperor flashed to the front of the Operating Table. Two powerful arms pinned Mordred down like a chick.
Mordred glanced at the vigorous muscles thicker than his own head and instinctively swallowed. After finding that he could not break free even with all his strength, his expression gradually softened.
"Um, I may have been a little loud just now. You won't hit me again, right, Father? I'm your biological son!"
After admitting defeat, Mordred gazed pitifully at the Emperor before him, trying to awaken whatever faint paternal affection the man might—or might not—possess. To his surprise, however, the Emperor still wore that expressionless face, along with the fake, utterly insincere crooked smirk.
This made Mordred suspect that the Emperor wanted to kill him. After all, Eleven-to-one was a fine tradition of the Yellow Skins.
The truth, however, was that Mordred was overthinking it. After hearing his offspring surrender, the Emperor secretly delighted in his heart, confirming that his humor had gotten off to a good start. His meager parenting experience then told him that he should say something, but the Emperor did not know that this option simply did not exist in his underlying logic.
He had not encountered such a situation during his earlier rehearsals with Malcador, either. Thus, the Emperor decided to handle it in the way he was best at: waiting for the other party to speak first.
After a full five minutes of stalemate, the Emperor finally asked:
"Who is Thomas? Find him and bring him here. I'll appoint him planetary governor!"
"..."
"Thomas is my adoptive father. You already saw my memories, so why are you pretending? He's been dead for ages. How about you let me go first? My dog disciple is still down there."
The Emperor said nothing and merely continued issuing orders to the Adeptus Custodes.
Half an hour later, under the watchful eyes of a squad of Adeptus Custodes, exactly eighty-eight Giant Dogs wearing scrap-metal armor entered the operating room.
If not for His Majesty's order, they absolutely would not have allowed this group of xenos aboard the Emperor's Dream. Even losing a single dog hair would have been the ultimate insult to the Adeptus Custodes.
But the Dog-men, rustic natives of Serenity, did not care about any of that. The moment they saw such a huge and beautiful house as the Emperor's Dream, their canine instincts were fully unleashed. They nearly wanted to chew a piece off the wall just to taste its saltiness.
The moment they entered the operating room, the Dog-men crowded around Mordred to guard their Great Chieftain. Rambo even began growling at the Emperor, trying to scare away the dangerous Golden Giant.
Unfortunately, Rambo had barked at the wrong person this time. When the Emperor saw the black-skinned big dog snarling at him, he immediately gave Rambo a slap just like Mordred's. The blow made Rambo let out a humiliating yelp, after which he could only retreat and seek comfort from his master.
"Boss, we thought you were dead! When we opened our eyes, you only had half your body left. Those nasty Canned Ones even captured us. Their prison food was pretty good, though we didn't get full."
"Yeah, yeah! Boss, can you get them to give us more prison food? I still want to eat that Ant Cow canned meat."
"By the way, Boss, you smell really good! You're just missing some cumin..."
Looking at his disgraceful subordinates, whose mouths still had shreds of meat hanging from them as they barked nonstop, Mordred felt reassured. But he soon felt deeply embarrassed and shouted:
"Get lost! Do you people have no shame? You're prisoners and you're still thinking about food! I don't have any Canned Ones. Go ask that Golden Giant over there!"
As soon as he said this, all the dogs scattered like startled birds and beasts, abandoning their own Chieftain. They gazed at the Emperor, who was serving as a background prop, with eyes full of longing. Even his expressionless, foul-looking face had become handsome and dashing in the eyes of the Dog-men.
To be honest, humanity during the Great Crusade was not as fanatical as it became in later ages. Since the galaxy was so vast, human fleets generally prioritized negotiations when encountering a new world, resorting to force only as a last resort.
There were even a tiny number of species that had deviated from humanity who were allowed to retain living space, so long as they posed no threat to humanity and promised not to develop space-based military forces.
Otherwise, given the galaxy's immense scale, if they truly fought their way through one world at a time, who knew what bizarre things those remnants of the Dark Age of Technology might produce?
When assessing these species, the most important criterion was whether they were harmless to humanity. As for whether those so-called peace agreements were humane, that was entirely unnecessary.
Looking at the Giant Dogs before him, the Emperor suddenly realized that he had never encountered this species before. After briefly pondering, he glanced at the golden hair on Mordred's head, which satisfied him, then looked at the soldiers who had quietly surrounded him and nodded.
"Valdor, take these abhumans to the cafeteria! Have the chefs prepare a banquet while you're at it. I want to speak with my offspring alone."
"Yes, My Lord!"
No one would question the Emperor's orders. The chefs, who had been ready at all times, immediately began working, hoping their skills would earn the approval of the Master of Mankind—even if the guests were a pack of enormous dogs who appeared to violate the Imperial Truth.
But whatever the Emperor said was right. Even if these dogs were xenos, from now on they could only be abhumans of the Imperium.
Upon hearing that they would be able to enjoy another full meal, the Dog-men let out excited howls. Even so, they did not leave immediately. Instead, they looked toward the Chieftain behind them.
"Go on! Remember to eat more. Eat until you bankrupt those detestable rich bastards. I also want to have a proper talk with him."
"Woof, yay!"
Before you continue