What Master of Mankind, just a piece of trash!

Cold, trembling...

In his stupor, Mordred felt utterly exhausted. Hunger gnawed at his mind, but more vexing was the maddening itch crawling over his entire body, begging to be scratched.

With a sound like the crackling of roasted duck skin, Mordred finally pried his eyes open.

"Not bad. You are the one with the best constitution in this batch," a cold voice remarked.

Mordred turned his head, only to see a Golden Giant clad in gold armor and wearing sunglasses, sneering down at him.

As their gazes locked, the confusion in Mordred's eyes was replaced by disdain. He glared at the yellow-skinned bastard who looked so smug.

"Is playing the cool guy in sunglasses supposed to be interesting?"

"It is!"

Looking at the Golden Giant before him, Mordred resignedly closed his eyes. Seeing this, he knew this bastard must have rummaged through his memories; he probably even knew about the time he secretly wore a little dress as a child.

"No, I did not browse your memories of wearing women's clothing as a child. As your Father, you must trust in my moral standards. Furthermore, I must add a critique: a red dress would have better suited your hair color, not black."

Mordred finally snapped. The thought of his Dark History being browsed at will ignited a sense of shame so intense he wanted to kill to silence the witness. He braced his body, intent on finishing off the Bastard.

Just as Mordred prepared to launch a God of War-style leaping strike, a sharp pain surged through him, forcing him to collapse back onto the Operating Table.

Looking at his own empty, severed lower half, Mordred grew even angrier:

"Where is my ass? You damn yellow-skinned bastard, you Dogs and Donkeys, how dare you shoot me with a light lance! What? Did you get addicted to selling your soul like Rome's She-Wolf back in the day? Are you jealous of me? You want me to call you Father? Bah! Go take a piss and look at yourself in the mirror! I only have one Father in this world, and that is Thomas Wayne! And why are you so knowledgeable about this stuff anyway?"

Before he could finish, a golden slap Descended from the Sky, slamming into Mordred's skull and forcing the remaining profanities back down his throat.

Yet, Mordred was not one to give up easily. He had been full of rage since entering this cesspool of a world, and this dog-thing had to show up right when he was trying to kill someone.

If he had just shown up, fine—he could have just laid flat, done whatever he was told, and lived as a useless bumpkin. But he had actually sent people to shell him with cannons! That was truly unbearable!

Just as Mordred prepared to continue his oral gymnastics, the Emperor flashed over to the Operating Table. With two powerful arms, he pinned Mordred to the Operating Table as if he were a mere chick.

Glancing at those muscles, which were thicker than his own head, Mordred subconsciously swallowed. After exhausting all his strength and failing to break free, his expression began to soften.

"Um, I might have been a bit loud just now. You can't hit me again, okay? Father, I am your own son!"

After conceding, Mordred looked at the Emperor before him with pitiful eyes, trying to awaken a sliver of fatherly love—if such a thing even existed. To his surprise, the Emperor maintained that same deadpan face, still wearing that fake, crooked sneer.

This situation made Mordred wonder if the Emperor intended to kill him; after all, Eleven-to-one was a fine tradition for yellow-skinned bastards.

The reality, however, was that Mordred was overthinking it. Upon hearing his offspring concede, the Emperor felt a secret thrill, confirming that his humor had made a good start. His meager parenting experience told him he should say something, but the Emperor didn't know what; the option simply didn't exist in his underlying logic.

Having never encountered this during his rehearsals with Malcador, the Emperor decided to handle it in the way he knew best: waiting for the other party to speak first.

After a five-minute standoff, the Emperor finally asked:

"Who is Thomas? Bring him here; I shall appoint him Planetary Governor!"

"..."

"Thomas is my adoptive father. You've already seen my memories, so stop pretending! He's long dead. Why don't you let me go first? My dog-disciples are still down below."

The Emperor remained silent, merely issuing orders to the Adeptus Custodes.

Half an hour later, under the watchful eyes of a squad of Adeptus Custodes, eighty-eight Giant Dogs clad in scrap-metal armor entered the operating room.

Had it not been for the order from His Majesty, they would never have allowed these xenos onto the Emperor's Dream. Even a single shed dog hair would have been the ultimate insult to the Adeptus Custodes.

But the Dog-men, being simple bumpkins, didn't care. Upon seeing such a massive, beautiful house as the Emperor's Dream, their canine instincts were fully unleashed; they were itching to gnaw a piece of the wall just to taste it.

The moment they entered the operating room, the Dog-men swarmed around Mordred to protect their Great Chieftain. Rambo even began to growl at the Emperor, trying to ward off this dangerous Golden Giant.

But this time, Rambo had barked at the wrong person. Seeing the big black dog-man hissing at him, the Emperor delivered a slap identical to the one Mordred had received. It sent Rambo into a pathetic yelp, forcing him to retreat to seek comfort from his master.

"Boss, we thought you were dead! We opened our eyes and saw you were cut in half. Those bad tin cans caught us, but the prison food they gave us was pretty good—just not enough."

"Yeah, yeah! Boss, can you make them give us more prison food? I still want to eat that Ant Cow canned meat."

"And Boss, you smell so good! Just missing a bit of cumin..."

Looking at his pathetic subordinates, who still had meat fibers hanging from their mouths and were barking incessantly, Mordred felt a sense of relief, but soon felt embarrassed. He shouted:

"Get lost! Do you have any shame? You're prisoners and you're still thinking about food? I don't have any canned meat—go ask that Golden Giant over there."

As soon as these words were spoken, the dogs scattered, abandoning their Chieftain. They looked at the Emperor, who was acting as a background prop, with eyes full of longing. Even that deadpan, stinking face looked handsome and dashing in the eyes of the Dog-men.

To be fair, humanity during the Great Crusade was not as deranged as in later ages. Because the galaxy was so vast, when encountering a new world, human fleets mostly adopted a strategy of negotiation first and force second.

Even for the few races that deviated from humanity, as long as they were harmless and guaranteed not to develop space-faring armaments, the Empire would leave them room to survive.

Otherwise, given the sheer scale of the galaxy, if they had to fight everyone one by one, Heaven Knows what bizarre things those survivors of the Dark Age of Technology might pull out.

The most important criterion for evaluating these races was that they be harmless to humanity. As for whether those so-called peace treaties were humane, that was entirely unnecessary.

Looking at the group of Giant Dogs before him, the Emperor suddenly realized he had never seen this race before. After a brief moment of thought, the Emperor glanced at the Blonde Hair on Mordred's head that pleased him, then looked at the soldiers who had quietly surrounded him, and Nodded.

"World, take these abhumans to the mess hall! Also, have the chef host a banquet. I wish to speak with my offspring alone."

"Yes, My Lord!"

No one would deny the Emperor's command. The chefs, always prepared, began to bustle about, hoping their skills would satisfy the Master of Mankind, even if the guests were a group of giant dogs that seemed to violate the Imperial Truth.

But whatever the Emperor said was correct. Even if these dogs were xenos, from now on, they would only be Imperial abhumans.

Hearing the news that they could have another full meal, the Dog-men let out excited howls. Even so, they did not leave immediately, instead looking toward their Chieftain.

"Go! Remember to eat plenty—eat until you're stuffed! Eat those hateful rich guys into poverty. I also want to have a good chat with him."

"Woof, yay!"