If you asked whether it felt good to become a god who could hold the sun and moon in his hands, pluck stars from the sky, and stand unrivaled beneath the heavens, ninety-nine percent of people would say yes.
But it depended on where you were. In a proper world, it would be wonderful. Here, it was a bottomless pit—a pit within a pit.
Take the Four Merchants, for example. Don't be fooled by how those four wretched things ran rampant in the Warp, acting as though they were the greatest beings in existence. They had no freedom whatsoever. They had become conceptual natural phenomena, destined to be swept along by emotional currents for the rest of their lives.
It was like asking Slaanesh to pursue pure love and unwavering fidelity, Khorne to teach and educate while discussing world peace, Nurgle to care about hygiene and die generously, or Tzeentch to stagnate, give up, and stop making a show of things. Could they do it?
Of course they could!
Mordred poured a glass of his favorite fruit juice and placed it in the very center. Then he addressed Atlas, who had been steadily multiplying and closing in from all sides:
"See? Suppose this is a Warp Entity born from faith—in other words, what you call a god."
Everyone understood. They weren't a bunch of brainless idiots like the Ghouls. They could understand this analogy at a glance, and not only that—they could draw further conclusions from it.
"So, Father, you mean that someone built up through faith will become an uncontrollable Warp Entity?"
Mordred nodded, then shook his head as he explained, "In our world, everything possesses a spirit. Even the most common lasgun might develop a Machine Spirit with a similar effect if it has existed long enough. It isn't limited to living beings."
To make the idea more vivid, Mordred poured out half the orange juice, added half a glass of red wine, and distributed the mixed drink for everyone to taste.
"You feel it, right? Just as I said, as chaotic faith circulates, even if the entity was initially perfectly pure, the passage of time will make it an incomprehensible mess. It will have neither the sweetness of orange juice nor the fragrance of red wine. It will only be impossible to swallow."
This conclusion was difficult for everyone to accept, because Atlas immediately thought of someone—a Golden Giant who had led them out of Terra and into war across the stars.
Mordred's years of subtle indoctrination had taken effect. He had imperceptibly stripped the Second Legion of its reverence, erasing the flawless filter through which the Emperor appeared in the soldiers' eyes. (Emperor: Now do you understand why I can tolerate Second Son?)
"Then is there no solution? Will we also become those chaotic entities?"
The one who asked was Frix. This mental Atlas had already been completely assimilated, but he didn't want to recover his Primarch one day only to find a twisted freak.
"Of course there is—and more than one solution.
"First is scale. Take that glass of orange juice. A Warp Entity isn't unchanging. As long as the dosage isn't too high, adding a little wine won't fundamentally alter the flavor.
"Small-scale faith bonuses can even let you, with a Combat Power of one hundred, deal one thousand points of damage. That's why I keep emphasizing style and prestige.
"Another method is purification. Machine Spirits and World Souls are examples of this. Oh, right, I forgot to mention something. Goff, make a note of this.
"Catachan, right outside our doorstep, is alive. The entire planet possesses Self-Awareness. The next time you go there, kill a few livestock as an offering. It might come in handy.
"As for you, dear nephew, you'd better prepare yourself mentally. I possess a kind of precognitive ability. My younger brother—in other words, your father—isn't easy to get along with."
"Then, Your Highness, what kind of person is my father?"
After a brief pause, Mordred recalled Perturabo's various bizarre antics. Even he felt that the man was far too twisted—he was practically Mortarion.
If you treated him well, he suspected you wanted to use him. If you treated him badly, he craved affection. And this twisted man was also a Primarch: a vicious, stubborn tsundere with tremendous destructive power, a landmine-like Golden Giant.
Looking at the longing in Frix's eyes, Mordred was momentarily speechless. He could only reply:
"Your father is a good man with world-shaking wisdom. He simply doesn't know how to communicate, and he's also extremely impulsive and prideful. He's liable to do things he'll regret for the rest of his life."
That was the most tactful description Mordred could come up with. The Fourth Legion was indeed useful. As long as they were given an order, they would gladly march into even the most brutal battlefield. They were also honest and dependable.
Mordred truly didn't want to see such fine young men head toward that tragic future. While The Boss had yet to return, he would lend them a hand wherever he could.
"Frix, you're part of the Fourth Legion. Sooner or later, you'll return to your Primarch. But remember this: don't let your Primarch confuse you. You must have thoughts of your own."
"Thoughts of my own?" The Canned One didn't quite understand. He wondered whether his own Primarch could really harm him.
Mordred had known he would react that way. He even wondered whether the Fourth Legion's gene-seed had been mixed with aphrodisiacs. Along with the equally gravity-bound War Hounds, those two Legions were truly something else. Why were all their children such problem children?
"That's right. You must have thoughts of your own." Perhaps he had thought of something amusing, because Mordred's expression turned slightly grim.
"Listen, dear nephew. What if your father was stranded outside, never received proper instruction, and eventually became a savage like Russ? You must shoulder your responsibility as his offspring!"
Everyone knew the name Roboute Guilliman. Every Legion knew that the Space Wolves were the military police, and that their barbaric Primarch was the Emperor's executioner's blade, hanging over everyone's head.
At the thought that his future father might be an executioner like Russ, Frix felt a chill. It wasn't that he was prejudiced against the Wolf King. The problem was that he had personally worked with the Space Wolves before. He had truly seen the Wolf King!
Those bloodthirsty madmen were covered in fur and animal bones. "Slovenly" didn't begin to describe them; they were completely uncivilized beasts. During every operation, they scrutinized everyone as though they were potential enemies—even their allies.
The father in Frix's imagination should have been more like Prince Mordred: not only astonishingly powerful and dashing, but also witty, humorous, and willing to favor his own people. Even if he had the minor flaw of keeping xenos, that wasn't important!
"No! My father must never become Russ. He can't be that kind of person."
Mordred hadn't expected Russ to have such destructive power, so he decided to add more fuel to the fire.
"So, dear nephew, when you meet your Primarch in the future, you must help my brother become a Primarch useful to the Imperium. As for how to do it, you can exchange experiences with my children.
"You must especially hold fast to your original intentions and never be soft-hearted. This will be a long and arduous task. You must unite all your brothers and have the entire Legion help you. Do you understand? Take this book."
Frix accepted the book handed to him by his good uncle with a determined expression. Seeing the title on the cover—A Guide to Raising Ogryns Who Can Count to One Hundred—he nodded repeatedly. It was packed with valuable information!
Having casually planted a trap for his good brother, Mordred felt very pleased and continued his little class on wondrous knowledge:
"So, in conclusion, Kialan, founding a religion for me would be harming me. I don't want my soul to be washed into an idiot by incense and offerings."
The Eldar Girl nodded as though she understood, but still asked:
"What would happen if there were no soul at all?"
"What kind of stupid question is that? If you don't have a soul, how could you become stupid? How could there be no sou—wait."
Mordred seemed to realize something. The words of the Emperor and the Arch-Magos rang out in his mind:
[You were picked up by me... Your Highness, everyone in the Second Legion is soul-less... The Outsider Wanderer's remains... Your higher-dimensional traits... Don't stuff yourself to death later. I want some soup too!!!!]
Watching Mordred suddenly sink into thought, Kialan assumed she had made another mistake. But before she could prostrate herself at lightning speed, everyone saw the corners of their Primarch's mouth curl wildly upward. His whole body began to twitch as he grinned and laughed foolishly.
One moment he was shaking his head, the next he was giggling stupidly. Even his appearance began shifting back and forth, until he finally transformed into a short Corgi.
"Fifty-one episodes, and it turns out my cheat had been here all along! All along! Damn it, I'm a god! I'm invincible!"
Frix withdrew his previous fantasy. His father really shouldn't be like Prince Mordred. Actually, this was fine too. At the very least, he wasn't a dog.
Even if he was Russ!
Before you continue