Scars

However, in the end, the mage did not give him a solution.

Fulgrim sat in that chair and began to think.

From the day philosophy was born, there had been one question that had ceaselessly troubled those sensitive and intelligent minds throughout human history.

Where exactly did "I" come from?

Was "I" me? How exactly did "I" determine that?

No one knew the answer, and Fulgrim did not know either, so he too was being troubled by that question.

What method could be used to define the boundaries of the self? he pondered—yes, he believed he had not been influenced by that other side, but were the thoughts he was thinking truly his own?

His thoughts began to slide further toward dangerous ground.

"Don't keep going down that path, Fulgrim."

He heard a grave voice.

He raised his head and saw He Shenyan's solemn eyes—in Fulgrim's memory, the Black-Robed Mage had never been this serious. He had a teasing side, an arrogant side, and a side that went around laughing and joking with people, but he had never shown such seriousness before him.

"Do not try to test yourself," he heard the mage say. "It isn't worth it, and nothing will come of it. Put another way, even if there's nothing wrong with you, you'll make something wrong with yourself."

"But I..."

"You are you. Don't overthink it, Fulgrim," the mage said softly. "You should learn from Leman Russ. He never worries about these things."

Fulgrim burst into a helpless laugh. "Russ. Ah."

The Phoenix sighed.

"I can't learn that."

He said frankly, "He acts like a hopeless optimist, able to face anything with absolute instinct. His way of doing things is simple and direct, yet lethal, so the angle from which he views matters is different from all of