You Need to Be Strong

The road from the Warrior Arena back to the palace is a long one.

As a landmark of warrior culture, the Warrior Arena is located at the end of Palace Avenue, in the heart of the Guardian Domain.

Almost every other structure was built around it.

The pure white Palace Avenue is solemn and majestic, lined on both sides with massive relief carvings that record the glorious achievements of the Night Watchers as they rose from the sunken old night, step by step, to drive away that dark past.

Doom rode on the shoulders of King Norwick, walking along the King's Corridor—a path paved with blue carpet that serves as an exclusive passage situated in the center of several roads.

The Champion Swordsman walked parallel to them on the left, along Warrior Avenue, carrying the corpse of an orc on his back.

The King's Corridor is reserved exclusively for the King and the Prince; even the Queen is not permitted to walk upon it.

Beside the corridor stand statues of past kings of the Norwick line, their expressions solemn and their gazes fixed forward, scrutinizing the descendants who walk the King's Corridor.

In the distance, the main body of the palace is pure white; or rather, the entire Guardian Domain is pure white.

The white stone used to build the city is common on Planet Nul, possessing not only abundant reserves but also a flawless appearance, astonishing hardness, and immense volume.

Many seemingly massive structures were perhaps carved from a single stone.

Since the artificial intelligence blockaded Planet Nul, the remnants of humanity have built fortresses with stone, forged weapons from Nul Crystal, and armed themselves using various local resources.

With an unyielding spirit, humanity has tenaciously continued the inheritance of its civilization.

The white architecture symbolizes flawlessness, while the blue circular domes and massive crystal portholes represent the clear soul of a warrior.

Inherited over thousands of years, this unique architectural aesthetic perfectly integrates the humanities of the warriors.

Feeling the cold touch of the power armor against his inner thighs, Doom struggled to maintain a calm expression, though his heart was in turmoil.

King Norwick held Doom's legs with both hands, carrying him along the King's Corridor, the path exclusive to the King and his heir.

"Are you nervous, Doom?"

He could feel the slight, unnatural stiffness in the boy's legs; the small figure on his shoulders was tense, his arms unsure of where to rest.

"Yes." Doom squeezed the word out through his nose, trembling slightly: "I never thought you would acknowledge and accept me."

"Why?" Norwick raised his hand, signaling for Doom to place his own upon it.

The father's large hand grasped his son's small one. Even through the gauntlets, Doom felt a heavy warmth in his palm.

"Because of how different I am, and the abilities I've shown that surpass ordinary people?"

"Yes," Doom's palm subconsciously tightened around King Norwick, afraid of losing that intimate warmth: "I have seen the amniotic tank; it is an artificial womb combining sorcery and technology. I am an anomaly that was created!"

The boy's voice trembled with a hint of a sob, clutching his father's hand tightly, terrified that everything in his grasp might slip away.

Norwick also gripped his son's hand, refusing to let go.

He understood in his heart that no matter how fast Doom grew or how well-read he became, his inner self would always be plagued by insecurity.

He was afraid, and the object of his fear was himself. He feared his own talent, and he feared his own extraordinary nature.

"Do you know? I am a created being, and I know nothing of the one who created me. Is he good or evil, and what was his purpose in creating me?"

Doom's hoarse voice carried the weight of a breakdown: "If one day, my creator comes before me and asks me to do something evil, can I defy him?"

On Warrior Avenue, Harlan pricked up his ears to listen to the conversation between father and son, bowing his head with a smile on his lips.

At this moment, he was certain he had not followed the wrong person!

His sworn master, no matter how extraordinary his performance, remained kind and gentle at his core.

Weeping is not cowardice; he was worried about his own power, worried about causing an irreparable tragedy in the future.

This kindness, deep in his very marrow, is enough to support a harbor of refuge, worthy of one following him through life and death.

Suddenly, Norwick stopped, supported Doom's waist, and placed him down in front of him.

He looked at his reddened eyes, where deep fear and unease were hidden in the depths of his black-pearl pupils.

A rare tenderness appeared on Norwick's majestic, square face. He stroked Doom's thick black hair, pressing down over his shoulders, from under his ribs to his waist, and then to his thighs and calves.

"You are no different from us. Two thighs, two arms, two shoulders carrying a head."

"Son. Use your extraordinary wisdom to think about it." Norwick crouched before Doom, his large hand wrapping around the back of his neck: "Why were you created?"

Doom fell silent; he had pondered this question countless times, but had never found an answer.

Why was he created, why did he end up in this universe, and what mission was he endowed with?

He lingered on the comfort of reality, fearing the unknown future.

His thoughts were torn apart by constant inner conflict. Because of fear, he dared not think, terrified that the answer he might find would be that his origin was not righteous, and his future was one of cold darkness.

"Look at yourself." The loving light in Norwick's eyes was like a candle in the darkness, guiding Doom forward.

"I do not know who created you, but how beautifully he created you!"

Removing his cumbersome gauntlet, Norwick touched his son for the first time in truth, feeling his young, burning soul.

His large hand, calloused from years of gripping a sword, stroked Doom's youthful yet heroic face, feeling bit by bit the lines of his son as if he were carved—a creation into which the creator had poured all his heart's blood.

Every inch of his creation's skin held extraordinary significance. Every muscle and bone was a masterpiece of painstaking effort.

He hoped his creation would be as great as he was, as full of radiance, as feared by others, and as he was... a guide for others.

"Our ancestors now exist only in history, and even the magnificent image of the ascended Gold Men cannot compare to a fraction of you."

"Your image embodies the worship of humanity, aligning with everything people imagine of a great leader."

Doom listened quietly, carefully contemplating his father's guidance.

King Norwick posed a profound question: "If you were born for slaughter and extinction, then why did he create a glorious you?"

"The galaxy is vast, and horrors are countless. It is filled with all manner of life forms, home to innumerable xenos."

"Why? Why did he choose humanity as the template?" King Norwick continued to prompt, clearing the fog shrouding his son's heart and guiding him to the root of his tangled questions: "Answer me."

Doom snapped his head up to look at his father. His eyes filled with a mist of joy as he excitedly replied: "The creator is human!"

The youth's face regained its vitality; the question that had plagued and torn at him was, in fact, this simple.

"Human!" King Norwick nodded with satisfaction, adding to his son's answer: "Or perhaps a group of ambitious humans."

"He, or they, created you, and perhaps your brothers as well. They molded you to be glorious and imposing, with the bearing of natural leaders, to unite humanity around you and provide extraordinary guidance for mankind."

King Norwick's meticulous judgment peeled back the layers, gradually reconstructing a reality close to the truth.

Emperor likely never imagined that, countless light-years away, a father would use extraordinary wisdom to glimpse a corner of his plan.

"You cannot choose your birth, but you can choose how to live." With a rational and authoritative voice, he led Doom out of the swamp of confusion.

"Then what if, Father?" The confusion in Doom's eyes dissipated, replaced by a new worry as he asked uneasily: "What if?"

"Then you must be even stronger! Strong enough to resist everything, to look at those who do not align with your will and attempt to enslave you, and say: Get lost! Get the hell away from me!"

Doom laughed, a laugh truly from the heart, his handsome face flushing red, his eyes and expression filled with pure mirth.

"Ugh!" Hearing King Norwick's profanity, Harlan nearly burst out laughing, forcing it back into his chest and gasping for air to readjust his lungs.

King Norwick also smiled lightly; at this moment, he set aside his majesty, acting simply as a father offering guidance to his son: "Only by becoming the strong do you have the power to choose your future!"

Finally, he patted his son on the shoulder and said: "Go, prepare your barbecue and mushroom soup; I have many matters to attend to."

He then rose, swept his cloak, and departed for the throne room. He was not only a father but also a king.

Doom took the newly acquired Champion Swordsman and carried the corpse of the Special Ops Boy away to cook the mushroom meal he had been longing for.