Him, Then

The recruitment office is located not far from the laboratory, situated within a plaza.

Young men who sign up to join the forces of Emperor register here and undergo genetic testing; those who qualify have the chance to become the Angels of Death of Emperor.

In a dark corner of the plaza where light cannot reach, a young man is curled up. He has black hair and black eyes, with the distinct genetic traits of an ancient Asian.

His body is gaunt from long-term malnutrition, yet his brow naturally carries an untamable arrogance. He possesses nothing, carrying only a leather suitcase with him.

The young man is not a subject of Emperor. When discovered by a patrol, he was climbing the Himalayas with his bare hands, crossing the roof of the world to sneak into the territory of Emperor.

After a series of examinations, he was found to pose no threat. Inside his suitcase are relics from ancient Terra, his family's ancient genealogy, recording name after name and lineage after lineage.

He climbed the roof of the world wearing only a single layer of clothing. When found, he was suffering from severe frostbite, yet he still used rags to tightly wrap the suitcase, protecting those long-vanished names.

Being able to cross Mount Everest was purely supported by a powerful willpower. As for why he persisted, he chooses to remain silent.

He is now clutching the suitcase, living off the relief porridge at the recruitment site, his heart grateful for the generosity of the local warlord.

Although the porridge is thin and watery, he feels immense gratitude; after all, with Terra having been in chaos for thousands of years, a ruler who provides relief rations to wanderers is a rare and wise monarch indeed.

He drinks the porridge with delight, enjoying a rare moment of fullness for the day. Afterward, his sharp eyes scan the surroundings, observing the Recruitment Plaza.

The plaza is vast, paved with bluestone and bordered by towering walls, capable of accommodating tens of thousands of people at once. The recruitment office is set up deep within the plaza, providing genetic testing while accepting applications.

The recruitment office recommends qualified youths to legions better suited to their genetic traits, allowing them to better utilize their innate advantages.

The crowd forms a long line, and at a glance, all sorts of people emerge one after another.

There are nobles wearing family crests, soldiers in uniform, ragged wilderness wanderers, and even gangsters.

Shaking his head, the young man does not understand.

These people are a motley crew of varying quality, yet without exception, they sacrifice themselves—or even their sons—to their lords, participating in the brutal wars of Terra.

It is said that the lord of this land calls himself "Emperor" and has sworn to unify Terra and bring unity to the mother planet of humanity.

"What a truly great ideal!" The young man drinks the last of the porridge, licks the residue from the bowl with his tongue, and slowly stands up, his tone sincere: "I wish you success!"

Since the rebellion of the sentient machines, the mother planet of humanity has been ravaged and left covered in scars.

Countless heroes have risen in an attempt to end the chaos, only to be drowned in the infighting. The grand ambition of unifying humanity, or the ambition to return to the deep stars, has yet to be realized by anyone.

He presents the bowl with both hands, returning it to the relief station with great politeness, then sits back in the corner clutching his box, waiting for tomorrow's relief.

A calm look emanates from the young man's pitch-black eyes, yet his gaze is unusually fervent as it sweeps over the tall warriors.

They stand on the walls and throughout the plaza, wearing power armor, chests puffed out with pride, standing out like cranes in a flock of chickens.

In the distance, a small giant turns to look. The young man immediately lowers his head; those genetically modified warriors have keen senses and are incredibly powerful.

His eyes reveal deep envy. He had already gone for genetic testing a few days ago, and the results were quite good.

His genes are very pure and quite excellent, but he did not pass the selection.

He is twenty-one years old. Although he is at the peak of human physical fitness, he missed the optimal age window for genetic modification.

According to those in the know, the best stage for new genetically modified soldiers is during their youth; the older one gets, the higher the risk of modification.

The risk does not matter to him. For someone who wants to gain power and have a foothold in the terrifying wars of Terra, the risk is non-existent.

Ultimately, Emperor is unwilling to waste time and resources on unnecessary materials to gamble on an unstable success rate.

The young man also refused to become an auxiliary soldier; his pride would not allow him to become a servant.

He pulls at his rags, trying to cover his whole body to avoid absorbing too much radioactive dust, which could cause skin diseases.

He quite likes this corner; it is close to the Twenty-First recruitment office, and it is very quiet and comfortable.

It might be a special branch; not many people seem to be signing up here, and the staff at the recruitment office are also quite idle.

What the young man does not know is that in the corner where he sits, many people in the plaza are looking at him with strange expressions.

The Twenty-First recruitment office is known by those in the know as the "Death Recruitment Office." To date, no one has survived the genetic modification surgery.

Earlier, the area in front of the Twenty-First was bustling, with people eagerly signing up to offer their lives to Emperor.

Later, the news that no one had passed the modification surgery for several consecutive months spread among the nobles, gradually leaking out and causing the number of applicants for the Twenty-First to dwindle.

To date, a large number of excellent candidates have lost their lives in the modification experiments, dying on the operating table.

Dying for Emperor and being indifferent to life and death is naturally a duty, but no one wants to die a humiliating death on an operating table.

Some powerful families have already warned their family members within their ranks not to go to the Twenty-First recruitment office.

Wasting a precious life on a suicidal modification surgery would fail the expectations of Emperor, bring shame to the family, and invite ridicule from others.

If there were even a one percent, or even a one-in-a-thousand success rate, countless people would still eagerly sign up for the modification surgery to sacrifice themselves for Emperor.

Tens of thousands have gone in, and not one has survived; the one-hundred-percent mortality rate has yet to be broken.

There is pity, mockery, schadenfreude, and, more than anything, anticipation. Countless gazes intersect, constantly sweeping over the young man.

The Twenty-First recruitment office is no safe haven.

Voluntary subjects are becoming fewer and fewer, and the Gene-Warlock has already begun to snatch people nearby. Perhaps in the next moment, this poor wanderer will be dragged away for an experiment.

The young man knows nothing of this. He has no superhuman senses, so he quietly leans in the corner, clutching his suitcase to rest, avoiding wasting energy so he can make it to the next porridge meal.

"What about the people here?"

Just as the youth was about to drift off to sleep, he heard a voice. Never before had he felt such a direct, visceral sense of the power contained within a master!

Deep and resonant, it cracked like spring thunder beside his ears, acting like a ray of sunlight that dispelled the gloom shrouding his heart.

Sleep vanished entirely. The youth propped himself up, craning his neck to look. A warrior clad in magnificent golden armor stood there, a red plume atop his golden helm and a crimson cloak draped across his back, clutching a long spear.

"My Lord!"

The exclamation was filled with reverence, countless voices merging into a chorus of respect. Within the Recruitment Plaza, the surging tide of people parted like waves, everyone kneeling and prostrating themselves, shouting "My Lord."

Those present trembled, none unmoved by the appearance of the golden-clad warrior; the arrival of the Custodes was as if Emperor himself had descended.

The youth swallowed hard, forcibly suppressing the urge to prostrate himself, his eyes locked onto the golden figure, yearning for that kind of power.

Is he the lord of this place? he wondered.

Perhaps only a lord could possess such power; only a lord could command such majesty and nobility.

The Gene-Warlock behind the Custodes stepped forward, whispering an explanation with a hint of embarrassment: "My Lord, after ten thousand failures, many have lost faith in Twenty-First. No noble scion or military family can endure endless losses indefinitely."

"They send their finest offspring to undergo Astartes transformation, only to receive tragic news and corpses in return."

The Custodes pondered for a moment, nodding as the plume on his helmet swayed in the breeze: "I understand."

He stepped forward, his power armor treading upon the bluestone path, playing a symphony between metal and stone, his spear striking the ground with a rhythmic, metallic clang.

His majestic, deep voice resonated through the loudspeaker in his helmet, echoing across the Recruitment Plaza: "I am the personal guard of Emperor! I require a Champion to offer their life!"

"Whoosh!"

Across the plaza, the kneeling crowd—nearly everyone—raised their arms, not a single person shrinking back, all eagerly volunteering.

Even though they understood that the Custodes had emerged from the gate of Twenty-First, and that the path behind it led to certain death.

"Very well!" The Custodes was quite satisfied, preparing to select a high-quality youth, when his superhuman senses suddenly caught a scrutinizing gaze.

He turned his head to look. A ragged wanderer was half-lying in a corner not far away, hands braced against the ground, staring at him with wide, expectant eyes.

His emaciated body was weak to the point of extremity, his gaunt face sallow, yet those eyes were clear and bright. There was no fanatical worship in them, but rather scrutiny and appraisal.

Beneath the golden helm, the Custodes frowned. He detested such scrutinizing gazes, yet the yearning for power in those eyes was as hot as fire.

Thus, the superhuman brain of the Custodes turned, and an idea surfaced.

The Gene-Warlock had once said that the Primarch of Twenty-First did not pick and choose based on the age of the subject; the compatibility level was extremely high—anyone would do.

He raised his golden arm, pointing his index and middle fingers toward the scrawny wanderer in the corner: "Him!"