Twenty: How About Him?

The Recruitment Office was located in a plaza not far from the laboratory.

Young men who signed up to join the Emperor's forces registered here and underwent genetic testing. Those who passed had a chance to become the Emperor's Angels of Death.

In a shadowy corner of the plaza where no light reached, a young man was curled up. His black hair and dark eyes clearly marked him as a descendant of ancient Asian genes.

His body was gaunt from prolonged malnutrition, but a naturally untamable arrogance showed between his brows. He had nothing but a leather suitcase with him.

The young man was not one of the Emperor's subjects. When the patrol found him, he had been climbing the Himalayas bare-handed, crossing the Roof of the World to sneak into the Emperor's territory.

After a series of inspections, he was found to pose no threat. The leather suitcase he carried contained relics from ancient Terra—his family's ancient genealogy, recording generations of names and bloodlines.

He had climbed the Roof of the World wearing only a thin shirt. When he was found, his entire body was severely frostbitten, yet he had still wrapped the suitcase tightly in rags to protect those long-vanished names.

He had crossed Mount Everest through sheer willpower. As for how he had managed to endure it, he chose to remain silent.

He now hugged his suitcase and survived by collecting gruel at the recruitment grounds, grateful in his heart for the local warlord's generosity.

Although the gruel was thin and watery, he was still immensely grateful. After all, Terra had been embroiled in warfare for thousands of years, and rulers wise enough to provide starving wanderers with relief food were exceedingly rare.

He drank the gruel with relish, enjoying the rare feeling of fullness he experienced that day. Then his nimble eyes swept around, sizing up the Recruitment Plaza.

The plaza was vast, its ground paved with bluestone and its perimeter surrounded by towering walls. It could accommodate tens of thousands of people at once. The Recruitment Office stood deep within the plaza, accepting applications while providing genetic testing.

Based on the test results, the Recruitment Office recommended qualified young men to legions better suited to their genetic traits, allowing them to make better use of their innate advantages.

The crowd formed a long line. At a glance, every kind of person could be seen.

There were nobles wearing family insignia, soldiers in uniform, ragged wilderness wanderers, and even gang members.

The young man shook his head, utterly baffled.

These people were a motley crowd of wildly varying quality, yet without exception, they were offering themselves—even their sons—to their lords to take part in Terra's brutal wars.

He had heard that the lord of this land called himself the "Emperor," and had sworn to unify Terra and bring unity to humanity's homeworld.

"What a magnificent ideal!" The young man drank the last mouthful of gruel, licked the residue clean from the bowl, and slowly rose. In a sincere tone, he said, "I wish you success!"

Since the Machine Revolt, humanity's homeworld had suffered devastation and been left covered in wounds.

Countless heroes had risen in an attempt to end the chaos, only to be swallowed by the wars. The grand ambition of unifying humanity, or the dream of returning to deep space, had yet to be realized by anyone.

He returned the bowl to the relief station with both hands, extremely polite, then hugged his suitcase and sat back down in the corner, waiting for tomorrow's relief.

A calmness showed in the young man's pitch-black eyes, yet his gaze was extraordinarily fervent as it swept over the tall warriors.

They stood atop the walls and throughout the plaza, clad in power armor and proudly thrusting out their chests. They stood out like cranes among chickens.

A small giant turned his head to look over from afar. The young man immediately lowered his head. Those genetically modified warriors had keen senses and were immensely powerful.

His eyes revealed deep envy. He had already undergone genetic testing a few days earlier, and the results had been quite good.

His genes were extremely pure and of excellent quality, but he had not passed the selection.

He was already twenty-one. Though he was at the peak of human physical ability, he had missed the optimal age window for genetic modification.

According to insiders, the best stage for modifying new gene-enhanced soldiers was adolescence. The older they were afterward, the greater the risks of modification.

The risks did not matter to someone who wanted to gain strength and acquire even the slightest foothold in Terra's terrifying wars. To him, there was no such thing as risk.

Ultimately, the Emperor was unwilling to waste time and resources on unnecessary supplies in exchange for an unstable chance of success.

The young man had also rejected becoming an auxiliary soldier. His pride would not allow him to become a servant.

He tugged at the rags on his body, covering himself as much as possible to avoid absorbing too much radioactive dust and developing skin diseases.

He quite liked this corner. It was close to Recruitment Office Twenty-First, and it was quiet and comfortable.

Perhaps it was a special military branch. Hardly anyone seemed to apply here, and the Recruitment Office staff were quite idle.

What the young man did not know was that many people in the plaza were watching him from his corner, their expressions strange.

Recruitment Office Twenty-First was known by insiders as the "Death Recruitment Office." To this day, not one person had survived its genetic modification surgery.

Earlier, the area before Office Twenty-First had also been bustling with people. Applicants had eagerly signed up, offering their lives to the Emperor.

Later, news that no one had survived the modification surgery for several consecutive months spread among the nobles by word of mouth. Gradually, fewer and fewer people applied at Twenty-First.

To date, countless outstanding candidates had lost their lives during the modification experiments, dying on the operating table.

Giving one's life for the Emperor and disregarding life and death was naturally one's duty, but no one was willing to die a humiliating death on an operating table.

Several powerful old families had already warned their members internally not to go to Recruitment Office Twenty-First.

To waste precious lives on a modification surgery that meant certain death would be to betray the Emperor's expectations, disgrace one's family, and invite ridicule from others.

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

Tens of thousands had gone in, and not one had come out alive. The one-hundred-percent death rate had yet to be broken.

Pity, mockery, schadenfreude, and, above all, anticipation mingled together as countless gazes met and repeatedly swept over the young man.

Recruitment Office Twenty-First was no shelter from the storm.

As fewer volunteers presented themselves, the Gene-Warlock had already begun grabbing people nearby. Perhaps the poor wanderer would be seized for an experiment the very next moment.

The young man knew nothing of this. He had no superhuman senses, and quietly leaned against the corner with his suitcase, resting to avoid wasting energy and ensure he could hold out until the next bowl of gruel.

"Where are the people here?"

Just as the young man was about to fall asleep, he heard a voice. Never before had he been able to sense so directly, from a voice alone, the power contained within its owner.

It was low and resonant, like spring thunder exploding beside his ear, like sunlight scattering the gloom that shrouded his heart.

His sleepiness vanished. The young man propped himself up and craned his neck to look over. A golden-armored warrior stood there, wearing exquisite golden armor and a golden helmet topped with a red plume, a red cloak hanging behind him and a spear in his hand.

"My lord!"

Cries of alarm filled the air with reverence, countless voices merging into respectful calls. Within the Recruitment Plaza, the surging crowd retreated like a receding tide, and everyone prostrated themselves on the ground, shouting, "My lord!"

Everyone present trembled. All were shaken by the golden-armored warrior's appearance. The Custodes had appeared—it was as if the Emperor himself had arrived.

The young man quietly swallowed and forcibly suppressed the urge to worship. His eyes remained fixed on the golden figure, filled with longing for that kind of power.

Is he the lord of this place?

Perhaps only a lord was worthy of possessing such power. Only a lord could have such majesty and nobility.

The Gene-Warlock behind the Custodes stepped forward and explained in a somewhat awkward whisper, "My lord, after more than ten thousand failures, many people have lost faith in Recruitment Office Twenty-First. No noble heir or military family can endure such endless losses for long."

"They sent their finest heirs to undergo Astartes modification, only to receive tragic news and corpses in return."

The Custodes pondered for a moment, then nodded, the plume atop his helmet swaying in the wind. "I understand."

After saying this, he stepped forward. His power armor stamped across the bluestone road, metal and stone performing a symphony together. His spear struck the ground with a clang, ringing loudly.

His grand, deep voice rang across the Recruitment Plaza through the amplifier in his helmet: "I am the Emperor's personal guard! I need a warrior willing to give his life!"

"Whoa!"

The crowd prostrated on the ground—almost everyone raised their arms, and not one person backed down. They all eagerly volunteered.

Even though they understood that once the Custodes walked out through the doors of Twenty-First, certain death awaited beyond.

"Very good!" The Custodes was extremely satisfied and prepared to choose a high-quality young man. Just then, his superhuman senses caught a scrutinizing gaze.

He turned around and saw a ragged wanderer half-lying in a distant corner, propping himself up with both hands and staring at him eagerly.

The young man's thin body was weak to the extreme, his gaunt face yellow and sallow. Only his eyes were clear and bright. They held no feverish worship, but rather scrutiny and assessment.

The Custodes frowned beneath his golden helmet. He hated being looked at with such scrutiny, but the desire for power in those eyes burned like fire.

Then the Custodes's superhuman mind turned slightly, and an idea surfaced.

The Gene-Warlock had once said that Recruitment Office Twenty-First's Primarch did not care about the recipient's age, and had an extremely high compatibility rate. Anyone would do.

He raised his golden arm, pressed his middle and index fingers together, and pointed toward the weak wanderer in the corner. "How about him?"

(A left-zero and right-fire! Thunder God, aid me! Bring on the recommendation tickets!)