[The Emperor, the Primarchs, and the Sigillites have been gone for a century...]
Crossed out, rewritten.
[The Age of Myth has ended.]
Crossed out.
The man at the desk let out a long sigh. He tossed aside the old-fashioned quill pen that hardly anyone used anymore and slowly rose to his feet.
He looked to be around fifty, with a head of graying, unruly hair and a face carved with deep lines, as though he had spent a long time living a harsh life. His skin was extremely rough, and the fingers that held the pen were twisted beyond recognition, bringing to mind discarded steel left in the corners of factories...
He walked to the window and lit himself a cigarette. It belonged to a brand that had only appeared four years ago, with an awkward, hard-to-remember name that did not even sound much like High Gothic. There were even rumors among the people that it was a local specialty from the homeland of those pointy-eared abhumans.
The man did not believe that. He had never seen an Aeldari smoke... Wait, was it Aeldari, Aeldar, or Eldrad?
Damn it, how were their names supposed to be pronounced again?
Frowning, the man casually removed the cigarette and thought hard for quite a while before finally deciding to give up. He would just follow the crowd and call them pointy-ears. He took several hurried drags, smoked half of it, then pinched it out with his fingers and tucked it behind his ear before turning and walking out the door of his house.
Outside, the sun blazed in a cloudless sky, and the rice fields in the distance lay in silence. The man squinted beneath the scorching sunlight as he surveyed his surroundings, his fingers twitching out of habit.
He strolled forward a