Where Are We Going, Dad

Existence here was difficult to describe using the physical laws of a conventional universe.

This was neither the surging, violent sea of consciousness known as the Warp, nor the cold, solid realm of matter that was the real universe. It was an interstice, a projection, a... corner of narrative. Countless fine bands of light slowly turned through indescribable dimensions like flowing galaxies or pages being flipped. Within each ribbon was the faint reflection of some world's joys and sorrows, rise and fall, life and death.

Amid this magnificent yet desolate plane, a small apartment of antique, even somewhat worn style floated peacefully. Inside, warm lighting dispelled the chaos beyond. A floor covered in old velvet carpeting, bookshelves packed with weighty tomes, and a dark wooden table polished to a gleam created the peculiar warmth of a "home."

Malcador—the Emperor of Mankind's ancient and loyal advisor—sat upright in a high-backed chair beside the wooden table. Frail and gaunt beneath a simple gray robe, he held a crystalline wafer seemingly woven from pure light. Countless tiny symbols and images flowed across it, one of which was an aerial view of the Southern Highlands and the city of Ralte on Colchis Star. His wrinkled face bore an eternal exhaustion and contemplation, as though it carried the weight of ages.

Just then, the apartment's utterly ordinary wooden door creaked open.

A figure stepped inside with light, almost cheerful little steps utterly at odds with his status and the majestic, sacred image usually associated with him. Golden light... excessively brilliant and tangible golden light, as though he came with his own spotlight, enveloped him so completely that his features could not be made out at first. All one could feel was a life force as vast as a sea of stars, yet now seeming somewhat... exhilarated.

"Old Mal! Did you see it? Did you see it?" A delighted voice rang out, brimming with undisguised pride. "That little soul we sent over did a huge job! Korfalon is dead! Good death! Pop the champagne... ah, I mean, it's worth celebrating!"

The glow receded slightly, revealing the Emperor of Mankind—or, more accurately, one of his "avatars" in this plane? A smile almost like that of a child who had successfully pulled off a prank rested on his face as he walked to the chair opposite Malcador and sat down casually, wholly unconcerned with how his magnificent robes, seemingly woven from stellar matter, clashed with the plain wooden chair.

Malcador slowly raised his eyelids and gently set the light-crystal wafer on the table. His eyes, which had witnessed all the vicissitudes of time, held their usual depth—and a trace of... plainly visible confusion.

"My lord," Malcador said in a hoarse, steady voice like worn sandpaper, "Korfalon's premature death has indeed disturbed the established threads of fate to some extent, delaying Lorgar's... the Primarch's fated path from becoming entangled too early with certain negative influences. Judging from the results, your 'Where Are We Going, Dad' operation can, at this stage, be called... effective."

He paused, looking directly at the Emperor's still-smiling face, and asked the question that seemed to have been held in for a long time.

"However, my lord, I have had a question ever since the plan was first implemented—indeed, since even earlier." Malcador's tone was one of pure incomprehension. "We used that rift to send a 'system' and a transport device bearing initial coordinates to that compatible soul. Why did its external form... have to be modeled after a 'large truck'?"

He raised a withered finger and gestured in the air. "That enormous, boxy vehicle generally used for hauling cargo, called a truck? In terms of energy efficiency, spatial-fold stability, and even the aesthetics of traversing planes, there seem to have been better options. For example, the form of a meteor, or at least a beam of light more consistent with ordinary expectations?"

The Emperor's smile froze for an instant before changing into a serious expression that said, You simply don't understand, do you? He leaned forward slightly, light flashing in his golden eyes.

"Tradition! Old Mal, this is tradition! Do you understand?" His tone was utterly resolute, as though he were stating a fundamental law of the universe. "Certain forms of 'accidental' intervention, especially those involving major matters such as the transfer of souls and the changing of fate, must be accompanied by a particular vehicle form with symbolic significance! This is one of the unwritten rules embedded in the underlying logic of narrative! A large truck—especially one that charges in out of control, as though guided by fate itself—is an enduring classic with exceptional results!"

"..."

Malcador silently watched the Emperor, and the wrinkles on his face seemed to deepen. He tried to find even a trace of jest in the Emperor's gleaming, self-righteous expression, but failed. In the end, he merely sighed softly and gave up pursuing the matter. Arguing over the necessity of "tradition" with an existence who had lived too long, possessed too much power, and was extraordinarily stubborn about certain aesthetic preferences—or rather, perverse tastes—was usually futile.

He returned the conversation to the proper subject and lightly tapped the light-crystal wafer on the table. The image changed, showing Zhou Beichen writing furiously beneath lamplight, refining the details of the "work-point system."

"The souls from the narrative plane are indeed special in essence," Malcador said slowly, his usual calm and analytical tone restored. "They were not born from the material or psychic foundations of our universe. To a certain extent, the weight of their existence is closer to... the story itself. Therefore, once they are sent here and become part of the story, the variables they introduce and their ability to interfere with predetermined paths of fate far exceed anything we could accomplish by acting directly."

He raised his gaze to the Emperor. "We cannot directly interfere with the real universe on a large scale, especially not with the fates of such important beings as the Primarchs. That would trigger unpredictable backlash and might even awaken more terrifying entities. But these souls from the 'narrative layer' are themselves regarded as reasonable variables within the 'story.' So long as their actions conform to the underlying logic of the world they inhabit—even if that logic involves concepts we find somewhat... unusual, such as 'investment' and 'work points'—the changes they bring about will, to a certain extent, be 'digested' and 'accepted' by the universe itself."

"Like tossing a stone into a pond. The ripples will spread on their own," the Emperor added, his smile returning with the satisfaction of one who had everything under control. "What we cannot do—or rather, dare not do lightly—can be accomplished through these 'stones.' They think they are striving for 'fries' or 'lying flat,' but without realizing it, they are prying the gears of fate on our behalf."

His gaze also settled on the light-crystal wafer, watching Zhou Beichen's face, somewhat haggard from calculation and toil yet sharp-eyed.

"This little fellow called Zhou Beichen is quite interesting. His way of thinking, his methods, are utterly unlike those of any faction or philosophy we know. He does not care about holiness, only practicality; he does not pursue eternity, only calculate gains and losses. It is precisely this complete otherness that makes him the most suitable... hammer for breaking Lorgar's shackles of fate." The Emperor stroked his chin. "It is simply that when this hammer is swung, even I am somewhat... eager to see what it will eventually forge."

Malcador nodded slightly in agreement, though a trace of worry still lingered between his brows. "The variable has already been introduced, and the river of fate has begun to change course. But, my lord, have you considered that when this hammer becomes too powerful, when the order it establishes becomes too stable, and even begins in turn to influence Lorgar's own ideals..."

"Wouldn't that be even more interesting?" the Emperor interrupted, his golden eyes gleaming with an almost dangerous light. "A Primarch who no longer follows the blueprint I designed completely, but incorporates foreign ways of thinking and walks a new path? A Lorgar who might escape his destined tragedy and truly build some kind of... 'Earthly Heaven' that even I never envisioned? Old Mal, don't you think that would be more worth watching than mechanically repeating that tiresome script?"

Malcador fell silent for a moment before finally saying slowly, "Risks and opportunities coexist. I only hope this 'Where Are We Going, Dad' that you are watching with such enthusiasm will not ultimately turn into an 'Imperial Collapse' that... neither of us can control."

"Relax, relax." The Emperor waved a hand, his manner easy. "The script has only just turned to a new page. Besides, isn't there still me?"