Lox was, by nature, an ordinary man who liked happy families. It had been his instinct since the day he was born, and even after nearly thirty thousand years had tempered him, he remained the same.
It was simply that this universe was far too dark—so dark that it could scarcely tolerate even a glimmer of humanity.
This universe was far too cold—so cold that everyone had to cast aside their warmth and kindness, bury their warm hearts deep within themselves, and face every challenge with the coldest, most ruthless demeanor.
He was no longer the Future Reinforcement Project operative who had just awakened, unfamiliar with and helpless before everything.
He had come to this era, become part of it, and would be swept onward by its current. He struggled desperately to change things, trying to rewrite that predetermined dark ending.
And in this grand opera, the Emperor and the primarchs were naturally the unquestionable protagonists. Their joys and sorrows, reunions and partings, were the anchors with the deepest-reaching consequences.
Lox was sincerely happy that Neos could get along so well with his children. Even so, he still believed that if the Emperor had started earlier—say, learning how to be a father right after creating the primarchs in the genetic laboratories—
Perhaps he had arrived too late. Otherwise, he would never have allowed the source of all these tragedies to come to pass.
"Still, who the hell threw the newborn primarchs all over the galaxy? How was that any different from murder?"
The instant that thought arose, someone on Terra suddenly frowned, sensing an intense wave of resentment.
Lox cursed inwardly. He did not know exactly how the primarchs had ended up scattered across the galaxy; Malcador had only vaguely attributed it to the effects of a Warp storm.
"My