God knew how long it would take.
Evan watched Mathieu pray fervently in the Plague Marsh, watched the Deathwatch warriors come under attack from the Necrons, and watched a band of Pilgrims charge a swarm of Genestealers while chanting the Emperor's name.
He could not make out many details through the Pilgrims' eyes, either. The "Chaplain" called the Genestealers locusts gnawing away at the Imperium... or something like that. The Imperium of Man had far too many dialects, yet he could directly understand the words of those praying to him, making Evan feel as though he had known those tongue-twisting dialects for ages.
The number of wars across the Galaxy had multiplied several times over. Although the year 888 had passed, these unfinished wars would continue feeding Khorne power for some time.
Evan's mind was in utter turmoil, but he still noticed that the number of prayers coming from this war seemed to be dwindling. At least, he was receiving fewer.
These bastards buzzing around in my head never stop pestering me. Evan wanted to curse them out, but there was nothing he could say. Most of them died as soon as they finished praying.
Many faced enemies they could never defeat.
Every time the question of why they were so helpless surfaced in Evan's mind, another voice would wearily answer: survivorship bias. It was no different when humans slaughtered other species.
That voice was growing fainter and fainter.
Evan was different from the Emperor.
The Emperor had been tempered by untold ages, and he pitied humanity's fate.
Evan, however, was cold enough, because this place was unfamiliar enough to him.
He was an ordinary man. When he saw news reports about wars and civilian casualties, he would merely sigh; when someone dear to him passed away, he would grieve.