A storm.
A storm.
Morgana's eyes were tightly shut. She felt a wave of nausea and fatigue, and the coppery taste of blood welled up in her throat. Again and again, she had to swallow, forcing it back down.
Even so, she could still feel the raw, metallic tang lingering between her teeth, and a thin, icy trickle of blood escaping the corner of her mouth, slowly trailing down her cheek.
But Morgana no longer cared. She was stabilizing her thoughts, carefully assessing her current situation. She seemed to open her eyes, but there was only pure darkness before her. She seemed to move her limbs, yet couldn't budge an inch.
Faced with this predicament, Morgana paradoxically calmed down. She quickly recalled having experienced something similar before. With the backing of memory and past experience, her slight panic quickly subsided.
She began to think, to recall, to analyze that bizarre storm.
It was an unremarkable star system, one without even a name. The Unbending Truth, belonging to the First Legion, with over a hundred warships in tow, made a brief stop and reorganized here, awaiting another fleet.
It was then that Morgana sensed something: she detected a peculiar psychic aura on a lifeless world within this star system. Driven by curiosity, after submitting a request to Lion El'Jonson, she took Zahariel and about a hundred Dark Angels to this dead world.
The truth quickly became clear: this world had once been an outpost and laboratory for an ancient psychic empire. The experiment, however, had come to an abrupt end due to a cataclysm, leaving behind only that psychic-emitting test subject.
But just as Morgana approached it, the storm struck.
In an instant, the entire star system seemed to plunge into the Immaterium. A hurricane composed of pure aetheric particles and unknown malice swept through the entire fleet in the blink of an eye. Communicators were immediately flooded with the chaotic shouts of countless captains and high-ranking knight-commanders.
Yet, this cacophony only lasted a second in Morgana's ears, because in the very next second, the entire lifeless world was completely engulfed by the warp storm. They could no longer receive any information from the outside.
Fortunately, the small warship, having been docked in a low orbit, narrowly escaped this calamity. After waiting for approximately nine Terra Standard Hours, the storm, so chaotic that even Morgana found it bewildering, ceased as abruptly as it began, leaving behind only a perfectly clear starry sky after its furious rampage.
The Dark Angels returned to their small warship, started it up, and then stared in shock: the scene before them had completely changed. Both the First Legion's grand fleet and the nameless star system had vanished. All that remained before their eyes were constantly shifting, distorted colors.
The Navigators on board confirmed it repeatedly, and even Morgana herself intervened, finally ascertaining one thing: they were in the Immaterium.
This dead world had been directly swept into the vast ocean of the Immaterium by the storm. As for why the barrier between this world and the Immaterium was so fragile, perhaps only the Eldar, now turned to dust, knew the answer.
Nevertheless, after a brief discussion between Morgana and Zahariel, they reached a conclusion: they had to immediately sail out of the Immaterium, ascertain their position in the real universe, and then return to the Legion.
Morgana was even more anxious than Zahariel and any of the Dark Angels, which surprised Lion El'Jonson's knights.
Of course, they were destined not to guess the true reason, allowing various scattered speculations to spread through the Legion's communications.
And Morgana didn't care.
——————
It was to partake in the feast brought by the death of a Primarch that Morgana had joined the Dark Angels Legion, endlessly fighting for her life in this war, diligently serving.
And in these days, her instincts were telling her with increasing clarity that the day of the feast was drawing ever closer. A once glorious Primarch was, at the far end of the galaxy, facing the destiny of death for his hypocrisy, his sins, his cowardice, and his surrender.
If she were to miss this feast because of this unfathomable storm, it would be a colossal joke.
She had to get back quickly, no matter who or what stood in her way.
——————
For Morgana, the Immaterium was not a repressive realm. In fact, the power she could wield here was perhaps ten times her limit in the real universe.
In this world, devoid of rules, time, right, or wrong, the only things Morgana needed to contend with were her own folly and recklessness, and the only things she needed to fear were her own arrogance and greed.
After all, she was not Magnus.
But even so, as if the arrival of spring awakened a frozen river, in this world overflowing with supreme power, Morgana's Sea of Consciousness was instinctively roused. Memories and fragments of all kinds swept over her like a biting wind, finally enveloping her after the Primarch chose to slumber, and once again bringing her to a familiar place.
——————
A dim room.
Interlacing pipes.
A stasis pod.
A towering figure, enveloped in pure golden light.
Familiar scenes, familiar elements, familiar sensations.
Morgana instinctively tried to move her limbs, only to find, without surprise, that she was trapped in a small body, just like an experience from long ago. She was witnessing a past unknown to her, through a kind of immersive perspective.
So, when she saw the tall golden figure approach, she simply abandoned all struggle and thought, choosing instead to listen, watch, and record. She was certain that every scene she witnessed would help her in the future.
She saw that golden figure, her creator, the architect of all her suffering and struggles: the Emperor. They would all refer to him thus, with fear, adoration, and ambition.
And by the Emperor's side, she saw that somewhat hunched figure. Morgana remembered his name: Malcador, the Sigillite, the de facto administrator of Holy Terra. His reputation echoed through the myriad worlds of the Imperium, always associated with sycophancy, gloom, and terrible exploitation.
But at this moment, he was merely the humblest of servants, standing by like an eager student, listening to the Emperor's dispassionate words.
"We succeeded, Malcador. Exactly twenty sets, no more, no less."
"It's just a pity that not all of them meet my expectations. Some of them have obvious problems and shortcomings. Our remedial measures are merely locking the stable door after the horse has bolted; they cannot fundamentally resolve these issues."
The Emperor stood there, in the center of the room, scanning one stasis pod after another, as if a blacksmith arrogantly admired his forged swords. Only when he saw a particular individual would his gaze linger longer, flashing with a more ruthless hue and light.
"You know, Malcador, some are failures, or rather, inferior products. They haven't met my expectations."
"Number two… and…"
"Number eleven."
"They are the two with the worst aptitude. I even doubt if they can complete the tasks I entrust them with, without disappointing me."
Malcador seemed to sigh, or perhaps he merely stood there, his voice tinged with worry and human weakness.
"Even so, my Lord, I still don't believe that subjecting them to further modifications would be a good idea, especially Number Eleven. We are almost going against the true essence of a Primarch, my Lord, and this will lead to problems."
"If we only fear problems, then we will accomplish nothing, Malcador."
"Psionics may be an irreversible trend, but that doesn't mean we can completely yield to it. In fact, Malcador, my friend, you know that in my heart, if humanity could break free from the curse of psionics, that would be a truly beautiful path. However, I also know how faint the possibility of that path is."
"Perhaps we will never tread that path, but we can try; we can leave behind a necessary means to deal with the smallest future possibility. Therefore, I tasked Number Eleven with this responsibility. He will forge his own epic in the real universe; absolute rationality and calculation are my gifts."
"Absolute rationality is not purely a good thing, my Lord. Sacrifice and devotion rely on the burning flame of emotion within the heart, allowing them to sustain the light of courage to accomplish one miracle after another."
"But rationality is different, my Lord. At the end of rationality resides not humanity, but absolute beasts."
"Moreover, at the Primarch level, we cannot artificially create Untouchables, my Lord. We are merely taking shortcuts."
"We sculpted Number Eleven into an Untouchable, but we all know that he cannot be an Untouchable. This is a fundamental paradox."
"A paradox will not prevent him from wielding his power to make his contribution to truly great endeavors."
"Malcador, my friend."
"This is both an experiment and a comparison, and also a small test to alleviate some of my doubts."
"For a long time, we have lived beneath this ocean of unpredictable moods. The future and peace of our species depend on the inherent tranquility of the sea itself. Even the beasts within the sea are regarded as divine entities, receiving undeserved worship."
"But now, Malcador, I will answer this question; I will devise new approaches; I will erase the doubts in my heart: can we abandon life on land, grow fish scales and gills, and become a creature entirely of the ocean? Is this evolutionary choice beneficial to our species?"
"Whether we can succeed, whether we need to concern ourselves with new things, whether we will be swallowed by those monstrous beasts of the ocean – these are the most crucial questions. And I can tell you, my friend, I do not wish for this path to be humanity's choice."
"And another idea is more desperate and realistic, my friend. I do not wish to conceal this idea, because I am very curious: if we were to leave the ocean and journey to the deepest parts of the inland, becoming a people completely unconnected to the sea, would we be able to continue to endure and prosper?"
"So, I modified them—Number Two and Number Eleven. One completely embraced the ocean's power and curse, while the other completely distanced himself from the ocean, even becoming the ocean's curse."
"This is an experiment, Malcador, an expensive experiment, but I have a way to make it worth every penny."
"And all they have to do is accept their names and identities, bear their missions and sufferings, and then pay some price for something greater. That is all."
"It's not difficult."
——————
The arrogant golden beast strode proudly out of the room, his attendant following closely, still brewing a belly full of ideas… or conspiracies.
Morgana watched his retreating figure, silently, as he gradually disappeared. Then, a black tide instantly swept over her consciousness, gradually erasing the room from her vision.
Her mind was quiet, calm. The epithets that once could ignite at least a flicker of flame in her heart, such as "failure," now no longer evoked any anger in her.
Morgana did not hate the Emperor. She did not hate the person who created her suffering, for she did not even possess the emotion of "hatred." How could she hate a person?
But this did not mean Morgana planned to be her creator's obedient child in the future. In Morgana's projected future, she would eventually encounter the Emperor on the battlefield. When that time came, there would only be war, betrayal, and absolute power between them.
After all, she didn't hate the Emperor.
It was simply that in her future, there was no place for the Emperor.
Just as in the Emperor's future, there was no place for Morgana.
And as long as her creator stood there, Morgana's future would never arrive.
——————
The Lord of Mankind slowly walked out of the room, Malcador following closely behind him.
Their pace was not quick. It was only after some time that the Lord of Mankind slowly moved his body to a place where light could not reach him. Here, one could still faintly see the weak light reflected from the stasis pods.
And so, this ruthless, despicable, greedy, and arrogant Lord of Mankind, in a place where no one could see him, in the darkest corner of the corridor, in a place where he did not need to fulfill any responsibilities, bear any hopes, establish any authority, or contemplate any schemes, looked at the only old friend he could trust at that moment.
Sighing.
"Malcador, my friend."
"My children, you say…"
"What should I do with them…?"
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