"Let me see… it should be like this."
Fulgrim deftly slipped into the reserved maintenance duct, recalling the knowledge he had learned from the library.
During the Golden Age, humans had carefully considered maintenance needs when designing the shelters, leaving repair spaces and access ports across all systems.
But due to the technological gap, mutants never truly mastered the principles of the shelters' operation. They dared not alter the core facilities, only maintaining the most basic functions and upkeep.
Spreading his wings, Fulgrim moved lightly through the maintenance shaft and issued an order through the communicator:
"Restart it."
The mutant worker responsible for maintenance nervously rubbed his three arms together.
"But… my lord, you're still inside."
"The duct area is safe. Don't worry about me."
The worker took a deep breath and, with trembling fingers, pressed the conspicuous yellow button on the Cogitator control panel.
Buzz
With a deep mechanical hum, the lighting system of the entire sector shut off instantly. Darkness flooded the space like a rising tide.
After a brief silence, lumen lights lit one after another like stars, and cascading self-diagnostic codes poured across the screens of the cogitator array, glowing under dim blue backlight.
Fulgrim slid out of the duct, folded his wings, and stood atop the cogitator array, observing the constantly shifting parameter curves on the display.
Whenever he spotted an abnormal value, he would summon a secondary menu from the control panel to make adjustments.
With the final parameter calibrated, a holographic projection unfolded before him, displaying the current system performance level.
[60%]
Fulgrim had done everything possible to repair the shelter's ecological cycle system. Using only basic maintenance techniques, he had stabilized its operation. By recalibrating the main cogitator array and adjusting ecological parameter thresholds, productivity could be raised from 10% to 30%.
If the damaged precision instruments and radiation filtration modules could be replaced, productivity could further rise to 60%.
But with no replacements available, the core nodes destroyed during the civil war were nearly impossible to repair.
Still, the shelter's carrying capacity had recovered to 3.6 million people, enough to house all the tribal survivors struggling on Baal Secundus' surface.
.....
"Mr. Iven, your head is squashing me!"
Iven awkwardly shifted toward the car door. Fortunately, Gerard wasn't one to fuss; after all, Iven's two heads were sometimes hard to control.
Beep! Beep! Beep!
The radiation detector sounded an alarm. The driver immediately jerked the steering wheel, guiding the off-road vehicle away from the area.
This happened daily. The convoy had to carefully avoid any zones contaminated by radiation.
Their mission was to search the wastelands of Baal Secundus for scattered tribes. Whether pureblood clans with untainted lineage or mutant settlements ravaged by radiation, all were carefully marked on the map.
Once the census was complete, the two angels would personally visit each tribe, hoping to resolve conflicts through peaceful negotiation and invite them into the shelter.
Each convoy included at least two purebloods and two mutants. The angels hoped that by living and working side by side would gradually dissolve the hatred between the two that had lasted a thousand years.
Iven, as the most senior administrator of the shelter, could have lived out his days in comfortable safety.
But when the angels proposed reconciliation, he volunteered to join the convoy expedition as a role model for mutants.
Looking at the endless wasteland outside the window, he said:
"I never imagined Baal Secundus' environment was this harsh. How did you survive here?"
Gerard replied, "Compared to the shelter, this really is hell. We're just struggling to live."
They were basically forcing conversation; their backgrounds, culture, and upbringings were completely different, leaving little in common.
But Iven believed awkward conversation was better than silence. Without talking, how could common ground ever be found?
Suddenly the driver shouted:
"Dense life signals detected ahead, a lot of them!"
On the vehicle's auspex, countless crimson dots almost filled the scanning sector.
Both of Iven's heads turned toward the window.
"This is near the edge of a radiation zone. Purebloods wouldn't settle here… could they be mutants?"
"Maybe Fire Scorpions. Avoid them, head to the mountain!"
...
"Failed again…" Sanguinius murmured softly.
Under the microscope, the DNA strand snapped like a golden thread cut by invisible scissors.
Every experiment ended the same way: at the same base-pair position, the gene chain would suddenly snap, and the entire helix collapsed.
This gene sequence wasn't a natural mutation of the human genome, but an artificial implant from the Golden Age. Yet the body gave no clue what species it came from.
It was like a codebase without comments; even the Golden Age scientists who created it would be baffled by this mysterious gene.
Sanguinius could locate it, but could neither trace its origin nor understand its design or mechanism.
"This gene doesn't participate in protein synthesis, nor affect phenotype expression, yet it stubbornly blocks genetic experiments," he said. "Dad, what do you think?"
Caelan replied, "If we can't bypass it… why not try deleting it?"
When the twins studied in the library, Caelan often accompanied them.
Primarchs absorbed knowledge with astonishing efficiency; complex genetic diagrams and technical data became transparent puzzles in their minds.
But Caelan was only human. He could understand phenomena but not their deeper workings.
He couldn't operate experiments, only offer ideas.
"In M3, there was a fictional 'gene-lock' theory," Caelan said.
"t's similar to M30 humans: the body contains many genes from other species, and the lock prevents them from mutating. But humans can gradually break the lock and ascend."
"Karin, did Dr. Iven ever propose something similar?"
"My lord," Karin lowered her head, voice hesitant, "Dr. Iven noticed certain gene sequences obstructed experiments, but she treated them as mutations. I believe your theory is the truth."
Caelan shook his head, "You don't need to flatter me."
She placed a hand over her chest reverently.
"My Lord, this is not flattery."
Thoughts flickered in Sanguinius's eyes. "I'll try."
Normally, he would caution against such risk. Though the gene didn't synthesize proteins, deleting it could trigger unpredictable chain reactions. But since the idea came from his father, he had to attempt it. And the gene-lock theory, though fanciful, wasn't without logic.
Human genomes are messy. In theory, cross-species genes should cause frequent deaths, but in reality, such cases were rare, perhaps thanks to the Golden Age's "genetic lock."
From a regulatory perspective, the Golden Age "genetic lock" might be a precise gene-expression control mechanism, stabilizing conflicting species genes.
However, Baal Secundus' radiation caused mutations that bypassed the lock, producing mutants.
If the body was a prison, the genetic lock was the guards, and mutated genes were escaped prisoners.
Deleting the guards would outright free all prisoners.
Dr. Iven was essentially cultivating a "prison boss" among the escaped genes. The boss would suppress others into submission, preventing further escapes. But the lock stopped them from returning to confinement.
Her experiments and Caelan's theory aligned perfectly; perhaps that was why she failed.
Human ascension was essentially cultivating a psyker gene, and the genetic lock would eventually disappear on its own.
Dr. Iven's experiments weren't wrong in theory. But she mistook the guards for escaped genes, trying to make the boss suppress them. Naturally, the guards resisted, leading to mutual destruction and the subjects' death
Karin's repeated deaths and resurrections, culminating in her becoming a psyker, showed that righteous prisoners could overcome the guards and return to confinement.
Dr. Iven's idea wasn't entirely wrong. The boss defeating the guards was part of the ascension. All psykers were born this way.
But the induced bosses were too weak, lacking the guards' recognition, provoking violent backlash.
So if the guards obstructed evolution… remove the guards.
.....
Karin felt as though she had returned to those simple yet fulfilling days.
Every day she carefully prepared three meals, and when she saw Caelan and the two little angels enjoying the food she had cooked, gentle ripples of warmth stirred in her heart.
In the afternoons, she would meticulously clean the rooms, wiping every corner until it was spotless.
When Sanguinius and Caelan buried themselves in genetic experiments, she would quietly serve at their side, offering suggestions based on the knowledge she remembered.
She hummed softly as she folded the dried clothes neatly.
Such a life was calm and warm; this was the happiness she sought.
She was not greedy; all she wished for was to remain by her Lord's side.
It felt as though this was the very meaning of her existence.
"How wonderful…" she whispered, her voice carrying a dreamy sweetness, as if even her breath was steeped in serenity.
In that moment, she suddenly felt that fate, ever-changing, was treating her with such gentleness.
A faint, contented smile lifted the corners of her lips.
"Thank you, fate."
In her daze, she seemed to hear a soft chuckle.
"You're welcome."
...
"Brother, inject C7-13 targeting agent."
"Dosage?"
"Reduce by 11%."
"D4-21 agent, increase dosage by 17%."
The twin angel hurried around the laboratory. Sanguinius stared at the genetic diagram on the cogitator screen.
Success or failure depended on this moment.
Deleting the gene lock was simple, but he had to ensure the integrity of the chain so that the escaped genes could return to confinement.
'Delete' did not mean discarding the gene outright, but rewriting the lock. Otherwise, the chain's integrity could not be guaranteed.
Yet the gene lock was a technological masterpiece of the Golden Age. A single misstep in its base logic could cause systemic collapse.
The body was the prison, the gene lock the guard. That underlying logic would not change.
Dr. Iven's experiments had shown that mutant genes could be suppressed back into normal expression, and escaped prisoners turned into docile kittens.
Sanguinius was the legislator. He had to preserve the prison's order while drafting new judicial interpretations, granting pardons to the mutated genes so the guards would ignore them.
The prison boss would force the other genes back into confinement, while locking himself inside as their ruler.
And the foundation of this judicial rewrite was his blood.
If his blood could transform mutants into Space Marines, perhaps it could cure them.
If his experiment succeeded, this genetic sequence could save the mutants of Baal Secundus.
They might not become psykers, but they could return to being normal humans.
"Did it work?"
Sanguinius held his breath. On the Cogitator display, the double helix remained stable, while his blood's genes cooperated with the psychic prison boss to calm the savage mutations.
So far, everything was going smoothly.
At first, the lock showed no violent reaction.
When the new judicial interpretation touched it, the mysterious sequence lay dormant, like a sleeping guard.
Sanguinius even thought they had bypassed it.
But as the experiment deepened, the once-silent lock suddenly began to restructure violently, and the helix collapsed in an instant.
"Another failure." Sanguinius sighed, though his eyes showed no discouragement.
The initial results proved his theory correct. Like the first ray of dawn in darkness, faint but guiding.
The problem now was that even if his blood was the master key, he knew too little about the lock's mechanism to break it.
But that was fine. Every failure was a step toward success.
He would not give up.
With continued study, he would one day uncover all its secrets!
"My lord," Karin stood at the door. "It's time to eat."
Sanguinius didn't turn. "Dad, brother, you go first."
Fulgrim wrapped his arms around his brother's neck from behind.
"Didn't Father teach us? Obsession makes you lose your way. You wouldn't neglect your family for the sake of experiments, would you?"
Sanguinius blinked. "Brother, that's a false equivalence."
He wasn't so obsessed that he'd skip meals. And with a Primarch's physique, he didn't need to eat three times a day.
"Rituals are vital to maintaining humanity." Fulgrim tapped his brother's nose with a fingertip, an almost childish gesture that contrasted with his serious tone. "Besides, I'm your older brother. You listen to me!"
"What if you and Dad disagree?"
"Isn't that obvious? Then listen to Dad. But this time he supports me!" Fulgrim straightened proudly.
Caelan nodded solemnly, "Sanguinius, you should eat."
"…Alright." Sanguinius nodded obediently.
Fulgrim asked, "Sister Karin, what are we eating today?"
She smiled gently.
"Cream of mushroom soup and pan-seared steak. I added extra cream, and Lord Sanguinius' favorite fruit, and coffee."
Sanguinius grimaced. He didn't actually like coffee, only sweets.
Fruit was good.
He had to add sugar to coffee, but too much annoyed his Father. Fulgrim didn't like coffee either.
Well, no matter. Time to eat.
....
"Sevatar."
Curze's voice echoed in the dim room.
"Today at noon, I want cream of mushroom soup and pan-seared steak."
"My lord, how would you like the steak cooked?"
"Rare."
Sevatar quietly notified the Atramentar through the comm channel.
He clearly remembered Curze, once uninterested in eating, suddenly beginning regular meals, even on the battlefield, he would take time to dine.
The Midnight Phantom now maintained a mortal chef team gathered from planetary governors' palaces across many worlds, specializing in ancient Terran cuisine.
Before each meal, they prepared dishes, waiting only for Curze's command to serve them.
The meals weren't luxurious, but they were diverse.
Leftovers weren't wasted either; the Night Lords and mortal crew could enjoy them.
Sevatar didn't need to guess:
Caelan was dining with the other Primarchs.
Curze wanted a sense of belonging.
On Nostramo, they had eaten corpse-starch, gnawed straight from the block, with no need for shared meals.
The revolution had just succeeded, and then Caelan left.
The Primarchs had little chance for such moments. Curze's heart ached.
Sevatar sympathized, even understood his jealousy.
So he decided: he would report all these matters in detail to Sister Dorothy, letting Sister Dorothy properly care for the Curze's mental health.
Otherwise, even if the Primarch didn't go mad, Sevatar himself would.
Sevatar looked at the arriving Atramentar who had hurried over and immediately frowned: "Why only one serving?"
The Atramentar exchanged uneasy glances. "Lord Sevatar... does the Primarch need two servings?"
"The Primarch only needs one," Sevatar said flatly.
"But where is mine?"
....
Name change to cannon
Leon -> Jago Sevatarion, Nickname: Sevatar
.....
15 chapter ahead in [email protected]/DaoistJinzu