Kharn couldn't remember what Belisarius Cawl had done to him.
He only remembered many terrifying mechanical appendages extending from under Belisarius Cawl's robes, tearing at his body, separating his flesh, and cutting his organs.
It was painful, the pain of flesh being ripped, genes being sculpted, and the body being reshaped.
But Kharn silently accepted it all; he was accustomed to pain.
Even now, he was immersed in boundless suffering.
Raum and Alexander helped him suppress the rage brought by the Butcher's Nails, allowing Kharn to maintain some sanity, but the pain from the Butcher's Nails could not be eliminated.
Or rather, Kharn was unwilling to eliminate this pain; he willingly let this suffering torment his soul, torment his everything.
This was the punishment Kharn inflicted upon himself, the pain he chose.
It was also Kharn' way of getting closer to him, trying to understand him, trying to approach him.
"Father," Kharn murmured softly.
Burning red gravel struck Kharn' face. The sky was vast and crimson, the earth boundless and orange-yellow. In the distance, the mountains were rugged and menacing, outlining the edge of a wild world.
A fierce wind blew, carrying the clashing of weapons and the wails of battlefields, making one shiver. It was as if the gale was cleansing the world of all superfluous things, leaving behind a bloody land, engulfing all who dared to resist.
But Kharn had long been accustomed to all this; he had created countless horrific massacres in his life, and this world before him could not frighten him.
Yet, this world suddenly struck a chord in Kharn' heart, seemingly summoning his soul to a non-existent homeland.
He vaguely felt that his head didn't hurt as much.
Kharn was confused; he didn't know why he was here.
In his memory, he should have been on Archmagos Belisarius Cawl's operating table.
But he unexpectedly felt that he belonged here, that this should be his destination.
His soul should return here; this might have been his homeland. Kharn had such a feeling for no apparent reason.
Then, Kharn heard cheers.
It was the cheers of liberation. Slaves poured out of the arena, breaking their shackles with rocks from the mountains.
They had gained freedom, breathing the air of the world with fervent intensity, as if they would give anything for this moment of liberty.
They sang, they gathered, they praised resistance, liberation, and freedom.
The gladiators sharpened the blades in their hands. This time, they didn't have to swing their swords to please the audience; they would swing them for themselves.
A dancer with a broken leg laughed and jumped onto a table, dancing an unchoreographed dance with her prosthetic limb, not for her master, but for her brothers.
Yes, brothers, brothers not by blood, brothers in freedom, brothers in resistance, brothers in liberation.
They were not connected by blood; they were connected by resistance.
These songs and laughter flooded into Kharn' mind, making him shed tears involuntarily.
These emotions were so vibrant and bright that even the Butcher's Nails, hammered into his skull by the slave masters, didn't feel as painful.
Slave masters? What slave masters? Kharn' expression flickered with confusion.
He couldn't remember clearly; his mind was a mess.
He only remembered that the slave masters had besieged them seven times, massacred them seven times, trapped them seven times, and failed to destroy them seven times.
The slave masters' brutal attacks did not break them. Not a single liberated slave betrayed him. It wasn't because they groveled before him, but because they were his brothers and sisters.
Either be a free man, or die as a free man.
Every brother and sister said this.
They did not grovel to anyone, nor did they need anyone to grovel to them.
They were free men, free men of destiny.
But he also felt immeasurable pain.
The Butcher's Nails buzzed, urging him to kill everything in sight, depriving him of his ability to think normally.
He painfully overcame this urge.
What pained him even more was that the rationality that occasionally emerged made him realize that if he still had a normal brain, he could definitely lead his brothers and sisters to truly defeat these slave masters.
But he no longer had one; his brain, full of madness, rage, and suffering, could do nothing.
In fact, if not for the bright, vibrant, resistant, and caring emotions of his brothers and sisters still nourishing his soul and guarding his will, he would have gone mad long ago.
This was his innate ability, to empathize with others, to resonate with their emotions.
He once used this ability to protect his brothers and sisters; now, his brothers and sisters used it to protect him.
It was the brothers and sisters who gathered tightly around him who protected him, preventing rage and madness from killing him, preventing him from going completely insane.
But his brothers and sisters were dying.
Perhaps even fate sought to destroy them. A rare cold snap engulfed the mountains where they lived. No food grew in the ground, and wild beasts disappeared.
He cut off his own flesh and distributed it among his brothers and sisters, but it was ultimately a drop in the ocean. More and more brothers were consumed by hunger and cold, and the Butcher's Nails in his head hurt more and more.
The slave masters took advantage of their weakness, driving them into the valley, to the brink of death.
But his brothers and sisters smiled. They sang songs of triumph, welcoming this final battle.
Either be a free man, or die as a free man.
Yes, that's how it was.
His free, loving brothers and sisters stood by his side.
Until he was taken away, from the slaughter, from the last moment, from his brothers and sisters.
His father, the man who claimed to be his father and the Emperor, took him away.
He hadn't actually heard what the man said.
His soul remained in that valley, among his brothers and sisters.
His emotions were connected to theirs. This was his innate ability, the ability his father had given him.
Every single one, on the void-ship, he could still clearly perceive the emotions of every brother and sister, perceive their existence.
He could also perceive them extinguishing one by one, dying in an almost torturous slaughter.
He could clearly perceive the emotions of each of them before death, feel the cruel torments they suffered, feel the raw pain.
Until the last brother or sister died under the slave masters' butcher's knife.
Until all the caring and bright emotions that supported and protected his soul were extinguished.
Until he realized that not a single brother or sister hated him for deserting them until their deaths,
They blessed him with immense love and care, hoping that his father could remove the Butcher's Nails from him.
Then, he went mad, completely mad.
The Butcher's Nails had long since ravaged his soul and will beyond recognition.
It was by his talent for perceiving others' emotions, by the bright emotions of his brothers and sisters, that he had barely maintained his sanity until now.
Now, all of that was gone.
He looked up blankly and painfully at the golden man before him, who claimed to be his father.
He felt the man's emotions.
It was a cold, dead, destructive black sun.
And so, he went mad, completely mad, letting rage consume his everything.
He became a slave again.
Kharn gasped, feeling a spiritual shock, and his heart pounded at the sight he had just witnessed.
He vaguely realized what he had seen, but couldn't understand why he had seen it.
Kharn was in a daze, and suddenly noticed he was standing in a valley, where many gravestones stood, clearly a graveyard.
He subconsciously looked around and saw, not far from him, a tall, bronze-skinned man, dressed in gladiator attire, with shackles wrapped around his arms and legs.
The man gently knelt before a gravestone and wiped away the dust with his large hand.
He noticed Kharn' gaze, looked up at Kharn, and gave him a simple, honest smile.
Kharn immediately felt the rage and pain in his emotions flow towards him.
"Who are you?" Kharn asked, knowing the answer, blurting it out.
"Who am I? You saw it, didn't you? I am a failure."
The man spoke gently:
"I am destined to be a slave, first to slave masters, then to the Emperor, and finally to the Chaos Gods."
"But essentially, I am a slave to destiny, a slave to my own nature."
"Only now do I understand what I am: I am the raw, disordered, unprincipled, unthinking impulse for freedom, the wildest resistance in the hearts of the most oppressed slaves."
"This is an incredibly strong emotion, an emotion that can resonate with countless oppressed people."
"But this kind of freedom, longing, and resistance of mine will not bear fruit. It is too primitive, too impulsive, unthinking, without order, only knowing how to destroy and not how to build. Ultimately, it will only lead to failure."
"And after failure, this emotion will degenerate into meaningless rage, which is me."
"I can never resist my own nature; I am fated to only receive rage and degeneration."
Kharn felt dizzy and trembled all over.
"But why are you here?" Kharn asked, trembling.
"Of course I can be here; your gene-sequence comes from me."
"You are my child—though I have never fulfilled a father's responsibility—but the Emperor, the connection he forged still links us."
"I am temporarily lingering in this world for a while. This is the only serene place left in my soul. The connection between you and me might have led you here by mistake."
The man smiled simply, revealing an expression Kharn knew he could never show.
"But, but how can you be like this, you…" Kharn was too disoriented to speak.
The man frowned slightly; he also seemed to not quite understand what Kharn was saying.
"Kharn, didn't you…" The man's words stopped abruptly; he seemed to have suddenly realized something.
Then, the man drew a ferocious chainaxe from his waist.
It was the bloodfather, a chainaxe paired with the bloodson in Kharn' hand.
"Kharn, are you ready?" The man's lips curved into a smile.
Before Kharn could speak, the bloodfather swung fiercely towards Kharn.