"Excellent sword! Truly an excellent sword!"
Herakon played with the longsword admiringly, unable to put it down. He swung it in the moonlight, and branches in the courtyard snapped in response. The targets prepared by the servants were cleaved in two as if slicing through mud. It could cut through iron like mud.
Olympia had once possessed a glorious history during the Golden Age, but its technological heritage had been almost completely severed. Only a few relics of technology remained and were passed down, including the lightning gun.
The lightning gun might have been a standard military model during the Dark Age of Technology, but Olympia's technology had long since regressed. They lacked the capability to manufacture such weapons or even maintain them.
Each lightning gun was a precious relic. All of Lochos possessed only three hundred of them.
And this sword, which could cut through iron like butter, was insignificant against a lightning gun.
Herakon, as a prince, had his own lightning gun. He had very few opportunities for close combat, and his swordsmanship was not particularly outstanding.
But a love for fine swords is inherent in men, even if this sword's practical combat value was low.
"My Lord." The attendant spoke cautiously. "You haven't been this happy in a long time."
Herakon's smile slowly faded. His sword hand lowered gradually, and he murmured, "Yes."
He used to be happy every day because he was the prince, showered with love and favor.
He was Dammekos's heir. Whatever he wanted, he got. After Andos and Calliphone were born, the love he received never diminished. His parents didn't neglect him like in the storybooks, just because younger siblings were born.
When did his father stop doting on him?
Herakon remembered it was when he was fourteen.
His father's love didn't shift or change, nor had he done anything wrong.
It was simply that he had grown up.
He was no longer a child.
Although in Lochos, the age of majority was sixteen, and their sixteenth birthday was their Naming Day.
On that day, the youth of Olympia would choose the name of an ancient hero for themselves, as a symbol of remembrance and honor.
Thus, Olympians had two names, one given by their parents, and one they chose for themselves.
The Naming Day of commoners was very simple, but they would still gather friends and family for a celebration at home.
Herakon was a prince.
His Naming Day would be a grand ceremony. All the nobles and priests would attend to witness it.
Therefore, he had to earn honor before his Naming Day, proving he was worthy of the name he would choose.
On his father's Naming Day, he had named himself Dammekos.
That was also the name of an ancient hero, their honorable first ancestor.
Before coming of age, his father had already proven he was worthy of that name, and so he became Dammekos IX.
Now it was Herakon's turn. But what could he do?
Herakon knew himself too well. His status was extremely noble, but his abilities were very mediocre.
What honor could he attain?
He had only two years, and one and a half had already passed. Only half a year remained.
If he couldn't achieve anything, would his Naming Day become a farce?
Would people think him unworthy of the name he chose?
No one would dare mock him; mocking him would be disrespectful to the royal family.
But in private, people would surely talk.
For over a year, Herakon had rarely shown a happy smile. Even in public, his smiles were fake.
The pressure he bore was immense, almost crushing him.
His father didn't understand him, and he didn't want to confide in his younger siblings. He could only bottle it up inside.
Until today, when his new brother gave him this sword, he finally showed a genuine smile.
But what about after today? What would he do?
His Naming Day was approaching. He had to do something.
But what could he do?
"Abas, what do you think I should do?"
Herakon sheathed the sword. Under the immense pressure, even this fine sword seemed boring.
"My Lord." The attendant's voice was very low. "Perhaps you could ask the Tyrant."
He was merely an attendant; he dared not presumptuously advise the prince.
"Father can't give me the answer."
Herakon shook his head. He couldn't ask his father; that would be like cheating, and would only make the Tyrant more disappointed. Herakon's pride wouldn't allow it.
He wasn't Perturabo. His brother had already had a reputation for slaying monsters before being adopted.
Herakon always felt inferior compared to Perturabo. His bravery was far inferior. Previously, he could console himself that Perturabo didn't understand people, that Perturabo was always stubborn and unlikeable.
But now, Perturabo had overcome that flaw and treated him, his elder brother, with respect.
Herakon truly envied him. He envied his great strength, and he envied that he had such a good teacher who could make him so outstanding.
"Hm.. a teacher?"
A flash of inspiration struck Herakon. Since Perturabo had been transformed under Caelan's guidance, could Caelan also show him the way?
...
"Mentor!"
Herakon arrived at the West Tower early in the morning and bowed earnestly to Caelan.
Calliphone, holding a scroll, nearly knocked over her teacup.
Perturabo frowned, his gaze darting between Caelan and Herakon.
'Who's your mentor? Did you formally request it? Did you give a gift?'
'What are you shouting for?'
A gentle smile played on Caelan's lips. "No need to be so formal. What brings you here?"
"I was just passing by and thought I'd pay my respects."
The West Tower was in a remote part of the palace, not on any main route. Few people came here.
Caelan had chosen this tower for its quiet.
Herakon claiming he just happened to pass by was unconvincing, even to himself.
Calliphone said, "Brother, Mentor doesn't like beating around the bush. Just say what you have to say."
Herakon hesitated. "I have a friend..."
Calliphone and Perturabo both wore expressions of 'I knew it.'
Their expressions made Herakon blush, but he'd come this far; hiding it was pointless.
Herakon looked up, determined. "My friend is a noble. His Naming Day is approaching, and... he wants to do something to prove himself."
Perturabo understood immediately. Herakon was a prince. He didn't worry about physiological or safety needs, nor did he lack love and belonging. What he sought were esteem and self-actualization.
Now that Perturabo was no longer resistant to others' love, he was also at this stage.
But he and Herakon weren't quite the same. Having broken through the barrier of love and belonging, he was further ahead than Herakon.
Caelan pondered for a moment. "If it were Perturabo, I would tell him, don't bother proving anything to anyone, just be your true self. But if it's you..."
Herakon whispered defensively, "N-not me, my friend."
Perturabo's eyebrow rose. 'Was he praising him? He must be praising him!'
The boy turned his face away, hiding his upturned lips.
Calliphone glanced at her 'stinky' brother's and muttered to herself, "So easy to read."
An honest Perturabo was far cuter than a twisted one.
Caelan didn't expose the lie either. He went along with it. "But if it's your friend, I'd need to understand him first. Does he have any special talents?"
Herakon answered, "No."
Calliphone twirled a strand of hair around her finger, deliberately drawing out the word 'king', "But isn't he a prince... a noble?"
Herakon's expression was bitter. "Apart from his noble status, he's completely useless."
Caelan consolled, "No one is completely useless. He just hasn't found his field yet."
Herakon's eyes lit up. He thought Caelan was absolutely right!
Caelan asked, "What is his dream?"
"My friend's dream is to inherit his father's throne... title."
Herakon took a deep breath. That was close; he almost slipped.
Caelan said, "Then he's probably out of luck."
Herakon's expression was shocked. He asked hurriedly, "B-but my friend is the eldest son! Could he lose his throne... title to his younger brother?"
Caelan shook his head. "It has nothing to do with his younger siblings. It's about his father. How old is his father?"
"Thirty-two."
"Is he healthy?"
"Very healthy."
"How long do you think he'll live?"
Herakon fell silent. 'How long would father live?'
'At least sixty.'
He also understood what Caelan meant. When his father was sixty, he would be forty-three.
In Olympia, tyrants generally only had a chance to succeed to the throne in middle age.
His father had been lucky; his grandfather died relatively young, so his father succeeded relatively young.
When he was forty-three, how much time would he have left to rule Lochos?
Besides, his father might not live only to sixty. What if he lived longer?
What if the Tyrant lived to be seventy or eighty? Then he might not outlive his father.
There has never been a crown prince for sixty years in this world.
Caelan said, "He could live at least another two hundred years."
Calliphone murmured, "Isn't two hundred years a bit exaggerated? The oldest person in Olympia only lived to 107."
"Olympia doesn't have life-extension technology, but the Imperium does. Normally, a mortal's lifespan can be extended to two hundred years. If a mortal is willing to replace body parts with machinery, combined with advanced rejuvenation surgery, their lifespan can be extended to five hundred years."
"If a mortal is willing to give up physical freedom and rely entirely on drugs or machines to survive, their lifespan can be extended further to a thousand years."
In the 30th millennium, it was difficult for mortals to extend their lifespan through genetic modification.
Their genes were too complex to untangle. Not mutating was a blessing.
But if proper genetic modification were possible, an Astartes could live for at least several thousand years, and a Custodian could be functionally immortal.
For mortals, life extension relied on rejuvenation drugs and stem-cell-derived gene repair treatments. Such procedures could keep a body healthy, but couldn't surpass the genetic limits of human lifespan.
Five hundred years was a watershed. Either spend life in a drug vat, or undergo the Sarcophagus ritual, sealing oneself in a metal coffin like a Dreadnought.
Even an Archmagos of the Mechanicum had a body that was highly mechanized, with almost no wetware left except the brain.
Only a select few Astartes are granted the honor of being interred within a Dreadnought, though most would rather meet their end in battle.
Nobles are the same; they'd rather pass away. Only the most power-hungry would use such forbidden rituals.
In the Golden Age, before human genes became so diverse, genetic surgery might have easily allowed people to live for centuries.
But even if the STC templates for such genetic surgeries had survived to the 30th millennium, they would be ineffective on 30th millennium humans.
Because their genomes are completely different. You can't use a cold remedy to treat cancer.
But there are exceptions. During the Dark Age of Technology, humans invented a genetic drug known as the Panacea.
The Panacea could cure any known disease or poison that afflicted a human.
Perhaps similar longevity drugs existed.
Even so, five hundred years far exceeded what Olympians could anticipate.
"Two hundred years?"
Herakon looked miserable. Being a crown prince for several decades was already unbearable. If he had to endure two hundred years, what was the point?
By the time he was two hundred, his father would be only two hundred and seventeen. The gap would be small.
If the Imperium truly had technology to extend life to five hundred years, he might die before his father, never having the chance to inherit the throne!
Though this was just Caelan's word, Caelan had no reason to lie. What could Herakon offer that was worth stealing?
He and Perturabo weren't locals; Olympia couldn't produce such remarkable people.
Herakon's expression was bitter and resigned. "What... what should I do?"
He was born to inherit the throne. If he couldn't, what was he supposed to do?
Caelan asked, "Does your friend have the confidence to surpass your father in achievements?"
"No." Herakon was dejected but answered decisively. He was self-aware.
Lochos had been at peace for a long time. Any enemy who saw Lochos's walls would despair and give up fighting.
For six hundred years, Lochos had never been successfully besieged!
Though there were occasional small-scale skirmishes and military conflicts between city-states, there had never been a large-scale war.
Without war, what achievements could there be?
"Then does he have the courage to kill his father?"
Herakon's expression turned horrified, as if he'd heard some terrible slander.
The scroll in Calliphone's hands fell with a thump. Perturabo frowned.
Herakon's throat bobbed a few times. "Me-mentor, why do you ask?"
"To help plan his future path. Does he have the courage?"
Herakon shook his head like a rattle.
He didn't have the guts. And even if he did, he lacked the ability.
No matter how noble his status, he was only a prince, never comparable to his father the Tyrant.
His father had been extremely good to him, never abusive or harsh. He was just a little troubled and distressed. Why would it come to patricide?
"Then he needs a different path."
A bitter smile touched Herakon's lips. "But what else can I do?"
Andos was a natural artist. Calliphone had been clever since childhood. Perturabo was truly Beyonder. Only he was mediocre.
Caelan looked at Herakon. "He needs to broaden his horizons. The world is vast, far larger than just Olympia."
"In Olympia, it's hard for you to surpass your father's power. But the galaxy has millions of worlds. You could have the chance to rule a planet, or even an entire sector, as a Planetary Governor, with power and status no less than your father."
"You could also choose a different path, become a soldier, join the glorious Great Crusade, and expand the Imperium's territory."
Herakon's status made him more suited to being a Governor than a soldier. Otherwise, being both Perturabo's brother and Perturabo's son might create an awkward relationship.
If he didn't become an Astartes, commanding mortal auxiliary forces would be worse than being a Planetary Governor.
Caelan was a good judge of character. Herakon wasn't cut out to be a general, but he wasn't that mediocre either.
Herakon listened, his heart racing with excitement, his eyes full of longing. But then reality set in, and his shoulders slumped. His voice was full of dejection. "Am I worthy?"
Caelan said, "You are not."
Herakon gave a wry smile. I know I'm not worthy, but did you have to be so blunt?
"But at least you have the opportunity and the time to improve. Though you're not worthy of this honor now, who can say about the future?"
Who was giving the opportunity?
The question flashed through Herakon's mind. He looked at Perturabo. It could only be his brother.
Because he was Perturabo's brother, someone as mediocre as him might have the chance to rule a world in the future.
But if he was too mediocre, his rule would only bring misery to that world. Then he certainly wouldn't be worthy.
But he was only fifteen. He had plenty of time to improve! Even if he still wasn't worthy of that honor, he could become a soldier. That was also an honor.
Who didn't dream of making a name for themselves in their youth?
"Mentor, please teach me!"
Herakon slowly knelt on one knee, his eyes burning with unprecedented determination and earnestness.
"I can't guarantee I can teach you. You'll have to learn on your own. Fortunately, Perturabo has an internship this afternoon. You can start by following him."
"Internship?" Herakon was confused. Internship for what?
Calliphone blinked innocently. "Brother, weren't we talking about your friend?"
Herakon turned his face away. "I... I'm just learning for him first."
Calliphone smiled slyly, deliberately drawing out her words. "Mentor, it seems you're trying to gather our whole family under your wing!"
"Aren't there still Andos?"
"You're not going to teach him?"
Caelan shook his head. "I can't teach him. My artistic skill isn't as good as his."
He could appreciate art, but teaching it would be misleading students.
The only future for art students he taught would be failing the entrance exam.
And whether, after failing, they would follow the Führer's path of struggle or trample the bones of the powerful underfoot in the streets, it had nothing to do with Caelan's teaching.
Calliphone tapped her chin thoughtfully. "That's true. We should leave Father some dignity."
If they all became Caelan's students, who would truly be their father? Caelan or Dammekos?
Dammekos was her biological father, but the Tyrant's education over the past ten years hadn't been as profound as Caelan's teachings these past few days.
Between her and the Tyrant lay a sad, thick barrier called the hierarchy of father and son.
But between her and Caelan, there was none.
"Here we go again."
Perturabo lowered his head. After his sister, now his brother had come.
'Don't you have your own teachers?'
'He was here to teach me, not you!'