Intense light filled every corner of the golden hall.
The scorching, blazing, and dense light, mixed with the silent wails of hundreds of millions of psyker, swept over.
No.
Not just psyker.
In an instant, Roboute Guilliman seemed to hear millions of voices simultaneously roaring, wailing, murmuring, groaning, and weeping in his ears.
He couldn't make out those voices clearly; each was distinct, each statement contradictory, making it perplexing and unbearable.
It wasn't until the booming sound of the Eternal Gate closing that Guilliman snapped out of the cacophony and directed his gaze to everything before him.
He saw the colossal machine, as massive as an Emperor-class Titan, surrounded by barbaric, crude, complex, and chaotic machinery and cables.
Guilliman knew these cables and machines were merely the outermost parts of that terrifying apparatus, the result of ten millennia of continuous attempts to repair and maintain its operation. These were only the portions exposed above ground, like the tip of an iceberg.
Beneath the Throne Room, the ancillary parts of this horrifying machine likely extended for dozens of kilometers.
And above the Throne Room, these cables and machinery climbed steadily up a gigantic machine resembling an Aztec pyramid.
Blazing light emanated from the pyramid's summit, as if a cruel sacrifice was being offered there to the Sun God, to the First Sun, to Tezcatlipoca, to the Smoking Mirror, to the Black Sun.
Then, Guilliman saw the offering of this ritual.
It was a shriveled skeleton, a dead king, an emperor of the underworld.
A mummified corpse, an eyeless mummy, gazed at Roboute Guilliman.
For a moment, Guilliman even wondered if the entity on the throne had long since perished.
"The Emperor."
Guilliman spoke involuntarily, addressing the former Emperor, the Savior who once walked among men, the fading image of the Golden Man.
His tone was filled with intense sorrow, pain, and confusion, almost unbearable as he forced out the word:
"Father."
"We are here. What do you want us to do?!"
Roboute Guilliman was the first to step forward, questioning the mummy on the throne.
Then, Guilliman regretted it.
That mummy, that thing that couldn't possibly be called alive, or even necessarily a corpse, actually looked at Guilliman.
Almost instantly, Guilliman was certain that this thing was absolutely not the Emperor of old, nor even the remains left after the Emperor had burned away.
"Son." He? It? Or He? spoke to Guilliman.
"Thirteen." It continued.
"Lord of Ultramarines."
"Daemon Prince of Doraemon."
"Regent of the Second Imperium."
"Redemption."
"Destruction."
"Hope."
"Disappointment."
"Full of lies."
"Ambitious."
"Thief."
"Traitor."
"Guilliman."
Thousands of contradictory voices roared in Guilliman's ears.
He praised Guilliman, He cursed Guilliman.
He lauded Guilliman, He shamed Guilliman.
He complimented Guilliman, He condemned Guilliman.
He was gentle as a father, He was majestic as a sovereign.
He was filled with emotion, He was cold and merciless.
"Son." "Not a son."
"An existence." "A tool."
"A name." "Not a name."
"A name, a tool, a product."
Guilliman was tormented by the painful emotions revealed in those words.
Compared to Roboute Guilliman, Sanguinius saw even more.
He saw the withered, grim, eyeless corpse, the sacrificed corpse.
But Sanguinius also saw the cold, dead black sun hanging over that corpse, within the Warp.
This was a ten-thousand-year-long sacrifice, where the living offering named the Emperor was offered to Himself, to that pitch-black sun reflecting across the entire Warp, to that obsidian-like sun mirroring death, annihilation, and the end of all things.
The winds of the Eternal Night blew from the inevitable future, lashing Sanguinius' face, as if to carve grotesque wounds into his soul.
But Sanguinius met it head-on, staring into the hollow eyes of the mummy.
"Son." He said.
"Nine."
"Lord of Baal."
"Daemon Prince of Doraemon."
"Second Imperium Emperor."
"Perfect."
"Flawed."
"Archangel."
"Mutant."
"Death."
"Hope."
"Gold."
"Darkness."
"Sanguinius."
It said:
"Son."
"Tool."
"Fried Chicken?"
Those contradictory, abstract, distorted voices, like millions singing in unison, continuously assailed Sanguinius' will.
He saw the Emperor's power, saw all the sorrow, death, loss, failure, and pain, saw the potential to rival all the Great Powers of Chaos.
"You've been corrupted."
Sanguinius resisted the onslaught of that will, barely managing to speak:
"Emperor." "Father." "Mummy." "Dark King."
Through their interconnectedness, Alexander could perceive what Guilliman and Sanguinius had seen.
But Alexander saw more than both of them combined.
The mummy on the throne was like a vast ocean, and the three of them were like containers.
Guilliman was like a basin, Sanguinius like a reservoir; they were all seeing only a glimpse, a partial view, touching only a fragment like blind men.
But Alexander saw the entire ocean, saw the truth beneath that remnant, saw those blasphemous, distorted things.
"Six arms, four legs, two roots, God-Emperor above." Alexander exclaimed.
The blasphemy of the phrase 'Six arms, four legs, two roots, God-Emperor above' paled in comparison to the blasphemous sight Alexander beheld.
The entity had a thousand arms, ten thousand hands, a hundred thousand mutilated bodies, a billion skulls, as if the corpses of all who had perished ten thousand years ago were piled together in the ugliest, most self-destructive, darkest way.
They were all sacrifices; not only the Emperor was a sacrifice, but all of them were.
From the distant past to the far shore of the future, everything that could be called human or derived from humans was.
The Emperor was merely the first sacrifice, his heart offered to the Dark King. His son was the second, his father the third, his father's brother the fourth.
The Emperor personally killed his own son, and his son personally killed the Emperor.
The Emperor's father was killed by his uncle, and his uncle was personally killed by the Emperor.
Then there were more, and more, and more humans, piled like mountains, like stars.
These humans were all sacrificed.
But just like the offerings on the Aztec pyramids who eagerly desired to be sacrificed, these humans also yearned.
Their corpses all reached upwards, towards the black sun at the highest point.
They stretched their hands, wanting to birth this sun, to bring it into the material universe.
That sun was the Emperor, was humanity, was the corpse of the King of Ages, was the Dark King.
Those billions of corpses simultaneously writhed, all turning their hollow eyes towards Alexander.
The chorus of billions of voices sounded in Alexander's ears.
"Doraemon!"
"?" Alexander paused for a moment, then, "A yellow weasel!" He immediately roared back.
But the corpses seemed not to hear Alexander's roar; more voices, more contradictory words, emanated from different corpses.
"Doraemon!"
"Foul mouth!"
"Malicious Art!"
"Original power!"
"Greedy dissolution!"
"Eternal dragon!"
"Erosion and destruction!"
"Death God of Humans and Eldar!"
"Inherently evil blue nanny robot!"
These noisy, chaotic voices continuously flooded Alexander's ears, sharp and piercing, difficult to distinguish:
"Alexander!"
"Leman Russ!"
"Alexander!"
"Chaos God corrupting Sanguinius and Guilliman!"
"22nd century!"
"Trafficker of daemons!"
Countless pieces of information surged into Alexander's mind.
Too much, too jumbled, too convoluted, as if containing everything of billions of people within it.
The starving poor in hive cities, peasants crushed by the iron feet of Knights, young girls raped to death at noble banquets, the Emperor playing four-way with Elda, Adeptus Administratum officials dying suddenly at their posts, crew members perishing with their warships, the Emperor stealing Ollanius Persson's sheep—
Countless images echoed in Alexander's mind.
Alexander simply couldn't make sense of what those corpses wanted to express.
"What do you want?!"
Alexander suddenly roared back at the mummy on the throne:
"Yellow weasel! What in the world is going on with you now?!"
"My butt itches so bad!"
"Intercostal inflammation hurts so much!"
"My spinal disease is flaring up!"
"Does sitting for a long time cause constipation?"
"Everything has failed!"
"There is still hope for everything!"
"I want to die."
"I still want to live."
"Horus, that idiot!"
"I forgive him!"
"Why must we suffer such hardship?"
"Why didn't the Great Crusade's failure lead to self-reflection?"
"Chaos and xenos killing your whole family, why not reflect on yourselves, okay?"
"God-Emperor! Please save us!"
"God-Emperor! We hate you."
"Doraemon! Dialogue! Dialogue!"
"Get out! Get out! Get out of my Throne Room!"
"Don't leave! Save us!"
Dying screams filled Alexander's ears; these voices were on the verge of collapse.
But amidst these sounds, Alexander heard a tired voice, with a peculiar Central Asian accent, the only one speaking english, from a middle-aged man:
"Dialogue! Dialogue! Dialogue!"
"Language! Doraemon! Language!"
"Props! Props! Eat them!"
"Translate! Dialogue! I want to speak!"
"Loudspeaker!"
"Loudspeaker! Loudspeaker! Loudspeaker!"
"You! Eat!"
"Loudspeaker! Urgent! Urgent! Urgent!"
The Emperor's voice, mixed with billions of other voices, surged towards Alexander, like an imperceptible whisper in the eternal night wind.
A feeling of straining with all his might emanated from that voice, as if a schizophrenic patient was struggling to maintain control of this body.
"Speaker! Eat! Eat! Eat!"
"Get out! Get out! Get out—no! Save!"
"Blue Cat!"
"Alexander!"
"Saint Doraemon!"
Thousands of faces flashed before Alexander's eyes, but he finally understood the meaning of those words.
Dialogue, item, speaker.
Alexander's fingers reached into his four-dimensional pocket—
Sharp screams erupted from the mummified corpse's mouth, and intense Psyker shockwaves continuously washed over the entire Throne Room.
That dying scream surged towards Alexander, accompanied by a primal, ruthless, and bone-chilling power.
This power constantly scourged Alexander's flesh, bones, and blood, even attempting to pierce deep into his soul, as if to prevent Alexander's actions.
It was as if He Himself wanted Alexander to do this, but now He was turning around and stopping Alexander, as if many different wills, inclinations, and desires within Him were vying for dominance.
But this contradictory behavior did not affect Alexander's actions.
The immortal body granted by Siegfried's Elixir was still in effect, and Alexander gently took out a grey-black, soft, glutinous pastry from his four-dimensional pocket.
[Item Name: Translation Moyu]
[Origin: 22nd Century Earth — Future Department Store]
[Production Time: 261.M3]
[Function: A uniquely flavored moyu pastry that, when consumed, allows for seamless conversation with people of different languages (including but not limited to foreign languages, alien languages, parallel world languages, or any form of language). Additionally, the effect of this item can be directly applied to text, enabling one to read and understand any text, even those that are difficult to decipher.]
Translation Moyu, an item that can translate all forms of language, allowing for barrier-free conversation.
Alexander thought to himself that he wanted to converse with the Emperor, then swallowed the Translation Moyu in one bite.
The Translation Moyu slid down his throat, Alexander's throat moved slightly, and then the Emperor's face was reflected in his eyes.
Ten thousand faces, ten thousand scenes, ten thousand impressions.
Too many, too bright, too complicated, too false, too real.
He saw an Astra Militarum soldier wearing a Krieg gas mask, artillery exploding in the dim trenches, tearing his body to pieces.
He was the Emperor.
He saw a poor farmer, unable to endure the exploitation of the knight lord, who incited a rebellion, but was blasted to smithereens by the knight lord's castle.
He was the Emperor.
He saw a devout follower of the Adeptus Ministorum, who embarked on a pilgrimage over dozens of generations and a millennium, only to be killed by a pirate's blade on the eve of reaching the Sol System.
He was the Emperor.
He also saw Lager, barely surviving in the hive city of Ashford, who died in Baal's medical bay, achieving the death he craved.
He was also the Emperor.
We are all the Emperor, humanity is the Emperor, the Emperor is humanity.
An entire species stood before Alexander, from the first Homo sapiens whose minds sparked with the light of wisdom, to the last human who died at the end of the universe, all stood before Alexander.
A species stood here, their wills united, they were all the Emperor, the Emperor was them, souls connected, born as one, cast upon a Golden Throne.
"Do not save us," an Emperor/human accused Alexander.
"Let us die," another Emperor/human pleaded with Alexander.
"Do not give Your Majesty false hope anymore," a third Emperor/human said sadly to Alexander.
"We've really had enough! Let's all die together!"
"Damn it, let's blow up with Chaos!"
"Let us stand up! Let us stand up!"
Noisy voices continuously surged towards Alexander, these Emperors/humans all accusing Alexander, venting their anger.
They were filled with a strong desire for self-destruction, both the living and the dead wanted a fate of self-destruction.
They wanted to rise from the Golden Throne, become the Dark King, bring destined death to the entire galaxy, and let xenos, Chaos, and everything in this galaxy fall into oblivion.
This world had too much pain, sorrow, and cruelty; it would be better for this world to be destroyed now.
They were persecuted by this world in the most malicious way, and they cursed this world with the most malicious language.
Such voices constituted the majority among the Emperor/humans.
"No, there is still hope."
"Save us, please!"
"Alexander, look here."
"My lord, how is my child Reyna? May she and all humanity be happy."
"Is Cadia still there? Even if it's not, we will still hold on."
"The Expedition never stops, expansion and discovery go hand in hand."
"Hope remains."
There were also some voices that held hope and expectation, these voices were a small percentage, but they still pointed Alexander in the right direction.
His gaze followed those voices that still held hope, looking at one of the Emperor/humans.
The first one, the most important one.
Alexander saw a scene.
Ochre mud bricks were stacked into a small house under date palm trees swaying in the wind, rough clay pots leaned against the wall, facing a winding river shimmering with bronze light.
In the reeds by the river, Alexander vaguely saw a spectacled boy.
The boy stood by a wooden workbench by the river, his bare feet on the muddy brown ground.
A crescent-shaped wooden boat was tied to the riverbank at his feet, resting there like a coffin, and in the boat lay the corpse of a silver-haired boy wearing a laurel wreath, his face both youthful and ancient.
And on the left side of the workbench in front of the brown-haired boy was a skull covered in clay, with eyes inlaid with shells and a face carved from clay.
Next to the clay skull were a few small chess pieces, too far away for Alexander to clearly make out their general appearance.
One was an iron general with strong arms, but the iron general's head was nowhere to be found.
One was an assassin wearing a hood and ragged clothes, like a ghost, self-blinding, as if he preferred to be a blind man.
There were two other chess pieces, but they were obscured by other things on the workbench, so Alexander couldn't see them clearly.
Just then, the brown-haired boy turned slightly, seemingly noticing Alexander's gaze.
As the boy moved, Alexander also saw that there was a chess piece in front of the boy.
This chess piece was larger and stronger, a nimble centaur, with a bow drawn and an arrow notched, seemingly ready for an Expedition.
But the centaur chess piece had a dagger-like shard of rock stuck in its chest, and its body was shattered into four pieces.
The brown-haired boy seemed to be trying hard to repair this centaur.
"..Nobita... uh..." Alexander hesitated for a moment and said, "Little Nobita?"
"You have finally arrived here."
The brown-haired boy said softly, his voice clear like the sound of the first bronze artifact forged by human civilization.
"Do you know how surprised I was when I discovered you in the traces of fate?"
"A product of a children's comic, a happy story, a beautiful fantasy of the future, an animation, a fairy tale, something from a comic book, actually appeared before my eyes."
"I hurriedly hid your destiny from the sight of the Chaos Gods, concealed all information about 'Doraemon' in the mists of history, protected your essence from being known by the Chaos Gods, and watched you come all the way here."
"Friend, then what exactly are you?"
"The real Doraemon? A representative of 22nd century humanity? A simple Warp product?"
He walked step by step through the reeds, coming before Alexander, allowing Alexander to clearly see the boy's appearance.
Dark brown hair hung over a body that seemed molded from red clay, his upper body bare, his muscles covered in primitive-style body paint.
Those blue-green lines formed various bizarre patterns, from aquila to skulls, from sacrifice to death, encompassing everything.
And above these paintings, around the boy's neck hung a lapis lazuli pendant, in which the image of a woman vaguely shimmered, as if recording a love story of only tragedy and disaster.
The Central Asian-faced boy tilted his head slightly to look at Alexander, a laurel wreath woven from golden bay leaves adorned his hair.
Alexander didn't know how to describe this face.
He was naive, like a shepherd boy from a newly civilized race.
He was mature, like an Emperor from a star-spanning race.
To say he was ordinary, yet he didn't seem so ordinary.
To say he was handsome, he was indeed handsome enough to be described as beautiful, yet he didn't seem beautiful enough to be like a god.
He seemed to be an excellent child, an excellent human, like a beautiful template for the human species.
Alexander stared at this face, and after a long silence, slowly opened his mouth and said:
"No wonder your ass itches, if you don't itch, who does?"
There was a moment of silence by the riverbank of Zachariah, the reeds gently trembled.
"Hahaha ah ah ha"
Alexander wasn't sure if it was his imagination, but he seemed to hear laughter.
This laughter seemed to come from the corpse of the silver-haired, laurel-crowned boy lying in the boat.
The brown-haired boy listened to Alexander's words and the faint laughter, his already not-so-pale face suddenly darkened a bit.
He raised his head, staring fixedly at Alexander.
Alexander was so creeped out by this deathly gaze that he felt he was about to be killed by the brown-haired boy's stare.
And he wasn't sure if it was his imagination, but this brown-haired boy also seemed a bit stiff, a bit rigid, not as full of humanity.
"His mind is shattered, talk to him, stimulate him," a faint voice sounded, seemingly from the corpse of the silver-haired boy lying in the wooden boat.
Stimulate him? Alexander blinked, thought for a moment, then spoke:
"Your Majesty, your staring at me makes me very uncomfortable. By the way, Your Majesty, I have a question I want to ask you."
"You have won, humanity has survived. So, Your Majesty, what was the cost?"
"Was it all truly worth it?"
"I curse with Mesopotamian curses, Babylonian curses, Egyptian Nineteenth Dynasty curses, Macedonian curses, Mauryan Imperium curses, Roman curses, Frankish curses—"
"No need to be so dramatic,"
The Emperor, Emperor, Liar, Thief, Corpse, Neoth, Hook Salesman, Source of Father Complex… and the brown-haired boy with a myriad of other titles from the past ten thousand years, sat beside Alexander, clutching his heart, his face twitching uncontrollably.
He had just been stimulated by Alexander's question, "Is it really worth it?" which made him much more animated. At the same time, he expressed his sincere gratitude to Alexander in various languages he had learned throughout his life.
Alexander marveled at his own skill as a divine physician.
Watching the expression on the brown-haired boy's face, Alexander did feel a tiny bit of guilt deep down.
But it was just a tiny bit, which vanished after satisfying Alexander's need to imagine he still had a conscience.
"Do you need me to call Roboute Guilliman and Sanguinius to come in as well?" Alexander asked the brown-haired boy beside him, as he sat on a large rock by the riverbank.
The scenes before Alexander's eyes were essentially a product of 'dialogue,' a higher form of communication.
As long as Sanguinius and Roboute Guilliman were given Translation Moyu, they could also be drawn into this conversation.
After all, they had both used Siegfried's Elixir, and theoretically, they could withstand the impact of the Emperor's current self-destructive power.
The brown-haired boy, even more animated and human-like than before, twitched his cheek slightly.
He casually picked up a stone from the muddy riverbank and tossed it into the bronze-like river before him.
The stone created a few ripples on the water's surface before quietly sinking to the bottom.
"I owe Sanguinius a great deal."
"He was a perfect child, a perfect general, a perfect angel."
"And I was a failed father, a failed monarch, and I am not a god."
The brown-haired boy slowly said:
"I am truly ashamed to see him again. Spare me."
"And please, apologize to him for me, an apology from a bad father to his son."
"…What about Roboute Guilliman?" Alexander asked, raising an eyebrow slightly.
"…Who?" The brown-haired boy paused for a moment, then remembered the meaning of the name: "Oh, Screwdriver… no, Ambition… no, Thirteen."
"Yes, Thirteen, Roboute Guilliman."
"…" A deathly silence fell upon both Alexander and the brown-haired boy.
"He is my extraordinary son. I love him as I love my other sons," the brown-haired boy said after a long silence.
Alexander looked at the brown-haired boy with an extremely strained expression.
He knew that the relationship between Roboute Guilliman and the Emperor was actually quite tenuous, so there was no genuine father-son affection to speak of.
The relationship between Roboute Guilliman and the Emperor was less like the father-son collaboration of Horus and the Emperor, and more like a cooperation achieved purely for objective interests.
But this was too exaggerated, wasn't it?
He had just forgotten Roboute Guilliman's name, right?
"…No, I don't disregard Thirteen…"
The brown-haired boy gently extended his hands, gazing at his own body:
"Even the me you see before you is not entirely the Emperor from ten thousand years ago."
"I am fragmented. The self-destructive desires of billions upon billions of humans constantly assault me. They pray to me every moment, 'Your Majesty, rise up! Let us utterly destroy this rotten world.' "
"Under the constant assault of these emotions, I am forced to piece myself together using others' impressions of me, which has led to me being greatly distorted."
"The reason I chose this form to meet you is also because this appearance hasn't been seen by many, so it's less influenced by others' impressions of me."
"This version of me is closer to the original Emperor, not the Emperor in others' eyes."
The brown-haired boy sighed softly, then gently placed his hands back on his knees and continued:
"After I threw a small portion of authority to you, it did alleviate things a little."
"But my existence is still fragmented, and so are my memories. My memories of many people largely depend on humanity's collective impression of them."
"Humanity's collective impression of Sanguinius is unified, so I can recall memories related to him relatively well."
"But Roboute Guilliman is ambitious, a traitor, a bastard, a bureaucrat, an overworker, a son, an oppressor, terrifyingly rational… there are too many. My memories of him are also affected."
Alexander looked at the brown-haired boy, and another deathly silence fell between them.
"And the possibility of Roboute Guilliman's Great Heresy is not zero," the brown-haired boy whispered.
"Forgive me, Your Majesty, I almost thought you were a good father just now," Alexander couldn't help but say.
"It's fine. Doraemon, for a moment there, I also mistakenly thought your mouth had a bottom line," the brown-haired boy responded with an unmoving expression.
Alexander twisted his neck to look at the brown-haired boy: "Your humanity is a little too abundant."
"Thanks to your excellent stimulation," the brown-haired boy smiled and nodded.
"Failer of a kid, yellow-skinned weasel."
"Evil Blue Cat."
The two of them just glared at each other.
"…Ah." A rather helpless sigh came from the river, faint and indistinct, as if from the silver-haired boy's corpse on the wooden boat.
"…Let's talk about your four-dimensional pocket first."
The brown-haired boy slightly turned his head, looking at the river surface with its blue-green ripples, and said:
"What exactly is it? A Warp phenomenon? Where do those tools come from? And where does the pocket lead?"
"Sure enough, you don't know either." Alexander raised his eyebrows slightly.
"Should I know?" The brown-haired boy frowned.
"For a while, I suspected you had conscripted me into this galaxy," Alexander said with a hint of emotion.
When he first transmigrated to this world, Alexander basically greeted the Emperor's holy butt every thirteen minutes.
"It wasn't me. You know, if it were me, I wouldn't conscript just one person."
The brown-haired boy said as a matter of course:
"You don't know the origin of this four-dimensional pocket either? You don't know where the things you sold went? Or where the pocket leads?"
The brown-haired boy's tone was slightly disappointed.
"The 22nd century," Alexander muttered to himself, deep in thought.
"Hmm?" The brown-haired boy suddenly raised his eyelids.
Alexander remembered the dead Aeldari, Cegorach's description of what he saw, and the tools in his pocket.
At least regarding their origin, the four-dimensional pocket did show that those tools came from the Future Department Store, produced in the 22nd century.
"My four-dimensional pocket really seems to lead to the 22nd century…" Alexander murmured.
"…What did you say?" The brown-haired boy raised his voice slightly.
"I said my pocket really seems to lead to the 22nd century…" Alexander's tone was a bit hesitant.
"You mean your pocket might lead to that 22nd century that manufactures time machines, Lie 800, If Telephone Booths, can monitor multiple timelines, correct timelines, and treats creating a universe as elementary school homework?" The brown-haired boy's voice rose even more.
"I said it's possible, just a possibility, not cert— — — — — —"
Bang!!
The sound of a knee hitting the muddy ground suddenly rang out.
The brown-haired boy knelt on one knee, reaching out to grab the edge of Alexander's four-dimensional pocket.
Alexander was startled and quickly dodged, but the brown-haired boy clung tightly to the four-dimensional pocket.
"Doraemon , it was my voice that was too loud just now."
The brown-haired boy, still clutching the edge of the four-dimensional pocket, roared with a distorted face:
"Ah ha ha ha ha, so you are a noble person from the 22nd century! Why didn't you say so earlier? I thought you were a Warp entity!"
"Brother! Brother, don't hide!"
"For the sake of us both being human, let the 22nd century help a brother out!"
"Where's the Time Patrol! Time Patrol, help us out!!!"
"If nothing else, just throw a Lie 800 over here!!!"
"Please, I'll do anything if it means the 22nd century's soldiers can save humanity!"
"You, Emperor! Where is your dignity as the Emperor?"
"What is dignity? All I care about is all of humanity!"
The brown-haired boy clutched Alexander's leg with one hand and desperately clung to the four-dimensional pocket with the other, his face contorted to the point of terror.
"As long as humanity can be saved, as long as all of humanity can be saved."
A powerful obsession slammed directly into Alexander; the surrounding reeds swayed violently as if in a storm, and tides rippled across the bronze-colored water.
Everything around them rushed towards Alexander, expressing intense obsession and longing.
As long as humanity is saved, no sacrifice matters.
He clearly perceived this obsession.
The things before him were not real, but a form of communication between the Emperor and Alexander.
Everything in front of Alexander—the brown-haired boy desperately clutching the four-dimensional pocket, his frenzied words, and the constantly changing surroundings—was a manifestation of the Emperor's desire to save all humanity and his ten-thousand-year-long obsession.
Or rather, it was the longing for salvation from all of humanity.
In the face of this longing, anything could be sacrificed, anything could be abandoned, as long as all of humanity was saved.
The brown-haired boy looked at Alexander with eyes full of pleading.
Alexander lowered his head, silently looking back at him.
"..No," Alexander said after a short silence.
"Huh?" The brown-haired boy's hand loosened slightly from the four-dimensional pocket: "No?"
"Do you think I haven't tried?"
Alexander couldn't help but say,
"I tried writing letters to sell to the Future Department Store, sending messages to the other end of the four-dimensional pocket, all to no avail."
Alexander had tried to contact the world on the other side of the four-dimensional pocket multiple times, but ultimately, he couldn't even confirm if there was a 22nd century on the other side of the four-dimensional pocket.
Only the images Cegorach's Harlequin Avatar sent back before the connection broke, and the missing Aeldari souls, could indirectly prove the existence of the 22nd century.
But what was the essence of that 22nd century? Was it the miraculous era from the Doraemon anime? Or was it just a special Warp domain?
Alexander couldn't confirm any of this. Cegorach had also tried throwing a few Harlequin Avatars into the four-dimensional pocket, but couldn't get more information.
"If I could really confirm that the other side was the 22nd century, do you think I'd still be stuck in your cesspool of a galaxy with you?"
"If I had a choice, I'd rather go to Night City, to Gotham, or even to the damn Kunlun Mountains than come here."
Listening to Alexander's words, the brown-haired boy smoothly released Alexander's leg and the four-dimensional pocket, stood up from the ground, and dusted off the mud from his knees.
"As expected, a naturally evil tanuki brat. I trusted you too much just now."
Both of them stared intently at each other.
But just half a second later, both couldn't help but sigh at the same time.
They sat back down together on the muddy riverbank.
"I know it's unlikely, but I still held a tiny bit of hope that you could truly save humanity with ease," the brown-haired boy said to Alexander with a hint of sadness, as he washed the clay off his feet with the clear river water.
"I also hoped that you knew something about this four-dimensional pocket, and how to save this galaxy," Alexander said, shrugging his shoulders.
Then Alexander couldn't help but sigh again: "How did it come to this? I should be an ordinary 21st-century person, studying step-by-step from elementary to high school, then getting into a mediocre university, graduating to work for a company with a five-thousand-a-month salary, being ruthlessly exploited, and assembling models while eating apples in my free time... Who stole my life? I must have been poisoned by bad food!"
"Then I also have to ask, how did it come to this? I should be the heir of a small tribe in Mesopotamia, with a wise father, harmonious brothers, diligent people, an annual bumper harvest of wheat, no bandit incursions, no droughts or diseases. My aunt would comb my hair, and when my father grew old, I would carve eyes for him with shells... Who stole my life? I must have been poisoned by forest mushrooms!"
"Why me?" "Why me?"
"I am not a god." "I am not a god."
"I'm stuck in this universe." "I'm stuck in this universe."
Both spoke almost simultaneously.
"Then why do you stand here? Give the four-dimensional pocket to someone else, and I'll arrange a Paradise World for you to be a noble. Wouldn't it be wonderful to remain a wealthy gentleman?"
The brown-haired boy pointed to the bronze-glowing river in front of him and said,
"I swear by the Nile River, if you give me the four-dimensional pocket, I will return it with a Paradise World, and you will remain a wealthy gentleman."
Alexander turned his East Asian face directly towards his, looking at the brown-haired boy with a dead-fish stare.
The brown-haired boy's suggestion was no longer just insulting Alexander's intelligence; it was practically insulting Alexander's heritage. When Alexander was born, the credibility of such oaths had been lost for nearly two millennia.
"..Even if I trusted you, I couldn't give it to you," Alexander sighed and said, "I've tried. No one else can see the Future Department Store interface except me."
"Indeed... this pocket seems to be bound to your Warp essence," the brown-haired boy said thoughtfully, rubbing his chin.
"And don't just talk about me. I ask you, why do you insist on stepping forward?" Alexander asked, glancing at the brown-haired boy.
"It's just that no one else stepped forward," the brown-haired boy shook his head slightly.
"You're truly incredible," Alexander extended his hand and patted the brown-haired boy's back.
"You're quite unlucky too, coming to this era out of nowhere," the brown-haired boy likewise patted Alexander's back.
".."
The two fell silent for a moment, then the brown-haired boy broke the atmosphere:
"Tell me the specifics of your four-dimensional pocket. Maybe we can discover something?"
"I want to know the exact price of each item."