"I'm sorry. I still can't accept it."
The moment Byrne uttered those words, he felt as if a massive boulder crushing his chest had finally been shoved aside. But what followed wasn't relief—it was tension.
Byrne couldn't bring himself to meet Joralan's eyes. He stared down at the untouched cup of coffee on the table, his hands instinctively curling into fists. He knew exactly what he was refusing: a golden ticket out of the gutter. But he knew even more clearly that he couldn't carry that weight.
At least, not yet. Neither physically nor mentally was he ready to receive such a legacy.
The air in the cafe seemed to solidify. The murmurs of other patrons and the clink of porcelain were amplified a thousandfold before whisking away, leaving only the thunderous drum of his own racing heart.
Byrne waited for a reaction. Would it be a furious rebuke? A sigh of disappointment? Or something far worse—coercion? After all, the man across from him was the High Chaplain of the Raven Guard, a titan of the Imperium with the power of life and death in his hands.
However, the expected storm never broke. Joralan simply watched him, his deep eyes as calm as a still lake, as if he had anticipated this answer all along.
After a long pause, Joralan suddenly spoke: "Byrne, is there anything you would risk everything to protect?"
To protect?
The question caught Byrne off guard, leaving him blank-faced. For the past few years in the Lower District, he had run the repair shop his father left him just to keep from starving. He had taken the Tax Collector exam just to avoid being turned into trench-fodder by the Imperial Guard. He had always been reactive, struggling just to survive. He had never thought about protecting anything.
In this world of predator and prey, where Chaos lurked in every shadow, Byrne could barely shield himself. How could he speak of protecting others?
"I... I don't know, Mr. Joralan. Why are you asking me this?"
Byrne tried to find an answer, but the words died in his throat. He felt like a traveler lost in a wasteland. In this meat-grinder of a galaxy, keeping your own life was a miracle; who had the strength left over for anything else?
Joralan leaned in, his gaze steady. "Because it matters, child. The acceptance of a gene-seed is never a simple transfer of power; it is the inheritance of a conviction. Cullen became one of the Chapter's greatest warriors because he found what he wanted to protect. That conviction sustained him through the brutality of his training, the erosion of the curse, and a thousand battlefields of blood and fire."
He paused, his tone shifting. "I know that bringing you here today and telling you all of this is a lot to process. It's only natural that you can't accept it immediately. I will be staying here for a few months. You don't have to decide now. I suspect that before long, you will come looking for me."
Joralan's voice was flat, yet it carried a detached confidence, as if he had already glimpsed the future.
Byrne turned toward the curtain, leaving one final remark before he departed: "Mr. Joralan, I'm afraid you'll be disappointed. I won't be changing my mind."
With that, Byrne practically fled. He threw back the velvet curtain and strode through the lobby of the Ironbone Cafe. It wasn't until he pushed through the wooden door and hit the street that his frayed nerves finally began to uncoil. He cast one last glance back at the cafe and hurried away.
Long after Byrne had gone, Joralan sat behind the curtain and finished the last drop of his coffee. He set the cup down and turned his gaze toward the dark gold metal box.
"My old friend," he whispered. "I apologize, but I must go against your final wish. This gene-seed is too precious to be buried."
By dusk, Byrne was back in District 21 of the Lower District. His steps were heavy; twelve days of high-intensity exertion had left his body on the verge of collapse.
As he walked, Joralan's words replayed in his mind like a cursed loop. 'You will come looking for me'—it hummed in his brain, impossible to shake.
Passing a familiar general store, he saw the owner, Huck, busy unloading crates. Huck spotted him and called out warmly: "Byrne! It's been ages. I just got a shipment of new-model nutrient paste—tastes great. Want a few? The price is a bit steep, though."
Huck's shout snapped Byrne out of his spiraling thoughts. He stopped and shook his head. "Not today, Uncle Huck. I don't have much of an appetite. I just want to go home and crash."
Huck noticed Byrne's haggard state and set down a crate. "You look like you've seen a ghost. Did the press-gangs come for you too?"
"No, just tired. I'm fine."
"Tired or not, you've got to eat." Huck reached back, grabbed an energy bar, and shoved it into Byrne's hand. "Take it. It's the fresh stuff, heavier than the old ones."
Byrne knew better than to argue with Huck. "Thanks. I'll bring the credits by later."
A few minutes later, Byrne reached his repair shop. He unlocked the door and stepped inside. After twelve days, a thin layer of dust had settled over everything. Ignoring the mess, he slumped into the chair at his workbench.
He looked around the shop. The familiar tools and cluttered shelves suddenly felt alien. The grit of the desert, the crack of gunfire, and the roar of the furnace formed a jarring contrast with the silence of the shop.
After sitting for a moment, he got up—not to clean, but to splash some water on his face in the washroom. Then, he locked up the shop and headed upstairs to his bedroom.
Between the desert trial and the revelation at the Ironbone Cafe, his body was finished, but his mind was still wired. Joralan's voice, his father's past, and the weight of that gene-seed were tangled threads he couldn't unravel. He wanted to sleep, but his brain refused to shut down.
"Sigh. I guess taking NZT-48 has its downsides," Byrne muttered with a wry smile, sitting on the edge of his bed.
Though he wasn't hungry, he remembered Huck's energy bar. He reached into his pocket to pull it out, but as his hand brushed the wrapper, his fingers touched something else.
A ring.