"By the Emperor's fla, the phantoms are scattered."
"By the Emperor's will, all mortals find shelter."
"The Emperor permits it."
"Truth brings disaster."
Caelan woke up in his cramped 13-square-ter room. From under the bed, he pulled out a small box and carefully set upon his desk the hand-carved figurine of the Emperor, bowing reverently in worship.
"Caelan! Get your ass up and work, the Emperor needs us!"
Outside, the foreman, Raymond, was hamring furiously on his door, shouting at the top of his lungs.
"Coming." Caelan quickly finished his ritual, shoved the figurine back into the box under the bed, grabbed his tools, and headed out.
"You were muttering weird stuff again in there, weren't you?" Raymond frowned suspiciously. He gave a stern warning: "You'd better watch yourself, boy. If the missionaries of the Imperial Truth catch you, you're as good as dead!"
"Next ti, I promise." Caelan brushed him off casually.
He was originally just a native of M3, but because of a single offhand comnt, he had sohow been thrown into M30.
When Caelan realized the truth, he had been utterly crushed inside. The despair he felt back then was beyond words.
He was just a casual Warhamr fanboy, nothing more. The fact that he didn't bawl like a brat with a stubbed toe was already proof that his ntal fortitude was remarkable.
But since he was here… what else could he do?
Even in this cursed Warhamr universe, he wanted to stay alive because who knew what kind of tornt awaited after death?
Not to boast, but Caelan knew a bit too much. The Four Gods might not care about so tiny nobody like him, but what if they did?
He felt like a Dark Eldar slave, one wrong step away from being utterly annihilated.
The current tiline was 750.M30. Five years ago, the Emperor had destroyed the last church on Terra.
The spread of the Imperial Truth was in full swing. Missionaries, following the Emperor's will, preached atheism and rationalism across Terra. Any belief would be ruthlessly purged.
But Caelan didn't think of himself as a heretic, just soone a bit ahead of the tiline.
After all, the "Imperial Truth" would eventually get patched into the "Lectitio Divinitatus." How could he be called a heretic for being early?
From the tractor's cab, Caelan stuck his head out and shouted: "Hey, idiot! Have you got no eyes when you walk?!"
"Sorry, sorry! He's new here, doesn't know any better," an old man quickly pulled the young man along, apologizing profusely as they went into the worksite.
Caelan was quick to anger these days. He hadn't always been like this, but five years of sixteen-hour shifts, less than eight hours of rest, and als consisting of disgusting corpse-starch would break anyone.
It wasn't that he didn't want to be kind. Society simply wouldn't let him.
He wasn't a baby, so he couldn't be Custodes.
He wasn't a youth, so he couldn't be an Astartes.
He wasn't nobility, so he couldn't pilot a Knight or a Titan.
He had no way into the chanicum. He didn't even qualify to join the Imperial Auxilia as cannon fodder.
And in the newborn Imperium, there was no place for the idle. So he had to adapt, adopt the local na "Caelan Worp," and join the vast army of laborers, not glorious soldiers, but ordinary workers, driving M30-era tractors to help build the Imperial Palace on Terra.
The construction site roared with countless machines spread across the Palace's periter.
Caelan had no lunch break. He had to gnaw on the corpse-starch ration bar Raymond had given him that morning during work pauses.
Corpse-starch had no taste, not sweet, not bitter, just disgusting. Worse than canned spam.
"You don't like the Imperium as it is now?"
"Holy shit!" Caelan jumped, whipping his head toward the voice. A boy was sitting beside him. "How the hell did you get up here? This tractor is ten ters high, and the damn door was shut!"
"You still haven't answered my question," the boy said calmly.
Caelan looked him over: wheat-colored skin, black hair, a handso face, like so pretty-boy idol who would've been adored in any age.
Caelan suddenly felt a chill of recognition. He answered after a pause: "Depends on what you compare it to. Compared to the ti I ca from, I don't like it. But compared to ten thousand years later, this Imperium is already a rare golden age."
The boy nodded: "This is how I ca up."
His body glowed with golden light. His feet left the ground, floating in the air.
An old man added: "The future you've seen may not co to pass."
Caelan turned his head toward the hooded elder, holding a staff, and choked out, speechless: "Don't you guys think it's a little cramped in here?"
The old man smiled: "A little. How about this, then?"
The world around Caelan flickered. Suddenly, he stood in a magnificent golden palace.
Armored warriors stood like statues outside the throne hall. Inside, only the three of them remained.
Shocking? A bit. But not too much.
Caelan said flatly, "I know what you're about to say: the future is like a library. What I've seen is only one book in that library. Maybe it isn't inevitable, but it's the most likely one."
The old man was surprised that Caelan guessed his thoughts so precisely. Caelan explained: "Your future self once told the sa phrase."
"You know who we are?" the old man asked.
"Is it that hard to guess?" Caelan sighed. "You're either Big E and Old Mal… or you're 'ssengers' of the Four Chaos Gods here to ss with , maybe even reading my mind."
The boy said: "The Four Gods cannot pierce Terra's veil."
"For now," Caelan muttered.
Caelan shook his head.
"You're far too pessimistic," the old man said.
"It's not like I want to be pessimistic. But when you realize you've landed in a latrine pit, it's pretty damn hard not to be."
"A latrine pit? An interesting taphor." The old man chuckled.
After a pause, he added: "Quite accurate, actually. But no, we're not reading your mind. That would be rather impolite."
"So should I be saying 'thank you' then?"
"You're welco," the boy answered flatly.
Caelan looked at them suspiciously. "So what do you want with ? Or rather, what can I even do?"
"What do you think you can do?" the old man asked.
Caelan thought seriously and replied, "Honestly, my only real advantage is that my genes should still be fairly pure. So at best, I'd make a decent stud horse. I wouldn't even ask for much, just toss eight or ten beautiful wives and I'd be fine."
"Why do you think we'd grant such a request?" the old man asked.
"I don't," Caelan sighed again. "I know whatever you decide to do with , my opinion doesn't matter. So what else can I do? At least keeping it light ans I don't look too pathetic. And since you're willing to waste precious ti eting , that must an I've got so value, right?"
"Reasonable." The old man nodded in approval.
Suddenly, the boy said, "You insulted just now."
"Sorry." Caelan surrendered imdiately.
"I'll allow you to rephrase," the boy said coldly.
In Caelan's mind flashed a thousand grand complints, wise and mighty, brilliant strategist, majestic bearing, all-seeing sage… but in the end, they all boiled down into one sincere line of praise:
"You really are a wise and mighty… big dumbass."
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