Heydrich hadn't really rested for a long time: he had probably been sleepless for days, months, or even longer, so long that he had forgotten about it.

It's not common, it's even weird: his memory is infallible, and he remembers everything he did from the moment he opened his eyes.

But now, it seems, something went wrong: but he doesn't know.

This made him more irritable, and his calm and ruthless heart beat even more violently.

In him, time has lost its meaning, and he even feels as if he has fallen into the cycle of reincarnation or time prison that science fiction works are proud of, doing the same and funny things again and again, becoming a terrible nightmare in the eyes of others.

I don't know when such thoughts haunted him, like a midnight twig scraping against a glass window, making an abominable, grinding teeth-like sound, disturbing everything he was most proud of and valued: his rationality, his calmness, his ruthlessness.

He relied on them to harness the legions, his warriors, his privates, and his consumables.

He had seen his blood brothers call their warriors "children", or "sons" and "sons", and he could not understand the names and connections: was there any use for such a useless thing other than those ethereal bonds, and for causing indifferent status and strife among his own legions?

Used to cement loyalty?

However, these genetically modified warriors named Astarte have long been genetically operated and brainwashed again and again, and have become loyal servants of the emperor and them, and there is no need to worry about their loyalty, as for those who may have ambitions, it is best to let them disappear.

Or is it affection?

That would be even more ridiculous: their great genetic father, the Emperor, created their genetic prototypes to help him accomplish something he had never done before, to make countless worlds burn or submit, and they shouldn't care about anything else.

Nothing is worth caring about except victory and efficiency.

Nothing is fanatical except for the great deeds of the emperor.

As for his brothers: they had let him down enough times, second only to the human empire he had looked forward to, but now hated and hated him.

But it doesn't matter, he respects his blood relatives: the only one of his kind in this crazy and dimly dark universe.

He respected the characteristic imbecile and uniform stupidity of each of them: including their intimacy with the so-called Astarte warriors.

Though they may not like him: whether it was Fogham, or Vulcan, or even that Pertulabo, he remembered the hideous face of the Iron Lord, who accused the blonde beast of raising a butcher's knife against his own heir for the sake of modest efficiency.

There is no humanity.

Heydrich remembered that the Olympian was so reprimanded himself.

In fact, more than one person has scolded him in this way: inhuman, blonde beast.

Human nature...... Human nature......

What is that?

He couldn't understand whether it was humanity, emotion, or the invisible connection between his blood relatives and their warriors......

Heydrich could neither identify with it, nor could he understand it, let alone know what it was, and he looked at the so-called "emotion", "love" and "humanity", like a monster in a cave looking at the sun in horror.

Whenever he began to think about it, Heydrich had a rather strange feeling: it was as if a piece of his heart had been maliciously pulled out, leaving a terrible wound.

It was as if a wanton laugh accompanied by a hurricane of anger snatched something from him before he had any memory or consciousness.

Was he robbed of anything?

Is he incomplete?

Is it because of this that he can't have those so-called family affection for these genetically modified soldiers?

He didn't know, and he didn't want to know.

Facts have proved that even if he does not have the so-called humanity, it cannot stop him from fighting for the emperor, so in this way, the so-called humanity is a useless thing.

The Astarte warriors, or genetically modified warriors, whom he inwardly called these inferior creations expendables, were the crude product of having to pinch their noses and temporarily compromise in the course of a great cause.

He called them that, and though he never did it in public, deep down in his heart, whether it was these genetically modified warriors who had some biological connection to him, or the vast majority of existences in the galaxy, they were just consumables.

Except for the greatest emperor, the father of his genes, and the perfect being who stands proudly at the top of reason and wisdom, there is nothing in the galaxy worthy of his worship and convincing.

And apart from his powerful blood relatives, with whom he has a genetic prototype that shares the same inheritance, and the eternal incarnation of the emperor's blood, there is nothing in the galaxy that deserves his respect and equal treatment.

They will be the creators of everything, and all things in the world are nothing more than clay in the palm of their hands, which is necessary for them to build all kinds of great empires and immortal feats.

That's all.

He comforted himself in his heart, comforted the uneasiness that came from instinct.

When his heart had stabilized a little, he turned his head, letting his disgruntled gaze echo through the empty room.

"Where's Peper?"

He asked questions, but no one dared to respond.

One by one, his children were piled up in the corners of the room, focusing all their eyes and attention on their desks and communication devices: he didn't get any more angry because that was exactly what he wanted.

"Pieper."

He continued to speak, his voice echoing through the empty hall, not a single echo reaching his ears.

Fifteen minutes had passed since the last briefing, but Pelpel still hadn't reported the new round to him.

This is dereliction of duty, procrastination, and the result of a cross between pathetic inefficiencies and defeatism.

It was something he couldn't stand: not even Pieper, even if he was the best file ever.

Piper needed a lesson, a lesson for him to know he was wrong: it wouldn't be heavy, after all, he had twice patience with any consumable.

Piper will get a battle group of his own and then head to the most intense frontline world: a 4% survival rate, which is a great lesson to learn.

He thought so, and then continued to wait for his lieutenant to deliver a front-line debrief, which was updated every fifteen minutes, and every second of his delay was remembered as his next impression of Piper's file

He didn't take the opportunity to rest: he hadn't rested for a long time, he didn't even have time to turn his head and glance at the Iron Throne behind him: he hadn't sat on it for a long time.

For, as soon as he turned around, he would see the only ornament in the hall: the statue of the emperor, the lifelike, the most perfect work of art, which not even the fanatical wyassayers and the pompous sons of the emperor could have created.

The Emperor and the Eagle, this is the belief and choice of the blonde beast, and it is the only decorative item that he can tolerate a little, and has nothing to do with war, efficiency, and victory.

After all, it was the Emperor, the father of his genes, the sole embodiment of reason and wisdom in the galaxy, who stood at the very top of evolution and all living things: his father, who was born to rule over everything, who should enjoy the submission and worship of all life, who should sit on the throne of eternity, and whose wisest reign would continue until the end of time.

From the first moment he saw the Emperor, Heydrich knew that this was his mission: to let the Emperor's rule spread into eternity, this was his mission, and it was the mission that all genetic protoplasms were born with.

He despised Luo Jia's idea that the emperor was not a god, that he was alive, that existed in reality, that he was a perfect being who stood in reason, technology, and thinking, that he was an eternal emperor to whom all life should be unreservedly surrendered and allegiated, not a statue of nothingness, or a sad product of delusion in the hearts of those expendables.

In the eyes of the golden-haired beast, the most perfect galaxy was the galaxy in his mind: countless worlds, countless lives, countless times and spaces, eternally bowing under the throne of the emperor, without much more thought: because the emperor's will can never be wrong, and there is no need for more exploration: because the emperor has long since stood at the end of all wisdom.

One galaxy, one country.

One king, one thought.

The will of the emperor is the will of all life and the world, and the decision of the emperor is the decision of all life and the world: all consumables do not need the so-called thoughts, and their only value is to fulfill the orders of the emperor.

This is the galaxy in its most perfect form, this is the dream in his heart.

From the moment he was reunited with his genetic father, from the moment his sad and meaningless life was illuminated by the bright sun, the thought had taken root in his heart: since everything in this universe is stupid and inefficient, let them give everything they have for true wisdom.

Little by little, such thoughts germinated in his heart.

He thought so when he saw the so-called human empire, when he saw the pathetic thoughts and abilities of the world governors, Terra bureaucrats, and mortal officers.

He thought so when he saw his legions and warriors, when he saw how the angels of death, worshipped by mortals, fell to their knees at his feet, and rushed back and forth in vain in his wisdom and command.

As he shattered the impossible barriers, annihilated all the mightiest opponents, and pacified the stubborn worlds that had left his blood relatives helpless, he looked at his legions, at the mortals who followed him, at their lack of progressive power, at the foolish worship in their eyes.

He thought so.

They are so useless, so stupid and pathetic, so incorrigible.

It was as if he lived in a suffocating quagmire: while all the genogens toasted and imagined a bright future for the Empire, only the blonde beast sneered in the shadows.

He's too clear, he's too smart.

He could see at a glance that the so-called glorious cause was nothing more than the emperor and the genetic prototype using their own strength to drag mankind to complete a short-lived cause.

Once they are gone, once the Emperor and the Primordial are no longer in charge of everything, then the Human Empire will be greeted only by death: the most painful and slowest death.

Whether it is from arrogance, from chaos, from the constant collapse and terror of the vast territory, or from the meanness of the hearts of those wretched beings.

There will only be this result.

Heydrich opened his eyes, and once again he looked at everything in front of him: whether it was the empty hall, the silent heir, or the procrastinating Pieper, it only made him more disappointed.

Then he closed his eyes and let out a long sigh.

Perhaps, it was time for him to continue with that plan.

He thought so.

Continuing with the plan he had had on his home planet: he had given up that plan for the time being when he returned to the Human Empire, when he thought that the Emperor's kingdom would be a paradise of reason, a combination of all wisdom and correct understanding, a place where he could feel warmth and admiration.

He was wrong.

Couldn't be more wrong.

It was so wrong that he even felt like he had run out of patience.

Maybe...... He needed to do something.

Start now and continue that plan.

Consumables were everywhere anyway, right in front of his eyes: since these genetically modified fighters associated with him had proven their incompetence time and time again, let him use them for something else.

He thought.

Then, what sound did he hear.

——————

[First meeting, Heydrich.] 】

I'm Morgan. 】

[Your blood relatives. 】

——————

Morgan.

He doesn't remember the name.

The blonde beast opened his eyes, and all he saw was a silvery-white figure, standing at a distance that made him feel safe.

Heydrich was no fool: when he saw Morgan at the first glance, he knew what was going on.

"You're the newly returned Primordial, why didn't they tell me?"

[Maybe it's an emergency.] 】

Morgan smiled, her gesture looking very impolite, and instead of looking directly at Heydrich's face, she looked sideways at the area behind the blonde beast, as if there was something there that would attract her.

There was a smile in her eyes: a smile that made Heydrich uncomfortable.

Piper still didn't come.

The blonde beast frowned, and he looked into the corner of the hall, his warriors still not moving, it was clear that the long war had brought each of them to a crumble.

A bunch of pathetic stuff.

"Are you here to reinforce me?"

[Of course.] 】

She seemed to pause for a moment before laughing.

[This war has been going on for a long time, hasn't it? 】

The blonde beast nodded.

"Yes, it's been going on for a while, about a Terra standard year."

"I came here in the seventieth year of the Great Expedition, the year before, and of course the army of Randan is launching a full-scale offensive against the eastern galaxy, and about eight months ago, Johnson and the Dark Angel were ordered to destroy the army of Randan, who had invaded the eastern galaxy."

Heydrich told her blood relatives some basic information, which she probably already knew: for there was always a smile on her face, as if she were laughing at something.

It irritated him, especially when he thought that Piper hadn't been seen in front of him for nineteen minutes: he had been delaying for a full four minutes.

Pelpel has fallen too.

He no longer seemed to be any different from the lowest consumables, and he seemed to be more and more like that Heinz: the pathetic creature who tried to delay his plans with the lives of mortals.

Why is this always the case, why do they always fail to complete his plans?

So, what do I need to do?] 】

She still had that disgusting smile on her face.

"Not yet, we're still in a state of attrition with those aliens, maybe after a Terra standard month, I'll launch an active attack."

He spoke the words that had come back to his head that he would forget as soon as he finished speaking, and he frowned, a little unconcerned about his blood relatives, but full of doubts about Pieper's question.

It's been twenty minutes.

What are you waiting for? 】

He heard Morgan's voice again.

"Wait for my warrior, my adjutant."

"He's ......"

"He's ......"

Heydrich replied, looking up, as if to say something, but a dazed emotion suddenly flashed through his pupils.

But when he looked down, it was as if everything had been reset.

"He's supposed to be coming."

"It's been fifteen minutes."

"He's two seconds late...... Three seconds ......"

Heydrich counted carefully, and his mind flashed with emotion, memory, and decision, and then he looked up again at Morgan.

He was stunned for a moment, then said with a normal expression.

——————

"You're the newly returned Primordial, why didn't they tell me?"

——————

This is the fifth time Morgan has heard the same question, seen the same wait and action.

This time, she didn't answer.

In a cautious manner, she observed it five times, but after confirming that there was not the slightest danger or foreshadowing......

[I really want to play with you again.] 】

She smiled and looked at the dazed Heydrich in front of her.

[But I really don't have the patience and time ......]

[Go and play more boring tricks with a soul and a fragment of memory that has been abandoned by the body.] 】

said.

Morgan held out his hand.

What did she catch.

It was the apple, the apple she had been waiting for.

The food she craves.

There was no pause, no remembrance, and Morgan had no more thoughts to spend on this pathetic fragment with whom she had no blood.

She was hungry.

That's the most important thing.

——————

Heydrich was stunned.

It took him a second to understand what Morgan meant by his words, and another second to connect the truth.

But Morgan didn't give him a third second.

When Heydrich, abandoned here by the real blonde beast, was twisted into an apple by Morgan's greed in a daze and madness, he finally glanced behind him.

Glancing at the throne.

——————

Body.

A body long dead.

He sat on the throne, his corpse had already been waxed, and he could even see the white bones slowly corroded by the air.

He was tall and covered in all sorts of experimental marks, countless scars and needle cuts, as if hundreds of the most horrific experiments had taken place on him.

And then.

He looked at the face.

That's his face.

It was the face of a blonde beast.

(End of chapter)