Cold, trembling…
In his unconscious state, Diedrech Torismund felt utterly exhausted. Hunger gnawed at his mind, but even more maddening was the maddening itch all over his body, an urgent need to scratch.
With a crackling sound like the shattering of crispy roast duck skin, Diedrech finally opened his eyes.
"Not bad. You're the best specimen in this batch." A cold voice rang out.
Diedrech turned his head and saw a towering figure clad in golden armor, wearing sunglasses, sneering down at him.
Their eyes locked. The confusion in Diedrech's gaze gradually gave way to disdain as he glared at the yellow-skinned jerk who reeked of scumminess.
"Think it's fun playing the cool sunglasses guy?"
"Quite fun!"
Looking at the golden giant before him, Diedrech closed his eyes in resignation. From the situation, it was clear this scumbag had rifled through his memories. He might even know about the time Diedrech secretly wore a little dress as a kid.
"No, I didn't look at your memories of wearing girls' clothes as a child. As your father, you should trust my moral standards. That said, I'll offer one critique: a red dress would suit your hair color better than black."
Now Diedrech really couldn't hold it together. The thought of his embarrassing past being casually browsed sent a wave of shame so intense he wanted to murder the guy to silence him. Propping himself up, he prepared to take down the bastard.
Just as Diedrech was about to launch a war god-style leaping strike, a sharp pain shot through him, sending him collapsing back onto the operating table.
Looking at his empty, mangled half-body, Diedrech's anger flared even hotter.
"Where's my arse? You damned yellow-skin, you bloody donkey, you dared to shoot me with a lance? What, got hooked on playing the Roman she-wolf and selling your backside, jealous of me now? You want me to call you daddy? Pfft! Why don't you take a piss and look in the mirror? I've only got one father in this world, and that's Thomas Wayne! And why the hell are you so kno
wledgeable about this?"
Before he could finish, a golden fist came crashing down, slamming into Diedrech's skull, forcing the rest of his filthy tirade back down his throat.
But was Diedrech the type to give up easily? He'd been stewing in rage ever since landing in this cesspit of a world. This jerk didn't show up early, didn't show up late, but chose the exact moment Diedrech was in the middle of a fight.
Fine, you showed up—whatever. Diedrech could've just thrown in the towel, done whatever was asked, and lived as a useless, freeloading pastry. But to send someone to bombard him with cannons? That was absolutely unforgivable!
Just as Diedrech was about to resume his verbal gymnastics, the Emperor flashed forward to the operating table. With two pairs of powerful arms, he pinned Diedrech down like a chick being restrained.
Glancing at the muscles thicker than his own head, Diedrech instinctively swallowed hard. After struggling with all his might and still failing to break free, his expression began to soften.
"Uh, maybe I was a bit loud just now. You wouldn't hit me again, would you, Father? I'm your own son!"
After backing down, Diedrech looked up at the Emperor with pitiful, pleading eyes, hoping to awaken whatever faint trace of fatherly love might exist—though he wasn't sure there was any. To his surprise, the Emperor maintained that same paralyzed face, complete with a fake, crooked sneer.
This made Diedrech wonder if the Emperor was planning to kill him. After all, decimation was a fine yellow-skinned tradition.
But the truth was, Diedrech was overthinking it. Upon hearing his son back down, the Emperor secretly relished the moment, feeling his attempt at humor had gotten off to a good start. However, his meager parenting experience told him he should say something, but the underlying logic offered no such option.
In his prior rehearsals with Malcador, they hadn't accounted for this scenario. So, the Emperor decided to handle it in his preferred way: wait for the other party to speak first.
After a full five minutes of awkward silence, the Emperor finally spoke.
"Who's Thomas? Find him. I'll make him a planetary governor!"
"…"
"Thomas was my foster father. You've already seen my memories, so quit pretending! He's long dead. How about you let me go first? My dog disciple is still down there."
The Emperor said nothing, merely issuing orders to the Custodes.
Half an hour later, under the watchful eyes of a Custodes squad, eighty-eight giant beastmen clad in scrap-iron armor marched into the operating room.
Had it not been for His Majesty's command, the Custodes would never have allowed these xenos aboard the Phalanx, the Emperor's flagship. Even a single dog hair would be an unforgivable insult to their honor.
But the beastmen, rustic natives of Tranquility, didn't care about such things. Upon seeing the massive, gleaming structure of the Phalanx, their canine instincts took over, and they were practically itching to gnaw a chunk off the walls to taste its saltiness.
The moment they entered the operating room, the beastmen swarmed around Diedrech, rallying to protect their great chieftain. Rambo, in particular, began growling at the Emperor, trying to ward off this dangerous golden giant.
But this time, Rambo barked up the wrong tree. Seeing the black-furred beastman snarl at him, the Emperor delivered a Diedrech-style fist to its head, sending Rambo yelping in disgrace and scurrying back to its master for comfort.
"Boss, we thought you were dead! When we woke up, you were only half there. Those bad tin cans captured us, but their prison food was pretty tasty—just not enough!"
"Yeah, yeah! Boss, can you get them to give us more prison food? I want more of that ant-bull canned stuff!"
"By the way, Boss, you smell delicious! Just needs a bit of cumin…"
Looking at his disgraceful subordinates, their mouths still flecked with bits of meat, yapping nonstop, Diedrech felt a surge of relief but quickly followed by embarrassment. He roared, "Get lost! Have you no shame? You're prisoners, and all you can think about is food? I don't have any cans—go ask that golden giant over there!"
At those words, the beastmen scattered like birds and beasts, abandoning their chieftain without a second thought. With hopeful eyes, they turned to the Emperor, who'd been standing as a backdrop. Even his paralyzed, sour face suddenly seemed dashing and heroic in their canine eyes.
Truth be told, during the Great Crusade, humanity wasn't as fanatical as it would become in later millennia. Given the galaxy's vastness, when encountering a new world, human fleets typically prioritized negotiation over force.
Even for a few species that deviated from humanity, as long as they posed no threat and swore not to develop spacefaring armaments, the Imperium would grant them limited space to exist.
Otherwise, with the galaxy's immense scale, if they had to conquer every world one by one, who knew what bizarre relics the remnants of the Dark Age of Technology might unearth?
The key criterion for evaluating these species was whether they were harmless to humanity. As for whether peace treaties were humane, that was hardly a concern.
Looking at the pack of giant beastmen, the Emperor realized he'd never encountered this species before. After a brief moment of thought, he glanced at the golden hair atop Diedrech's head, which pleased him, then at the soldiers who had quietly surrounded him. He nodded.
"Valdor, take these abhumans to the mess hall! And have the chefs prepare a banquet. I wish to speak with my son alone."
"Yes, my lord!"
No one would defy the Emperor's orders. The ever-prepared chefs sprang into action, hoping their culinary skills would earn the approval of the Master of Mankind, even if the guests were a pack of giant beastmen who seemed to contradict the Imperial Truth.
But whatever the Emperor said was right. Even if these beastmen were xenos, from now on, they'd be classified as Imperial abhumans.
Hearing they'd get to feast again, the beastmen let out excited howls. But even so, they didn't leave immediately, instead turning their gazes to their chieftain behind them.
"Go! Eat your fill—eat till you burst! Bankrupt these blasted rich bastards. I've got some things to discuss with him myself."
"Woof, awesome!"