Chapter 385: Emperor: Your Pocket Might Lead to the Twenty-Second Century

"It's not necessary to be so intense."

The brown-haired boy, the Lord of Mankind, the Emperor, the liar, the thief, the mummy, Neos, the hook seller, the source of father complex, and countless other titles spanning ten thousand years, sat beside Zhou Yun, clutching his heart tightly, his face twitching uncontrollably.

He had just been jolted by Zhou Yun's question, "Is all this really worth it?", becoming far more animated, and simultaneously poured out his heartfelt gratitude using every language he had ever learned.

Zhou Yun sighed, thinking he was truly a divine physician.

In truth, seeing the brown-haired boy's expression, Zhou Yun felt a flicker of guilt.

But only a flicker—once it satisfied his fantasy of still possessing a conscience, it vanished.

"Should I call Kiriman and Sanguinius in too?" Zhou Yun asked the brown-haired boy beside him, seated on a large rock by the riverbank.

The scenes before Zhou Yun were essentially the product of "conversation," a higher form of communication.

As long as Sanguinius and Kiriman ate the translation taro, they could be drawn into this exchange as well.

After all, they had all taken the Siegfried Potion; theoretically, they could withstand the Emperor's current surge of self-destructive energy.

The brown-haired boy's cheeks twitched slightly, more animated and human than before.

He reached down idly, plucked a stone from the muddy riverbank, and tossed it into the bronze-hued river before him.

The stone struck the surface, sending out a few ripples, then sank silently to the bottom.

"I owe Sanguinius much."

"He is a perfect child, a perfect general, a perfect angel."

"And I am a failed father, a failed monarch—and I am not a god."

The brown-haired boy said slowly:

"I am too ashamed to face him again. Spare me."

"And please, apologize to him for me—a bad father to his son."

"What about Kiriman?" Zhou Yun asked, raising an eyebrow slightly.

"Who?" The brown-haired boy paused, then remembered the meaning of the name: "Oh, screwdriver-not-ambition-no, thirteen."

"Yes, thirteen. Robert Kiriman."

A deathly silence settled over Zhou Yun 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.

Zhou Yun stared at the brown-haired boy with an expression barely containing disbelief.

He knew the relationship between Kiriman and the Emperor was thin, and certainly not one of genuine father-son affection.

Kiriman's bond with the Emperor was less like the father-son collaboration between Horus and the Emperor, and more like a purely pragmatic alliance for mutual benefit.

But this was too extreme?

He just forgot Kiriman's name, right?

"No, I don't disregard thirteen."

The brown-haired boy gently extended his hands, staring at his own body.

"Even this version of me is not entirely the Emperor from ten thousand years ago."

"I am shattered. The self-destructive desires of billions of humans constantly batter me—they beg me every moment: 'Your Majesty, rise. Let us destroy this damned world utterly.'"

"Under this emotional onslaught, I have no choice but to piece myself together using others' impressions of me—and this has twisted me severely."

"I chose this form to meet you precisely because few have seen it, and thus it is less influenced by others' perceptions."

"This version of me is closer to the original Emperor than the one others imagine."

The brown-haired boy sighed faintly, placed his hands back on his knees, and continued:

"After I gave you a small portion of my authority, things did ease slightly."

"But my existence remains shattered, and so do my memories. My recollections of many are heavily dependent on humanity's collective impression of them."

"Humanity's collective impression of Sanguinius is unified, so I can recall memories of him relatively clearly."

"But Kiriman—ambitious, traitor, bastard, bureaucrat, overtime slave, son, oppressor, terrifyingly rational—there are too many labels. My memories of him have been distorted."

Zhou Yun stared at the brown-haired boy. Another deathly silence stretched between them.

"And the possibility of Kiriman's Great Rebellion is not zero," the brown-haired boy whispered.

"Sorry, Your Majesty, I almost thought you were a good father just now," Zhou Yun couldn't help saying.

"It's fine. By Saint Doraemon above, for a moment, I almost thought your mouth had some boundaries," the brown-haired boy replied without changing expression.

Zhou Yun turned his neck toward the brown-haired boy. "You have too much humanity."

"Thanks to your excellent stimulation," the brown-haired boy nodded with a smile.

"Failed parent, yellow monkey."

"Born evil, blue raccoon."

The two glared at each other.

". h." A weary sigh drifted from the river's surface—faint, elusive, as if coming from the silver-haired boy's corpse aboard the wooden boat.

"Let's talk about your fourth-dimensional pocket first."

The brown-haired boy turned his head slightly, gazing at the river's blue-green ripples.

"What exactly is it? A warp phenomenon? Where do those items actually come from?"

"Of course you don't know," Zhou Yun raised an eyebrow slightly.

"Should I know?" The brown-haired boy frowned.

"I once suspected you recruited me into this galaxy," Zhou Yun said with a sigh.

When he first crossed over, Zhou Yun cursed the Emperor's sacred ass every thirteen minutes.

"It wasn't me. You know—if it had been me, I wouldn't have recruited just one person."

The brown-haired boy spoke with utter certainty.

"You don't know the origin of this fourth-dimensional pocket? Don't know where the things you sold went? Or where the pocket leads?"

The brown-haired boy's tone held a hint of disappointment.

"The twenty-second century," Zhou Yun murmured, thinking.

"Huh?" The brown-haired boy snapped his head up.

Zhou Yun recalled the dead Eldar, remembered what Xigaoqi had described, and thought of the items in his pocket.

At least in origin, the fourth-dimensional pocket clearly showed those items came from a future department store, manufactured in the twenty-second century.

"My fourth-dimensional pocket… really might lead to the twenty-second century," Zhou Yun murmured.

"What did you say?" The brown-haired boy's voice rose sharply.

"I said my pocket might really lead to the twenty-second century," Zhou Yun said hesitantly.

"You mean the twenty-second century—the one that makes time machines, Liar 800, If-Phone Booths, monitors multiple timelines, corrects history, and treats universe-creation like a child's homework?" The brown-haired boy's voice rose further.

"I mean it's possible—just a possibility—not certain—"

THUD!!

The sound of a knee slamming into the muddy ground rang out sharply.

The brown-haired boy dropped to one knee and grabbed the edge of Zhou Yun's fourth-dimensional pocket.

Zhou Yun startled, tried to dodge—but the brown-haired boy clung tightly to the pocket.

"Saint Doraemon above, I must've shouted too loud."

Still gripping the pocket's edge, the brown-haired boy roared with a grotesque grin:

"Ahahaha! So you're a noble citizen of the twenty-second century? Why didn't you say so sooner? I thought you were a warp-born anomaly!"

"Brother! Brother, don't run!"

"For the sake of being human, let the twenty-second century pull your brother out!"

"Where's the Temporal Patrol? Temporal Patrol, save us!!"

"If all else fails, just throw me a Liar 800!!"

(End of Chapter)