Chapter 599: Our Gene-Father Was Very Satisfying

On the Emperor's Glory, Thor wore a power armor interwoven with purple, white, and gold, hiding among the ship's conduits, suppressing his breath as much as possible to avoid detection by the cold metal undead.

His silver-gold hair clung messily to his cheeks; on his handsome face, shaped by his gene-seed, hung a faint, weary, bitter smile.

To this day, he still had no idea what was going on.

He had been released by the Crowned General Zandrik of the Necrons.

Though that old general was an alien, he was a man of noble character.

Zandrik returned Thor's ship, and most of the crew aboard the Emperor's Glory had suffered no harm.

Even before departure, Zandrik gifted Thor a necron hyper-phasing blade he had forged himself, shaped like a royal longsword, to compensate for the power sword Thor had lost when Zandrik severed it.

Released suddenly by Zandrik, Thor had no grasp of the Empire's or the galaxy's current state; he had intended to head for Terra.

But.

But his navigator accidentally brought him to the edge of the Nephilim Sector, because the outer rim of the Nephilim Sector was now encircled by a blazing golden warp storm—its radiance, to the navigator's eyes, closely resembled the Astronomican's light, and his crew mistook it for the Astronomican, dragging Thor to this vicinity.

Worse still, when Thor emerged from the warp, he materialized directly at the heart of the Necron forces of Storm King Imotekh.

Thor and the Emperor's Glory were naturally hunted by these Necrons; had Thor not undergone certain changes upon nearing the Nephilim Sector—changes allowing him to maneuver against the Necrons—he and his ship would long ago have become space debris.

Thor heard clinking footsteps, like metal striking metal; his peripheral vision caught faint green glimmers.

"Strike."

A voice sounded within Thor's body.

It seemed to come from deep within his mind, a voice that had existed within him before his birth, a whisper from his genetic sequence, a voice from the other side of death.

Scorching heat burned within Thor's gene-seed, guiding his body to swing the necron hyper-phasing blade.

This guidance from the gene-seed had existed since the day Thor became an Astartes, but only after reaching the edge of the Nephilim Sector, near the roaring golden warp storm, had it become sharper and clearer.

Yet, it was not only the voice from the gene-seed guiding Thor.

Another force stirred within him—an icy, gray, malicious, vile soul—also steering the trajectory of his blade.

Unlike the voice from the gene-seed, which taught and guided Thor,

that cold, vile soul seemed to forcibly control his body, brutal and unbearable.

The slender blade sliced through the cold darkness; over a dozen Necron warriors simultaneously bore grotesque gashes across their forms.

Those undead fell in an instant; even living metal could not withstand the lethal, icy edge.

"I am stronger than he is. My swordsmanship is deadlier. Learn my power."

The cold, vile whisper echoed in Thor's ears, tempting him to learn its swordplay and accept its power. It swore by the name of the Hunger Lord that this was not an attempt to possess him—only pure instruction.

It had seemingly dwelled within Thor for a long time, for Thor had participated in its last death, and unlike Saronjin, Thor did not feel shame over it.

But Thor had been blessed by Saint Doraemon; the Hunger Lord, who granted the cold voice its endless rebirth, dared not offend Saint Doraemon and had never bestowed upon it the power to possess Thor.

Only recently had the cold voice gained some strength—enough to speak to Thor, to teach, guide, and aid him, yet insufficient to possess him.

The voice claimed this was the Hunger Lord's task: the Hunger Lord wished to assist Saint Doraemon this way; if Thor accepted its teaching and aid, the Hunger Lord would grant it rebirth in another body.

Thor naturally disbelieved its lies, always suspecting it to be some form of corruption.

At that moment, a cascade of memories surfaced in Thor's mind—memories buried within the gene-seed.

In the memory, "Thor" stood atop a ruin, facing the haughty Son of the Emperor—Lucius, before his fall to Slaanesh.

"Thor" punched Lucius in the face; Lucius screamed, then crawled shamefully onto the roof like a stray dog and fled.

The Lucius in this scene looked exactly like a stray dog on the street—ugly, ridiculous, so absurd that Thor's lips twitched into a faint smile.

"Tavitz, I just fucked your gene-father—" the cold voice cursed in fury.

"Traitor, you forgot we share the same gene-father."

"I know. But I did fuck him. It was very satisfying."

The two voices clashed and argued within Thor's mind; his expression grew strange as bizarre memories flashed repeatedly—things like the Pear of Agony and other nonsense.

But Thor had no time to examine those ancient memories; he must immediately relocate.

These Necron warriors were negligible; the real danger was the Arch-Imperator himself.

Imotek coldly observed the three-dimensional map hovering before him.

Another dozen Necron warriors had vanished from within the ship.

Imotek had originally thought the human named Thor merely an excellent commander; now he saw he was also a master swordsman.

This man had inexplicably appeared at the heart of Imotek's forces, inflicted damage on several ships, escaped safely into the void, and now circled Imotek's fleet, waging guerrilla warfare.

A single man and a single ship had caused considerable trouble for Imotek's forces, even nearly breaking through to Imotek's flagship on several occasions.

Most frustrating for Imotek was that this human exhibited, like a schizophrenic, two or even three distinct command and combat styles, giving Imotek the eerie feeling of fighting Orks.

Imotek excelled at predicting every possible variable on the battlefield through logical reasoning, crafting exquisitely precise plans to control the entire theater of war.

Facing such a chaotic, illogical opponent, Imotek truly struggled to cope.

The Storm King spent six full days forcing the human named Thor into a corner.

But Imotek chose not to destroy the ship with his fleet's weapons.

Thor's six-day resistance earned Imotek's respect; he was a warrior.

To warriors, Imotek always granted the honor of a direct challenge to himself.

It was both a tribute to the opponent and Imotek's way of proving his own supremacy.

He did not even intend to kill Thor; he would sever one of Thor's arms, then spare his life, granting him a chance at revenge.

This was Imotek's confidence. This was Imotek's pride.

He was not a tyrant, not a butcher, not a madman—he was an irresistible order. Those who refused to submit could resist, but in the end, they would discover they remained within Imotek's order.