The training ground floor groaned once more under Gaviel Loken's heavy impact.
He was again sent flying backward by Hathor's exquisite and perfectly controlled strike, his heavy body crashing hard against the reinforced alloy wall in the distance, emitting a teeth-grinding thud.
The Power Armor's shoulder emitted a piercing shriek of servo overload, and several joint buckles were twisted and deformed from the repeated impacts.
Even in his initial outburst of rage, he had ripped off his helmet and slammed it to the ground, as if the obstructive adamantium prevented him from directly seeing his target.
Now, his face, distorted by pain, anger, and severe physical exhaustion, was fully exposed, covered in sweat and mottled bloodstains.
He struggled to prop himself up with his Power Sword, his arm muscles violently spasming, his lungs wheezing like a worn-out bellows, each breath carrying a heavy scent of rust.
The bloodlust in his eyes had not extinguished, but that desperate madness had been replaced by a near-exhausted sense of frustration at being unable to shake his opponent.
He stared intently at the center of the arena—Hathor Lupeca stood steadily in place, her training sword still gleaming, her dark gray administrative uniform not even stained with a speck of dust. Only her slightly hurried breathing proved that she had not easily withstood his storm-like attacks.
"Enough!" Alex's deep voice rang out, carrying an undeniable cold hardness, like a heavy hammer falling.
Upon the command, two Terminator Armor veterans immediately stepped forward, swiftly supporting Loken's almost unsupported body and dragging him up from the ground.
Loken did not resist, letting them hold him, his legs dragging heavily, his head bowed, heavy gasps with blood foam dripping, leaving intermittent dark trails on the floor.
But his bloodshot eyes still stared fixedly at Hathor, burning with millennia of pent-up rage with nowhere to vent, and utter, suppressed despair.
The discarded helmet lay forlornly in the corner, its cold eye lenses reflecting chaotic light and shadow.
—
The heavy alloy door slid shut silently, cutting off the outside clamor and gazes.
The secret room was small and cold, with only a table and a few chairs. The walls were bare metal, an emergency light in the corner cast a pale white glow, and the air purifier hummed softly.
The veteran settled Loken onto a chair.
He slumped like an emptied shell, his Power Armor covered in dents and scratches, his exposed skin bruised and purple, blood staining the corner of his mouth.
Each inhale brought a sharp pain like broken ribs, yet he seemed oblivious, only hanging his head, his heavy breathing particularly jarring in the silence.
Hathor stood before him, complex emotions swirling deep within her molten gold eyes.
She could clearly feel the strong physiological resonance within Loken, originating from the Gene-Seed, specifically directed at a Gene-Seed Primarch, like a call from deep within his bloodline, far exceeding the scope of memory.
"Have you calmed down, Gavil?" Hathor's voice was low, carrying a weariness that transcended time. "You are still the same as before… loyalty, persistent, unable to tolerate a single grain of betrayal in your eyes."
"Before?!" Loken suddenly looked up, grunting from the pain of his injuries, his blood-red eyes fixed on her face, his voice hoarse like grinding sandpaper. "You talk to me about before?! Tell me! Why?! Why are you still standing here?!
Why can I… can 'recognize' you?! This feeling… it's not memory! It's… it's…"
He gasped violently, trying to grasp the tremor originating from the core of his being: "It's my blood boiling! It's my bones screaming! It recognizes you! Recognizes that 'source'! Definitely not memory!"
He was referring to the Astartes gene's instinctive, physiological recognition and reaction to a Primarch's genetic imprint.
Hathor's gaze sharpened instantly, and the pressure intensified.
She had to block this path of inquiry in front of Alex.
She took a step forward, and an invisible, substantial biological pressure, originating from the gene sequence and belonging to the Primarch level, enveloped Loken.
"Because you are Gaviel Loken!" Her voice was decisive, carrying an undeniable authority, deliberately avoiding deep inquiry into the "physiological reaction." "Your loyalty, your memories, your very essence as an Astartes, are all engraved with the knowledge of your Gene-Seed Primarch!
Regardless of my form, the imprint from the Gene-Seed will make you instinctively perceive the pressure belonging to the Warmaster, belonging to a Gene-Seed Primarch… and that source of betrayal!"
She cleverly attributed Loken's strong physiological reaction to the Astartes gene's instinctive recognition of a Primarch's imprint.
"As for why I am here," Hathor's voice deepened, carrying a heavy resolve, her gaze meeting his hate-filled eyes frankly, "I am not him! That Horus Lupercal who wielded the butcher's knife at Istvaan, who slammed the World Breaker against the walls of Terra to shatter the father, his will has been completely consumed and ended by Chaos.
Standing before you is Hathor Lupeca."
Her tone was firm, like proclaiming an unalterable decree.
"I carry the imprint of that past," her wording was extremely cautious, strictly limited to the genetic and spiritual levels, "knowing all of his glory and his sins.
But this body, this will, has chosen a completely opposite path—to atone, to prevent a disaster even more terrifying than the Great Rebellion, one that is about to engulf the galaxy!"
Her gaze turned to Alex, with a hint of seeking support and confirmation.
Alex spoke at the opportune moment. He perceived Loken's strong gene-based reaction and understood his confusion. His voice was steady, carrying insight that cut through the confusion, looking directly into Loken's bloodshot eyes, slightly widened in shock:
"Captain Loken, let go of your confusion. The essence is the same—you are both 'pawns' projected by the military chest."
"You are a projection of Gaviel Loken, and she is a projection of Horus Lupercal. Carrying his memories, power imprints, and even characteristics, but the will—belongs to Hathor Lupeca."
His voice echoed in the small secret room, carrying an undeniable authority: "The Emperor's will accepts and relies on this power. Her path, her choices, everything she has done for the Imperium, are all real.
Your resonance with her stems from the same 'miracle.' Accept her, just as you accept your own rebirth here. The future needs your strength."
Loken's body trembled violently at these words.
In his blood-red eyes, madness, hatred, and extreme confusion instantly solidified and cracked under the impact of the cold word "projection," like magma thrown into ice water.
"Projection… pawn…" His voice was hoarse, like grinding sand.
This explanation was cold and direct, yet like a precise surgical knife, it instantly cut through his tangled thoughts.
Millennia of resentment could not dissipate instantly, and the instinctive genetic response to the "source" within him still stubbornly hummed.
But Alex's explanation itself, combined with the unquestionable supreme endorsement of the "Emperor's will," acted like a heavy cornerstone, suppressing Loken's impulse to seek ultimate answers at this moment.
The bloodlust in Loken's eyes receded like a tide, leaving only boundless exhaustion and a blankness after his cognition was completely overturned.
He looked at Hathor—that face still majestic yet bearing complex emotions; then at Alex—his calm and resolute gaze; finally, his sight fell back to his own bloodied, trembling hands.
"…Projection… pawn…" His voice was faint, almost inaudible.
A heavy silence enveloped the secret room. His heavy breathing gradually calmed, leaving only suppressed gasps with blood foam.
Finally, he did not look up, exhausted, and nodded very slowly and heavily.
No promise, no forgiveness, no trust.
Only a weary acceptance, forced into his cognition by reality.
He accepted the existence of "Hathor Lupeca," just as he accepted that he was a "projection of Gaviel Loken."
A temporary compromise based on the current situation.
That fervent killing intent, under the dual pressure of the "projection" truth and the Emperor's will, temporarily lay dormant.
Hathor looked at his bowed head and heavy nod, feeling no relief in her heart.
That core secret was still firmly guarded by her, but Loken's acceptance was only built on the cold "projection" theory.
How long could this fragile balance, built on concealment, last? She could not predict, but at least for now, certain secrets had to be kept.
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