Warhammer 40K in a box

Chapter 482 The Hidden Secret (Third Update)
The training ground floor groaned once again under Gavial Locken's heavy impact.

He was once again sent flying by Hathor's exquisite, perfectly controlled strike, his heavy body slamming into the reinforced alloy wall in the distance with a dull thud that made your teeth ache.

The power armor's shoulder area emitted a piercing scream of server overload, and several joint locks had twisted and deformed under repeated impacts.

Even in the initial outburst of rage, he ripped off his helmet and slammed it to the ground, as if the obstructive metallic sheen prevented him from looking directly at his target.

At this moment, his face, contorted with pain, anger, and extreme exhaustion, was fully exposed, covered in sweat and mottled bloodstains.

He struggled to prop himself up with his power sword, his arm muscles spasming violently, his lungs hissing like a broken bellows, each breath carrying a heavy, rusty smell.

The bloodlust in his eyes had not faded, but that reckless madness had been replaced by a sense of defeat, a feeling of being utterly exhausted and unable to shake his opponent.

He stared intently at the center of the arena—Hasor Lupeka stood firmly in place, her training sword still gleaming, her dark gray administrative uniform spotless, only her slightly rapid breathing indicating that she had not easily withstood the onslaught of attacks.

"Enough!" Chen Xi's deep voice rang out, carrying an undeniable coldness, like a heavy hammer falling.

As soon as the order was given, two Terminator veterans stepped forward and swiftly lifted Loken's almost unbearable body, dragging him up from the ground.

Loken did not resist, letting them drag him along, his legs heavy and his head hanging low. His heavy breathing was accompanied by drops of blood, leaving intermittent dark streaks on the floor.

But those bloodshot eyes remained fixed on Hathor, burning with a rage that had been building up for millennia but had nowhere to go, and a despair that was being completely suppressed.

The discarded helmet lay forlornly in the corner, its cold visors reflecting chaotic light and shadow.
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The heavy alloy door slid shut silently, isolating the outside world from noise and attention.

The cramped and cold room contained only a table and a few chairs. The walls were bare metal, and an emergency light in the corner cast a pale, dim glow. An air purifier emitted a low hum.

The veteran settled Locken into a chair.

He was limp like an empty shell, his power armor covered in dents and scratches, his exposed skin a mix of blue and purple, and blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

Each breath was accompanied by excruciating pain as if his ribs were breaking, but he seemed oblivious, simply hanging his head, his heavy breathing particularly jarring in the silence.

Hathor stood before him, his molten gold eyes swirling with complex emotions.

She could clearly feel the strong physiological resonance within Loken's body, originating from the gene seed and targeting the gene prototype, like a call from the depths of his blood, far exceeding the realm of memory.

"Have you calmed down, Gavial?" Hathor's voice was low, carrying a weariness that seemed to have traveled through time. "You're still the same as before... loyal, persistent, and intolerant of even a grain of sand of betrayal."

“The past?!” Loken looked up abruptly, letting out a muffled groan as his injuries aggravated his wounds. His bloodshot eyes were fixed on her face, his voice hoarse as if grinding against a millstone. “You’re talking to me about the past?! Tell me! Why?! Why are you still standing here?!”
Why can I... recognize you?! This feeling... isn't a memory! It's... it's…"

He gasped for breath, trying to grasp the throbbing that originated from the core of his life: "It's my blood boiling! It's my bones screaming! It recognizes you! It recognizes that 'source'! It's not a memory!"

He was referring to the Astartes genes’ instinctive, physiological recognition and response to the original genetic imprint.

Hathor's eyes sharpened instantly, and the pressure increased dramatically.

This path of exploration must be blocked in front of Chen Xi.

She took a step forward, and an invisible, genetically derived, Primarch-level biological pressure enveloped Loken as if it were a tangible force.

“Because you are Gavial Loken!” Her voice was resolute, carrying an undeniable authority, deliberately avoiding a deeper exploration of the “physiological reaction.” “Your loyalty, your memories, your very essence as an Astartes, are all etched with your understanding of the Father of Genes!”

Regardless of my form, the imprint from the genetic seed will make you instinctively sense the pressure belonging to the War Master, the Primarch... and the source of that betrayal!

She cleverly attributed Loken's strong physiological response to the Astartes genes' instinctive recognition of the Primarch's imprint.

“As for why I am here,” Hathor’s voice lowered, filled with heavy resolve, his gaze meeting those hateful eyes with an open look, “I am not him! The Horus Lupecal who raised his sword in Istvan and hurled the Worldbreaker at his father on the walls of Terra, his will has been completely devoured and ended by Chaos.”

Standing before you is Hathor Lupeka. His tone was firm, like the proclaiming of an immutable law.

“I carry the imprint of that past,” she said with extreme caution, strictly limiting herself to the level of genes and will, “knowing everything about him, his glory and his sins.”

But this body, this will, chose a completely different path—to atone, to prevent a catastrophe far more terrible than the Great Rebellion, one that was about to engulf the galaxy!

Her gaze shifted to Chen Xi, as if seeking support and confirmation.

Chen Xi spoke at the opportune moment. He sensed Loken's strong reaction stemming from his genes and understood its chaos. His voice was steady, carrying a penetrating insight that cut through the confusion, as he looked directly into Loken's bloodshot eyes, which were slightly open in shock:
"Company Commander Loken, put aside your confusion. The essence is the same—you are all 'pawns' projected by the military."

“You are a projection of Gavial Loken, and she is a projection of Horus Lupecal. You carry his memories, power imprints, and even traits, but the will—belongs to Hathor Lupecal.”

His voice echoed in the small, enclosed room, carrying an unquestionable authority: "The Imperial Will accepts and relies on this power. Her path, her choices, and everything she has done for the Empire are all true."

Your resonance with her stems from a shared 'miracle.' Accepting her is like accepting your own rebirth within her. The future needs your strength.

Loken's body trembled violently at these words.

In his blood-red eyes, madness, hatred, and extreme confusion were like magma thrown into ice water, instantly freezing and cracking under the impact of the cold word "projection."

“Projecting… chess pieces…” The voice was hoarse, like the grinding of gravel.

This explanation was cold and direct, yet like a precise scalpel, it instantly cut through his tangled thoughts.

The grudges accumulated over thousands of years cannot be dispelled in an instant; the instinctive response of the genes in the body to the "source" still stubbornly resonates.

However, Chen Xi's explanation, combined with the unquestionable endorsement of "the Emperor's Will," acted like a heavy foundation, suppressing Loken's impulse to seek the ultimate answer at this moment.

The bloodlust in Loken's eyes receded like the tide, leaving only boundless exhaustion and a sense of bewilderment after his understanding had been completely overturned.

He glanced at Hathor—his face, still imposing yet bearing a complex expression; then at Chen Xi—his gaze calm and resolute; finally, his eyes fell back on his own blood-stained, trembling hands.

“…project…chess pieces…” The voice was low and almost inaudible.

A heavy silence enveloped the secret room. His heavy breathing gradually subsided, leaving only the suppressed inhalation tinged with blood.

In the end, without looking up, he nodded with all his might, very slowly and heavily.

There were no promises, no understanding, and no trust.

There is only one kind of weary acceptance, forced into one's cognition by reality.

He accepted the existence of "Hasor Lupeka" as if he were "a projection of Gavial Loken".

A temporary compromise based on the status quo.

That intense killing intent was temporarily subdued under the dual pressure of the truth of the "projection" and the emperor's will.

Hathor looked at the bowed head and heavy nod, but felt no relief.

She still guarded that core secret tightly, but Loken's acceptance was based solely on the cold theory of "projection".

How long can this fragile balance, built on secrecy, last? She couldn't predict, but at least for now, certain secrets had to be kept.

(End of this chapter)