What, exactly, is a superhuman?
It might have sounded like a somewhat tedious and obvious philosophical question,
but it was an immensely important question, one I absolutely had to examine deeply at least once for the sake of the family who would grow up in my arms.
My precious children, whom I had personally designed genetically and who had ultimately been born into this cruel world: my first, Michael, and my second, Angron.
My eldest, Michael, was currently sleeping deep beneath the Imperial Palace, where he was being used as the Emperor's living weapon.
I longed for the day when I would finally reclaim Michael and bring him back into my arms.
In contrast, I had personally taken in and raised my second, Angron, ever since he was a newborn. As his creator and father, I had to fulfill my true duty.
But Angron was, from birth, fundamentally different from ordinary humans.
He was plainly a different kind of being from the children I had raised so far.
As a Primarch—the supreme pinnacle, a general the Emperor had planned to use in his future conquest of the galaxy—
every aspect of Angron's physical and mental capabilities was on a completely different level from those of ordinary humans.
It was a little strange for me, an immortal Perpetual and an existence akin to the Hive Mind, to say this,
but strictly speaking, in the beginning I had possessed only absurd regenerative power and immortality.
Other than that, I was merely an ordinary human with something wrong with his head.
Therefore, I could not carelessly judge or define Angron by my own personal standards.
Even though he was not yet a year old, merely a tiny infant in the eyes of others, Angron was already a perfect superhuman who had attained that rank.
Whether he wanted it or not, not only the people of Nuceria but even the citizens of the Ark were gradually revering Angron as a sacred being.
That was probably because of the immense aura and the allure of his genetic soul, which a transcendent being like a Primarch instinctively radiated and which drew people to him.
When we first met, he had been a newborn, yet he had torn a gigantic native beast limb from limb and killed it.
Before even a year had passed, in the body of a rapidly growing child, he had dented the Ark's metal blast doors.
At this point, insisting that he was an ordinary human would itself have been foolish and strange.
My son Angron was unquestionably a superhuman.
No, from any perspective, it would not be an exaggeration to call him a demigod out of an ancient myth.
To deny that overwhelming reality and forcibly drag Angron's gaze down to the ground—
would be nothing but an ignorant and stupid act of distorting the child's very nature.
So the best thing I could do as his father was to stand beside Angron, constantly offering him guidance and help, so that as a superhuman he could embrace proper values and a noble heart, then walk onward under his own power.
No matter how powerful one's body or how ruthless one's strength, not everyone could become a “true superhuman.”
A true superhuman, as I had learned over countless years, was not defined by mere physical superiority.
Only a noble and mature mind could make one complete.
If the body alone was enormously strong while the mind remained immature, that was no superhuman. It was no different from a monster or living weapon made solely for slaughter.
Like those arrogant Custodian Guard of the Emperor's, who called themselves “superhuman.”
Just then, Veronica contacted me.
She brought news that Angron was deeply agonizing over the reason for his existence and his own nature.
Hearing that, I felt that the time had finally come.
I quietly listened to what she had to say, then called for Angron without hesitation.
I told him that, for the first time in a while, father and son should go out and share a warm meal, just the two of us.
The Magna Gloria Arena, one of the few remaining arenas on Nuceria, specially preserved for its tremendous value as a historical and cultural monument.
At the center of that enormous arena, as broad as a vast plain, countless Nucerians were engaged in bloody, ferocious qualification trials and martial contests to become Angron's personal retainers.
The seating surrounding that immense arena was packed with spectators who had gathered from every corner to watch and cheer for the grand contest.
The difference from the past was that the candidates' lives were now protected and guaranteed.
After all, these trials were for Angron. This time, we spared no expense in providing the Ark's medical technology.
So long as their brains were not destroyed, they could be restored perfectly to life.
Thus, the arena's candidates could conduct their bloody competition in an orderly fashion.
Within that space where order and chaos were intricately entwined,
Angron and I leisurely enjoyed a meal in the luxurious lounge once used by Nucerian nobles.
The table's center was laden with food steeped in Nuceria's traditional culture and spices, and Angron sat across from me.
Yet for a long while, neither of us said anything. We only looked awkwardly at one another.
Trying somehow to dispel that prickly awkwardness, I quietly slid a plate of vegetables tossed in vinegar and fresh herbs in front of Angron.
"Ahem, Angron. Try some of this too. You're still growing, so don't eat only meat. You need a balanced diet."
"Yes, Father."
Angron neatly and skillfully took up his fork and knife in his tiny hands,
then, in an instant, polished off enough food that dozens of grown men could not have finished it all.
The first time I saw that sight, I wondered if he had a motor attached to his mouth.
"You always eat so heartily and neatly. It's wonderful to see."
"...Thank you, Father."
As Angron modestly lowered his head at my bashful praise, empty plates were precariously piling up on either side of him like sturdy pillars.
Though he looked like a young child, he was fundamentally a superhuman Primarch, and his growth rate was insane.
To provide balanced nutrients, I had to feed him this ruthlessly at every meal.
Of course, according to his genetic design, he would not stop growing just because he lacked nutrients. Still, what parent could fail to make sure his son was fed?
The reason that such an awkward, peculiar silence hung over the entire meal was the usual nature of the relationship between Angron and me.
If I had to sum up our relationship in one phrase, it would be this:
an excruciatingly awkward father and son.
We clearly cared deeply for each other and sincerely looked after one another, yet when we sat face-to-face alone, we somehow became self-conscious and distant: a typical father-son relationship.
That was entirely my fault.
The bloody pain accumulated over countless years, buried deep at the bottom of my heart, and the screams of the countless “mes” who had lived through eternity—
had been vividly transmitted to him because of Angron's innate ability as a Primarch.
Having experienced that horrific pain, which was difficult even for me to endure, physical contact between Angron and me had become virtually impossible.
Of course, a brief touch in the past had caused dozens of Noahs to awaken early, but considering the cost, it was something that should never happen again.
This searing pain, beyond anything a mortal could dare imagine, did not only arise from direct contact. Even simply approaching me could summon auditory hallucinations of countless Noahs screaming and wailing.
Because of that, when Angron was a newborn, I could not even approach him, making direct affection and interaction unbearably difficult.
We did speak and see each other's faces through screen displays and holograms, of course,
but how could interaction through such visual media compare to true physical affection, raising a child with skin against skin?
In the end, only Veronica, Angron's adoptive mother and my companion, could hold and raise young Angron.
As a result, Angron, who had grown up in the blink of an eye and become more mature, respected and understood me as his “father” in his head,
but in some corner of his heart, he came to find my very presence deeply burdensome.
That was how this strange and distant relationship formed, where it was difficult for me to approach him, and he too felt burdened by approaching me.
So even if his mother had encouraged him, the fact that Angron had personally sought me out and asked to talk this time was an incomparably joyful and moving thing for me.
I wanted to seize this opportunity to thoroughly clear away the old awkwardness that stood between father and son.
As we spent this father-and-son meal in an awkward but gentle warmth, watching the fierce selection trials of the Nucerian warriors in the arena beyond the window,
Angron, apparently having finished his meal, lifted a napkin with a neat gesture and wiped his mouth before speaking first in a low voice.
"Are they... fighting and bleeding like that because of me?"
Bitterness lingered in Angron's eyes as he watched the cheers that filled the arena and the bloody fighting.
I looked quietly into the child's eyes and corrected him in a gentle yet firm voice.
"No, Angron. You've got one word slightly wrong. They aren't fighting ‘because of you.’ They are willingly shedding blood solely ‘for you.’"
"For what?"
Angron asked again, as though he still could not understand.
(Waaaaah!!!! For Nuceria! For Angron!!!!)
At that very moment, the ringing shout of a valiant warrior taking part in the trials reached us.
Had he felt the sincerity within that cry?
Angron's eyes flickered with complicated emotions.
I pointed my chin toward the warriors in the heart of the arena, blades crossed as they roared, and answered calmly.
"They wish to prove that they are worthy to stand guard beside a sovereign like you, and to walk into the future at your side."
"...You're right. They may bleed mercilessly and feel regret at losing a fight... but nowhere on their faces is there any fear or suffering."
"That's right. No one forced them. They stand there by their own choice, wielding those swords and fighting with their lives on the line."
Angron nodded quietly, then fixed his resolute eyes directly on mine and asked in earnest.
"Father... what kind of being am I? Why do people show me such reverence and treatment? I simply... cannot understand..."
"Questioning and asking for answers yourself is a most admirable attitude. Some fools teach people simply to accept everything blindly, exactly as the world has decreed. But that is merely an antiquated act of breaking, with one's own hands, the wings that would allow one to evolve and develop."
Gently praising the child's wise curiosity, I continued, intending to unravel the great knot of questions he had kept deep in his heart.
"Angron, the reason you receive the regard and reverence of so many people is very simple. In this bleak and mad galaxy, you are those poor people's sole ‘hope’... and a ‘Primarch.’"
"Hope...? A Primarch...? Father, what exactly is a Primarch?"
"That is..."
I held my tongue and remained silent for a moment.
Amid the fiery cheers from the arena outside the lounge window, young Angron's clear, earnest eyes—yearning for the truth in his heart—pierced straight through me.
"Angron, you must already feel it in your body, but you were born fundamentally different from ordinary people. You are superior, stronger, and smarter than anyone else. Because you were born deliberately intended and designed to be so."
"Is that... what a Primarch is?"
"Yes... And Angron, you must have already vaguely realized that Veronica and I are not your true parents, the ones who gave you our blood."
At my quiet question, Angron looked straight into my eyes without a second of hesitation and answered in a firm voice.
"Yes, I know. But I sincerely think of both of you as my one and only parents."
"Heh. Thank you for saying that, my son."
Warmth tightened somewhere in my heart, and I quietly smiled at the child.
Then I finally made my decision and opened my mouth gravely.
The whole truth of his sacred and cruel birth, which this child would someday have to face.
Without a single lie, slowly, and completely, I began to tell him.
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