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ActionsEntire Work ← Previous Chapter Next Chapter → Chapter Index Edit Bookmark Mark for Later Comments Share DownloadWork HeaderRating:MatureArchive Warning:Graphic Depictions Of ViolenceCategory:F/MFandoms:Warhammer 40.000無職転生 異世界行ったら本気だす - 理不尽な孫の手 | Mushoku Tensei: Isekai Ittara Honki Dasu - Rifujin na Magonote (Novels)無職転生 ～異世界行ったら本気だす～ | Mushoku Tensei: Isekai Ittara Honki Dasu | Jobless Reincarnation (Anime)Relationships:Paul Greyrat/Zenith GreyratLilia Greyrat/Paul GreyratCharacters:Ciaphas CainRudeus GreyratPaul GreyratZenith GreyratRoxy MigurdiaLilia GreyratSylphiette (Mushoku Tensei)Ghislaine DedoldiaEris GreyratPhilip Boreas GreyratAdditional Tags:CrossoverParodySlice of LifeIsekai and TransmigrationReincarnationPoliticsWarAI-TranslatedOriginal TextSurvivalMagicguanoWorldbuildingLanguage:EnglishStats:Published:2026-02-28Updated:2026-06-10Words:212,710Chapters:29/?Comments:145Kudos:240Bookmarks:70Hits:13,522Alaric Greyrat: Hero of Six-Faced World (crossover Mushoku Tensei / 40K)KsiadzRobak21Chapter 3: LearningChapter TextGreyrat HouseK409
Two years later.
The boy now known as Alaric stood by the window of the house, staring at the garden with a seriousness entirely unbefitting a two-year-old.
Beside him stood his twin brother — Rudeus.
For a moment, there was silence. Only birdsong, the rustle of leaves, and Lilia's distant voice calling someone from the yard.
Rudeus narrowed his eyes and looked at his brother suspiciously.
"Whatcha staring at?"
The tone was childish. The voice high-pitched. But there was genuine curiosity hidden in the question.
Alaric didn't even flinch.
He watched the wind move the grass. The light reflecting on the leaves. The ordinary.
The absence of smoke.
No artillery.
No corpses.
"I enjoy the peace," he replied gently. "And the beauty of nature."
Rudeus blinked.
"Huh?"
Alaric slowly turned his head.
"That's rare," he added calmly. "Silence. No danger. It's worth appreciating."
Rudeus stared at him for a moment, as if trying to decide whether his brother was joking.
"You're weird."
"That's true enough," Alaric thought. "But at least I'm decent."
Rudeus moved closer to the window and rested his hands on the sill.
"I prefer magic," he said with a wide smile. "Especially when I discover how to use it! I'll be a great magician! A wizard!"
His eyes sparkled.
"Oh, sweet brother, truly your idiocy knows no bounds," passed a grim thought through the commissar's mind, well remembering uncontrolled "wizards" who were a nightmare on the battlefield.
Alaric noticed immediately.
"Magic is a tool," he replied calmly. "And tools require responsibility."
Rudeus snorted.
"You sound like a teacher."
"Discipline is important," Alaric shrugged.
"We're only two years old!"
Alaric looked at him with absolute seriousness.
"All the more reason to use our time wisely," he said, crossing his arms. "Time passes quickly. Who knows how long we'll live?"
Rudeus raised his eyebrows.
"What do you mean?"
Alaric looked at him as seriously as a two-year-old could.
"It will be a miracle if we make it to ten years old."
Rudeus blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
"Huh?"
Alaric turned fully toward him and began counting on his fingers — with the gravity of a strategic report.
"Diseases. Plagues. Fevers that burn the body in days. Poisonings. Infections." He bent the first finger. "Wars between kingdoms. Bandits. Raids." Second finger. "Famine. Crop failure. Pestilence among livestock." Third finger. "Monsters from the bestiary, which apparently are normal here."
Rudeus's eyes widened further and further.
Alaric continued calmly:
"We could fall off a horse. Drown in a river. Choke on a piece of bread. You could break your neck on the stairs if you run without watching your step."
Rudeus instinctively glanced toward the stairs in the hallway.
"I… don't run that fast…"
"Not yet," Alaric replied matter-of-factly.
Rudeus blinked again.
Only one very clear thought circled in his mind:
"Weeeeeeird…"
"You serious?" he finally asked.
Alaric shrugged.
"Death is an inseparable part of life."
He said it in a tone as calm as if he were discussing the weather.
"We will all die. It's a matter of time and circumstances. Statistically speaking, survival to adulthood requires prudence."
Rudeus looked at him like an unsolvable riddle.
"You're two years old," he said slowly. "I'm two years old."
"Biological age doesn't change the facts."
"You're terrifying."
Alaric looked out the window again.
"Realistic."
Rudeus rubbed his temple.
"Normal kids probably think about toys."
"Normal kids often die from lack of caution."
"Weeeeeeird…"
Alaric sighed quietly.
In his previous life, death had been an everyday occurrence. A companion of campaigns. A constant variable in every plan.
Here, it was… theoretical.
But that didn't mean it didn't exist.
"At least I don't steal the maid's underwear."
There was silence.
Rudeus stiffened.
Slowly. Very slowly. His face began to turn the color of a ripe tomato.
"T-that's not it! I was just… I… it was purely research!"
Alaric looked at him with absolute deadpan seriousness.
"Research."
"Well… materials! Fabric! I wanted to check the quality of the workmanship!"
"Hidden under the bed?"
Rudeus opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
"It… it was structural analysis!"
Alaric rolled his eyes.
"Of course. And fondling Mother's chest was presumably biological research?"
"I'M A CHILD!"
"So am I."
Rudeus covered his face with his hands.
"It's instinct! It's not my fault!"
"Instinct doesn't explain consistency."
"You're watching me?!"
"Always."
Rudeus peeked at him through his fingers.
"You're terrifying."
Alaric shrugged.
"Relax. We all have skeletons in our closets."
Rudeus froze.
"…What's in yours?"
Alaric was silent for a moment.
Images of battlefields flashed through his mind. Executions. Orders given without hesitation. People he had sent to their deaths.
But this was not a world where he could speak of that.
"Enough," he finally replied dryly. "So maybe let's not have a competition in hypocrisy, alright?"
Rudeus stared at him for a long moment.
Then slowly lowered his hands.
"So… you won't tell the parents?"
"If you stop stealing underwear."
"It was just… well, two… instances."
Alaric raised an eyebrow.
Rudeus quickly added:
"HYPOTHETICALLY."
Silence fell between them.
After a moment, Alaric sighed.
"Rudeus."
"What?"
"Discipline starts with small things. If you don't control minor impulses, larger ones will eventually take control of you."
Rudeus frowned slightly.
"You sound like a sermon again."
"It's advice."
"You're my brother, not a teacher."
Alaric looked at him calmly.
"That's exactly why I'm saying it."
Rudeus was silent for a moment.
The blush slowly faded.
"Okay… maybe I went a bit too far."
"Definitely."
"But it's not like I'm some… monster."
Alaric hesitated.
Looked into his green eyes.
No corruption. No Warp darkness. No shadow of demonic interference.
Curiosity. Excess hormones in an overdeveloped mind. And ordinary human foolishness.
"You're not," he finally said calmly. "But you could become one if you're not careful."
Rudeus grimaced.
"Do you always have to end dark?"
"Usually."
Rudeus sighed heavily.
"Weeeeeeird…"
Alaric allowed himself a shadow of a smile.
"And yet you still talk to me."
"Because you're even weirder than me."
For a moment they looked at each other in silence.
Two two-year-old bodies.
Two minds far older than they should be.
Rudeus sighed theatrically and rested his head against the glass.
"You think too much…"
It was irony Rudeus didn't even realize.
Alaric looked back at the garden.
In the Imperium, moments like this were a luxury. A short break between campaigns. Something that vanished faster than a man could get used to it.
Here… it was everyday life.
And that was what was most unsettling.
Because he was beginning to get attached to it.
"Rudeus," he said suddenly, calmly.
"What?"
"If you're going to explore the unknown arcana of this secret force called 'magic,' do it methodically. Not impulsively."
Rudeus squinted.
"You worried about me?"
Alaric hesitated for a fraction of a second.
The commissar didn't worry. The commissar assessed risk.
But his brother…
"Yes," he simply replied.
Rudeus smiled. This time without a hint of unease.
"I won't burn the house down."
"I'd prefer you didn't try."
A moment of silence.
The wind stirred a tree branch.
Rudeus looked back at the garden.
"Is it really that beautiful?"
Alaric nodded.
"Yes."
Because beauty had been almost nonexistent in his first life.
And if the magic of this world didn't lead to damnation…
If this world wasn't a battlefield…
Then maybe his task wasn't to supervise it.
Maybe he was meant to learn from it.
Rudeus nudged him lightly with his shoulder.
"When I become a great magician, I'll make you the most beautiful garden in the world."
Alaric raised an eyebrow.
"Make sure you don't destroy the current one first."
Rudeus laughed loudly.
And Alaric, looking at the garden, allowed himself something a Commissar of the Imperium almost never did.
A quiet, sincere smile.
He sighed softly, looking at his twin brother with a calm smile.
They looked like two drops of water. The same facial features. The same light hair. The same posture.
The difference lay in the eyes.
Alaric inherited his mother's cool blue gaze — calm, analytical, too attentive.
Rudeus had his father's green eyes. Warmer. But shining with something… hard to define.
Alaric already spoke fluently.
Not childishly.
Not lisping.
He spoke eloquently. Politely. With a refined manner befitting a young aristocrat in a segmentum court.
"Mother, may I request one more book to read? I am interested in the history of the Fittoa region."
Paul once fell silent.
Zenith was proud.
The maid Lilia — confused.
He learned to read at lightning speed. The letters were primitive compared to high Gothic, but perfectly understandable. He mastered writing faster than anyone had expected.
After all, for a former commissar, studying tactical reports had been an everyday task.
His relations with Lilia improved as well.
Lilia — their maid — had initially treated him as "that calm twin." Over time, she began to treat him like a little gentleman.
Alaric always said:
"Thank you, Lilia."
"May I help?"
"Please be careful, the floor is wet."
It worked.
Lilia visibly softened around him.
But Rudeus…
Rudeus developed just as quickly. Perhaps even faster in some aspects.
Too quickly.
Too consciously.
His gaze could linger on Lilia a second too long. His smile was… unnervingly mature.
There was nothing explicitly wrong yet.
Nothing to suggest the influence of Chaos.
No whispers. No mutations. No disturbing aura.
And yet.
Alaric observed.
Always observed.
"Corruption begins with the small things," he reminded himself.
From indulgence.
From lack of discipline.
From believing oneself above the rules.
If this was truly a second life — it was his duty to guide his brother along the right path.
Not like a commissar with a pistol to the temple.
But like… an older brother.
Even though they were twins.
The worst news came by accident.
Overheard conversation among adults.
A word that froze his blood.
"Magic."
Forbidden arcana of supernatural power was common on this planet.
Common.
Unsanctioned.
Uncontrolled by the Imperium.
Not regulated by the Schola Psykana.
Children could learn it.
Nobles used it.
Travelers traded in it.
Alaric felt something then that he hadn't felt in a long time.
Pure, icy unease.
In his previous world, psychic power was an existential threat. Every psyker was a potential gateway to the Warp. To demons. To madness.
And here?
It was… a skill.
A tool.
"Either this world is unimaginably unaware of danger…"
"Or the rules are different."
Which was worse?
Rudeus had already shown interest in the energy in the air. He looked at it as if he could feel something.
Alaric sensed it too.
A subtle tremor in reality.
But there was none of the familiar, revolting note of the Immaterium.
No whispers.
No sticky presence in the mind.
It wasn't the Warp.
At least — it didn't look like Warp.
Which made it even more unsettling.
He sighed again, staring at the beautiful flowers in their family garden.
Two years.
New body.
New family.
New world.
A brother who could become a genius… or a degenerate.
A world where magic was everyday life.
If he was to survive — he had to learn the rules of this reality faster than anyone else.
If magic was a tool — he would master it.
If it was a threat — he would understand it.
And if this world ever became a battlefield — Alaric would ensure Rudeus stood on the right side.
Even if he had to be harsher with him than he had ever been with subordinates in his previous life.
Because this time it wasn't about the Imperium.
It was about family.
And that — to his own surprise — was starting to matter.
Cain looked away from the window. The world outside was calm, too calm, as if trying to deceive him. The garden, sunlight glinting off leaves, birdsong… and yet in his mind, battlefields, explosions, and soldiers' screams still churned. With such a baggage of experience, one could not forget even for a moment, even here, in this world full of warmth and safety.
His gaze shifted to the stack of books he had managed to persuade his mother to give him. A few volumes, modest, wooden-bound, yet each carried potential danger.
Knowledge was a weapon.
But in his previous life, knowledge of supernatural things was also an invitation.
An invitation to whispers.
To glimpses beyond the veil of reality.
To entities that reacted to curiosity like a predator to the scent of blood.
Studying Warp matter too deeply could end in the loss of one's soul.
Or worse — being noticed.
And being noticed by the demonic forces of Chaos was the beginning of the end.
Here, however… something was different.
For two years he had heard no whispers.
He had felt no stickiness of the Immaterium.
He had no nightmares of burning skies and laughter from all four directions at once.
And yet caution was his nature.
"Do not study the abyss too long," he reminded himself. "It responds with its gaze."
Rudeus didn't understand this.
For him, magic was fascinating. Exciting. As natural as breathing.
"Brother, why do you make that face?" he asked when Alaric slammed a book shut.
Because for Rudeus it was an adventure.
For Alaric — a potential minefield.
Ultimately, he decided on a compromise.
He would not delve into forbidden treatises.
He would not study ancient rituals or theories of energy manipulation at the fundamental level.
For now, only three things:
A guide to the world.
Geography. Kingdoms. History. Religions. Politics.
If this was a battlefield, he must know the map.
Basics of magical art.
Spell structures. Rules of operation. Limitations.
Not to practice immediately — but to understand the mechanism.
An enemy you don't understand has already won.
A bestiary.
Monsters. Demons (if they existed). Spirits. Supernatural beings.
Here he read most cautiously.
He analyzed every page for similarities to entities he knew from his previous life.
Were there beings that fed on emotions?
Were there entities parasitic on the soul?
Did magic require a "second side"?
The more he read, the more something unsettled him.
Magic in this world seemed… self-contained.
Self-sufficient.
It did not rely on pacts.
Did not require sacrifices.
Was not tainted by nature.
It was like physics.
Rules. Energy. Concentration.
It was not the Warp.
At least — it didn't resemble it in any known aspect.
Yet Alaric set rules for himself:
Never practice without fully understanding the theory.
Never act under strong emotions.
Never reach for power whose source you cannot identify.
Observe Rudeus.
Especially the fourth point.
Because his brother read with awe.
Experimented in secret.
Felt energy intuitively.
It was impressive.
And dangerous.
Rudeus had talent.
Alaric had experience.
Talent without discipline led to corruption.
To pride.
To the belief that rules did not apply to you.
And in the dark age of eternal war against the forces of Chaos — that ended in tragedy.
No great discoveries, no unfathomable knowledge, no peace among the stars — only endless slaughter, murder, and laughter of thirsty gods.
Closing the bestiary, Alaric looked out the window.
If magic was a natural law of this world — he would master it.
If it held hidden dangers — he would find them.
If demons lurked somewhere beyond the veil — this time he would not be naive.
But for the first time, he allowed himself a thought he had previously avoided.
What if…
What if this world truly wasn't a battlefield?
What if magic wasn't a gateway to damnation, but a tool?
The thought was almost blasphemous to everything he had believed as a commissar.
And yet...
Rudeus sat beside him, completely absorbed in a book about magic. His eyes sparkled with excitement, fingers tracing the pages as if navigating a map of an unknown world, as if he could actually feel the flow of energy in the air. Unaware of the danger, he didn't understand why Alaric was so tense, why every turn of a page could create a nearly physical tension in the room.
Alaric felt something then that he hadn't felt in a long time.
Pure, icy unease.
In his previous world, psychic power had been an existential threat. Every psyker, every being sensitive to the Warp, was a potential gateway — for demons, for madness, for death. Every curiosity, every experiment could bring ruin. And now?
Rudeus read as if magic were a toy. As if the energy in the air were tangible, as natural as the wind.
The twin suddenly giggled, as if he had discovered a secret only he could understand. He sprang up, flipping through several loose pages and ran from the room with a cry of excitement:
"I have to see this!" he shouted, his voice echoing against the walls.
Alaric raised an eyebrow and sighed, shrugging. Nothing new. His brother always reacted that way, as if life itself were one big game. Fine — he returned to his reading.
The world guide lay open before him. Kingdoms, cities, politics — everything seemed familiar, yet strangely alien. He paused on the section about races, where Rudeus had probably already been exploring the illustrations, and Alaric began to contemplate.
Cain (Alaric) turned the next page of the bestiary slowly, almost ritually. Every description, every illustration drew his gaze and… unsettled him. He began analyzing the intelligent races of this world more closely, as if searching for traces of ancient technology, of history past.
"Ordinary humans… standard. Nothing surprising. Squats… Ratlings… hm, classic Imperial abhuman variants, nothing too risky."
He flipped through the pages, slowly scanning each illustration. Then he came across the descriptions of a "cursed" race of demons. He paused for a moment — his heart beat faster, but then he exhaled in relief.
"No… not demons," he breathed inwardly, thanking the God-Emperor. "Just ordinary mutants. Animalistic abhumans. Nothing threatening the soul… at least in the classical sense."
Alaric nodded and traced a finger over the next illustration. Humans with animal parts — ears, tails, perhaps claws — looked as if someone had experimented with genetics, trying to replicate certain traits for adaptive purposes.
"Genetic experiment. Dangerous if you lose perspective, but… nothing too repulsive. Survivable."
Then he paused.
Elves.
…
…
…
"What the hell?" he whispered, lifting his brows slightly. The description was brief but precise. As his eyes skimmed the details, a cold shiver ran down his spine.
"Wait… they… these are… FUCKING ELDAR?!"
Alaric froze, his fingers gripping the edge of the page so tightly the parchment nearly creaked.
Elves.
Tall. Slender. Unnaturally beautiful. Long-lived. Naturally predisposed to magic. Sharpened senses. "Deep connection with the mana of the world."
Mana.
Not Warp.
Mana.
"No. No, no, no…" he muttered under his breath.
His heart began to race. Too fast. He knew this pattern. Knew this story. Talent without discipline. Power without oversight. Curiosity without fear.
This wasn't a race. It was a blueprint for ruin.
In his previous life, the Eldar were the product of their own hubris. Their civilization surpassed humanity in every way — technology, psychic power, art of war. And then they began to believe nothing applied to them. That they were above the law of reality. Beyond consequences.
And then… She was born.
The laughter of thirsty gods.
The scream of billions of souls.
The tearing of existence itself.
Alaric closed his eyes.
"Talent without discipline leads to corruption."
And these ones?
According to the description, elves were "natural geniuses of magic." They learned faster. Felt more. Manipulated mana instinctively.
Instinctively.
That word was like a death sentence.
Because if magic in this world was the equivalent of Warp — even in a milder form — beings with such sensitivity were walking beacons in the dark. And beacons attract predators.
Alaric quickly flipped through several pages, as if searching for confirmation of the worst-case scenario.
Longevity.
High culture.
Isolated societies.
Sense of superiority over humans.
"BIG problem," he hissed through his teeth.
In his mind, the image of his previous life appeared — burning planets, shredded fleets, runes in the air, and among them the silhouettes of Eldar balancing on the edge of ecstasy and ruin.
He knew where that led.
A civilization built on psychic power always ended the same way.
Corruption.
Relaxation of rules.
Experiments "for the sake of art."
Belief that they could control forces that were uncontrollable.
And then…
A crack.
Alaric rose slowly from the table, feeling cold sweat run down his back.
"If they are even a tenth like the others…"
He looked out the window. The sun shone peacefully. Birds sang. Children laughed somewhere outside.
This world did not look like a battlefield.
And that was the worst part.
Because in his experience, the most dangerous catastrophes were born in times of peace.
Rudeus.
The name flashed in his mind like a blade.
His brother read magic with a child's excitement, as if discovering a new toy. As if the world's energy were safe. Natural.
And what if this is how every apocalypse begins?
First fascination.
Then experimentation.
Then crossing the line.
Alaric suddenly imagined an elven mage "out of curiosity" reaching deeper into the structure of mana. Deeper. Deeper. Until something responds.
Not a demon in the classical sense.
Something worse.
Something waiting.
"Emperor…" he whispered reflexively, even though no one here could hear such prayers.
Then came an even more unsettling thought.
What if…
What if magic in this world really isn't corrupted?
What if there is no Chaos equivalent here?
What if elves aren't harbingers of doom, but… simply a race?
The thought was almost blasphemous to everything he was as a commissar.
Because if the world is not a battlefield…
Who is he without war?
Alaric slowly sat back down.
He opened the bestiary again. This time more carefully. No panic. No immediate judgment.
Analysis. Cold. Systematic.
No mention of massive magical catastrophes.
No descriptions of "tears in reality."
No ecstasy cults destroying continents.
No divine being born from excess emotion.
Elves in this world were… stable.
It didn't match his experience.
Alaric flipped the page again.
And again.
He stopped his finger on a short sentence.
"Elves can interbreed with humans and produce fertile offspring."
…
…
…
…
He blinked slowly.
Once.
Twice.
Then pushed the book away by an arm's length, as if the text might suddenly change.
"What."
He read it again.
Fertile.
Offspring.
With humans.
Something clicked in his mind. It didn't fit. Not the pattern.
Eldar could never crossbreed with humans. They were two separate species, separated by millions of years of evolution, completely different biology, a different genetic structure, a different soul metaphysics. Even if someone tried — and humanity had tried many things in its long, dark history — the result would at best be a dead anomaly in a laboratory.
And here?
Natural. Documented. Socially recognized.
Half-elves.
Alaric felt his panic… not disappear, but change direction.
"So they aren't Eldar," he said quietly.
The sentence was like cold water poured on the heated steel of his fear.
If they could have fertile offspring with humans, that meant they were genetically compatible. And if they were compatible…
They weren't an ancient, alien race born before humanity.
They were…
A variant.
A subspecies?
A mutation?
An experiment?
His eyes narrowed.
Forbidden genetic knowledge.
Dark Age of Technology.
In his previous life, humanity could create wonders — and abominations. Manipulate DNA, design entire populations adapted to specific environments. Abhumans were proof. Ogryns. Ratlings. Even some of the subtler deviations.
What if…
Someone had once created "elves"?
Not as a separate race.
But as an enhanced line of humanity.
Slender. Long-lived. Naturally sensitive to the world's energy.
A weapon?
A tool?
An elite research line capable of manipulating mana with greater precision?
Alaric leaned back slowly in his chair.
"That would make sense."
Instead of an ancient, cosmic civilization responsible for the birth of a god of ecstasy and ruin…
We have a project.
A project that survived.
Only one question remained.
"But for what?"
If magic in this world is stable, if there is no Warp, no demonic feedback between emotion and matter…
Why create a race with heightened sensitivity to mana?
Unless…
Unless magic is the foundation of this world. Like gravity. Like electromagnetism. And those who feel it better have an evolutionary advantage.
So maybe it wasn't hubris.
Maybe it was adaptation.
The thought was even more destabilizing than his earlier panic.
Because if elves are simply a branch of humanity…
That means this planet is not a replay of his nightmare.
That means there is no ancient trauma embedded in the structure of reality.
Alaric rubbed his face with his hand.
And yet something still unsettled him.
Fertile offspring means biological compatibility.
But it doesn't mean mental compatibility.
If elves are long-lived…
If they live for centuries…
If over those centuries they perfect magic…
Even without the Warp, another problem arises.
Time.
Humans live decades. Make mistakes. Die. Civilization resets every generation.
Elf?
Can nurture an idea for three centuries.
Can plan for a hundred years.
Can perfect a spell for decades.
"This isn't a metaphysical problem," he muttered. "It's a strategic problem."
The absence of Chaos does not mean the absence of danger.
Alaric shook his head sharply, as if trying to physically throw the vision of ancient cosmic tragedies from it.
"Focus," he muttered to himself. "Analysis. Facts. Not projections."
He returned to earlier pages of the bestiary. Beast Race.
Once more, he scanned the illustrations.
Men and women of this race had animal ears, tails, sometimes subtly marked fangs. Slender, proportional figures. Clear, often harmonious facial features. Large, expressive eyes. No extreme deformation or wild, uncontrolled mutation.
He narrowed his eyes.
"This… is definitely not Felinids."
In his previous life, Felinids — one of the more controversial abhuman variants — were hairy, massive, with clearly animalistic facial structures. More predatory than subtle. More… brutal.
And here?
Almost aesthetic.
Subtle modification. As if nature itself decided that a touch of animal traits increased functionality without losing attractiveness.
Alaric frowned slightly.
"Suspicious."
Because in his experience, mutation was rarely "beautiful."
Mutation was chaotic. Exaggerated. Asymmetrical. Bore signs of instability.
These Beast Races looked… stable.
Their description mentioned enhanced senses, greater physical prowess, instinctive threat perception. Some clans had specific predispositions — hearing, smell, speed.
This was not chaos.
This was adaptation.
Alaric leaned back in his chair, analyzing.
If it was a genetic experiment, it was executed perfectly.
If it was natural evolution — it was remarkably efficient.
He looked again at the illustration of one of the race's members, a young, muscular woman with cat-like ears and a tail…
"Hm."
He sighed.
"Well-designed."
The words escaped before he could censor them.
He immediately straightened up.
"I mean… functionally. The proportions indicate a human skeletal structure preserved with minimal sensory modifications."
Yes. That sounded much more commissar-like.
Yet he had to admit one thing: these beings did not look like a product of degeneration. There was none of the visual "red flag" he was accustomed to.
In the Empire of Man, anything deviating from the norm bore the mark of threat. Mutants were visible. Marked. Often instinctively repulsive.
Here…
The Beast Race were part of society.
Accepted. Often enslaved.
Described without warnings like "heresy," "corruption," or "potential demonic threat."
Alaric furrowed his brow.
"So either this world is extremely naive… or there really is no metaphysical corruption here."
The latter still seemed suspiciously optimistic.
But if magic was a natural law, and racial diversity a result of stable biology…
His previous patterns no longer applied.
He looked again at the page.
Beast Race.
Not ugly, furry abominations.
Not deformed products of catastrophe.
Simply… another line of humanity.
Alaric closed the book slowly, the cover thudding against the desk.
He sighed heavily and raised a hand to his temple, massaging it in slow, circular motions.
"You're overreacting," he muttered quietly to himself. "Two years have passed. Two years. No whispers. No tears in reality. No cults tearing infants apart in devotion to Dark Powers."
The garden was calm. The house stood. His parents lived. The sky wasn't bleeding.
Maybe… maybe he really was panicking.
Rudeus wasn't some overpowering psyker. He didn't feel that pressure around him. That heavy presence of the Immaterium. That scratching at the back of his skull.
He was just an overly intelligent, perverse child obsessed with magic and the female form.
Not the same as an uncontrolled astropath exploding with demonic energy in the middle of a city.
"Maybe it really is different…" he murmured.
And then came a CRASH.
Loud.
Deep.
Not a falling book.
Like a battering ram.
Alaric straightened immediately. His eyes widened a fraction.
Heart into combat mode.
"Attack?" he whispered.
Another sound. Crumbling wall.
Adrenaline flooded him in an icy wave.
Bandits.
Monsters.
Raid.
Orcs?!
Images flashed instantly in his mind — green silhouettes, brutal roars, burning houses. Instinct didn't ask for logic.
And Rudeus.
Rudeus was somewhere there.
Maybe he had only survived two years with him.
Maybe he was a perverted, overly aware kid.
But he was his brother.
Alaric sprang from his seat.
He didn't rush chaotically. He didn't scream.
He moved low. Quietly. Along the wall. Just as he had hundreds of times in the ruins of hive cities.
Small body was a limitation. Mind — not.
He approached the source of the noise slowly. Breath controlled. Hearing sharpened.
Another sound of crumbling plaster.
A corner.
Step.
And he saw it.
A hole in the wall.
Not a crack.
Not a scratch.
A breach.
Light streamed through broken bricks. Dust hung in the air.
And in the middle of it all stood Rudeus.
Hand outstretched.
The air around him trembled.
A concentrated sphere of water shot from his hand with a hiss of pressure, hitting the remains of the wall.
"Water Cannon!"
BAM!
Another section of the wall crumbled like paper.
Alaric slowly raised his eyebrows. Very high.
Absolute silence fell in his mind.
No whispers.
No Warp grind.
No opening of a reality rift.
Pure, physical force.
A concentrated mass of water under immense pressure.
Controlled.
Stable.
And it just destroyed their house's wall.
Rudeus slowly turned.
Saw Alaric.
Paled.
"That… wasn't planned."
Silence.
Dust settled.
Birds in the garden fled screaming.
Alaric looked at the breach. At the stream of water dripping from the broken wall. At his brother.
"You used an offensive spell," he said calmly.
Too calmly.
"It was supposed to be a small sphere… really small!" Rudeus flailed nervously. "I was just testing mana compression and—"
"Compression."
"Well, if I increase the density at the same volume then—"
Alaric took a step forward.
"You're two years old."
"I know, but I can explain…"
"Rudeus."
Tone sharp as a blade.
Rudeus fell silent.
Alaric looked again at the hole in the wall.
No burn marks.
No black energy.
No trace of interference from the "other side."
Pure manipulation of a physical element.
Water. Pressure. Momentum.
Magic as engineering.
And that was terrifying in a completely different way.
Because if a two-year-old can accidentally punch a hole in a wall…
What will he do as an adult?
Alaric slowly exhaled.
Relief came first.
It wasn't an attack.
No orcs.
No bandits.
Then came the second thought.
"You are insane," he stated dryly.
Rudeus scowled.
"It was an experimental success!"
"It was a structural breach."
"The wall was weak!"
Alaric looked at him coldly.
"The wall was our home."
Rudeus went silent.
And then Alaric felt something strange.
Not fear of Chaos.
Not cosmic dread.
Just very mundane, human terror.
My brother is walking artillery.
And enthusiastic.
He stepped closer. Examined the breach. Touched the wet edges of the bricks.
Stable.
No trace of corruption.
No trace of a "second layer" of reality.
He looked up at Rudeus.
"Show me exactly what you did."
Rudeus blinked.
"You're… not mad?"
Alaric hesitated.
The commissar would have been furious.
Brother…
"I'm concerned," he said honestly. "That's different."
Rudeus looked at the hole. Then at his hands.
"Do you think it's dangerous?"
Alaric looked at the broken wall, the afternoon light streaming through.
"Yes."
Short pause.
"But not for the reasons I feared."
No Chaos.
No Warp.
Power.
Pure. Obedient. Mathematical.
In his brother's hands.
Alaric closed his eyes briefly.
Maybe he really had panicked too much.
Maybe this wasn't a world of demonic ruin.
Maybe it was a world where the greatest threat isn't gods…
But children with talent and no patience.
He opened his eyes.
"Next time," he said calmly, "test on something that doesn't hold up the roof over our mother's head."
Rudeus swallowed.
"That… is reasonable."
Alaric squinted, staring at the ruined breach.
Dust still fell. Streams of water trickled down the crumbled bricks. Sharp afternoon light poured through the gap.
In a few minutes, someone would see it.
And then it would be over.
Not execution. Not shooting.
Worse.
Parents.
In his mind, fragments of the "magic guide" Rudeus had been reading with manic gleam in his eye scrolled nervously.
Those strangely arcane arts…
Visualizing form.
Stabilizing structure through mana densification.
The final effect must be clear in the mind.
Alaric took a slow breath.
If this was engineering, he would treat it like engineering.
The wall was brick and mortar. The load-bearing parts still stood. A segment was missing. The form had to be reconstructed, the gap filled with earth, densified, fused, hardened.
Sounded logical.
And logic had always been his anchor.
He raised his hand.
Rudeus blinked.
"What are you doing?"
Alaric ignored him.
He closed his eyes.
He pictured the wall as it had been before the destruction. The lines of bricks. The mortar pattern. The weight distributed evenly.
He reached for mana.
There was no Warp in it. No whispers. Only energy — pure, malleable, responding to will.
He concentrated it in his hand.
"Form. Density. Bond."
He snapped his fingers.
The earth near the foundation quivered.
Bricks lifted slightly, as if caught by an invisible force. Dust hung suspended. Pieces of the wall began to shift.
Rudeus held his breath.
Material flowed into the breach. Soil from the garden moved in a thin wave, filling the empty spaces. The structure densified, compacted, smoothed under invisible pressure.
The surface trembled.
And sealed.
Cracks vanished. The texture of the bricks was almost perfectly restored — perhaps slightly smoother than before, but stable.
Silence fell.
Both blinked.
The wall stood.
Intact.
Rudeus looked at it, then at Alaric.
"That was… non-incantational."
Alaric stared at his own hand.
Inside, his mind panicked like a madman.
It had gone too easily!?
How in the name of the GOD-EMPEROR OF MANKIND had it gone so smoothly?! Forbidden arcana were supposed to be so complex that no sane mind could comprehend them; only those who had sacrificed their souls in service to accursed demons could grasp even a fragment of that knowledge.
He didn't know the full formula.
He hadn't trained.
He shouldn't have been able to manipulate matter so precisely.
"Calm. Analyze. Don't panic."
His heart pounded like a hammer.
If he had just discovered a natural talent…
It could mean immense potential.
Or immense trouble.
Then came the sound of violently opening doors.
"What was that noise?!" a male voice shouted.
Paul burst into the room, sword already in hand, eyes alert and tense. Zenith followed, clearly worried.
Rudeus froze.
Alaric slowly lowered his hand.
The wall was undamaged.
The floor — dry.
No rubble.
No breach.
Paul quickly scanned the room, assessing it with the eyes of a seasoned warrior.
"I heard a hit."
Silence.
Rudeus opened his mouth.
Alaric cut him off, calm, almost indifferent:
"Rudeus knocked over a chair."
Rudeus stared at him in absolute shock.
Paul narrowed his eyes.
"A chair."
Zenith exhaled.
"I thought something had collapsed…"
Alaric felt a bead of sweat run down his back.
Paul surveyed the room for a moment longer, as if instinct whispered that something was off. But there were no traces. No evidence.
Zenith suddenly stopped.
"Wait a second…"
Her gaze fell to the floor.
An open book lay there.
Paul turned his head.
"What's that?"
Zenith picked up the book and frowned.
"This isn't a primer."
Rudeus paled.
Alaric felt a twist in his stomach.
Zenith flipped through a few pages. Her eyes skimmed the text.
"'Mana compression to increase the penetration of a water stream…'" she read slowly. "Rudeus?"
Paul glared at his son sharply.
"You used offensive magic?"
The silence grew heavy.
Rudeus swallowed.
"It was just an exercise…"
Zenith raised an eyebrow.
"We heard an explosion."
Paul glanced around the room once more.
The wall was perfectly whole.
No cracks.
No repair marks.
No moisture.
Alaric stood calmly to the side, hands lowered, face neutral.
Inside, he almost smiled.
It had worked.
No traces.
No evidence.
No suspicion.
The repair was clean. Stable. Natural. Even the brick texture looked authentic.
Paul narrowed his eyes.
"So… what exactly did you do?"
Rudeus looked at the wall.
Then at the book.
Then… at Alaric.
Alaric felt a cold shiver climb his spine.
No.
Don't.
"I shot a Water Cannon," Rudeus said quietly. "But… the wall is intact because…"
A second.
One brief second of silence.
Alaric gave him a look.
Cold.
Warning.
"Don't you dare."
Rudeus finished:
"…because Alaric fixed it."
Time froze.
Alaric stiffened.
Slowly, he turned his head toward his brother.
Their eyes met.
Traitor.
Paul blinked.
"What?"
Zenith looked first at Rudeus, then at Alaric.
"He fixed it?"
Rudeus nodded, now enthusiastic.
"Yes! He used magic without incantation and reconstructed the entire structure! It was amazing!"
Alaric felt his heart hammer in his chest.
Too fast.
Too much information.
Too much enthusiasm.
Paul took a slow step toward Alaric.
"Is that true?"
Alaric paused for a fraction of a second, analyzing.
Deny?
Downplay?
Claim accident?
Zenith crouched to look him in the eyes.
"Honey?"
Her voice was gentle. Concerned, but not accusatory.
Not a commissar's interrogation.
A mother's.
Alaric no longer heard their voices clearly.
In his mind, something else resonated.
Psyker.
In his previous world, that word was a sentence.
At best — a black cell and chains.
Worse — purge.
Worst — a bullet to the head before the Warp found its way inside.
Children with psychic talent often vanished.
Families looked away.
Neighbors reported.
Priests whispered cleansing prayers.
He didn't know how this world treated people like him.
He knew from books that "magic" was common, but… what did that really mean?
He didn't know…
But one thing he knew for certain:
In the Empire, he would have been killed immediately.
Or worse.
His heart pounded like a hammer.
Would Paul draw his sword?
Would Zenith pull back her hand?
Would they see him as a threat?
Alaric slowly nodded.
"The wall was damaged. I tried to… fuse it."
Paul frowned.
"Without incantation?"
Rudeus jumped in immediately:
"Yes! And he perfectly restored the brick texture!"
Alaric gave him a second look.
This time clear: "Shut up."
Rudeus closed his mouth.
Zenith rose slowly.
"Alaric… have you tried using magic before?"
"No," he answered truthfully. "This was the first time."
Paul and Zenith exchanged a glance.
No fear.
Just astonishment.
Paul exhaled through his nose.
"Two sons with magical talent…"
Zenith brought her hand to her mouth.
"Non-incantational at this age…"
Alaric felt the ground shift beneath him.
It wasn't panic.
It was attention.
Adult attention.
And that was far more dangerous.
Paul finally smiled slightly.
"Well. Looks like I'll have to double the training."
Alaric blinked.
That's it?
No accusation.
No fear.
No "what's wrong with you?"
Zenith stepped closer and patted his head.
"Next time, just tell us, okay? Offensive magic in the house isn't a game."
Rudeus immediately lowered his gaze.
"Sorry…"
Paul sighed.
"You fixed it, so I'll let it go this time. But zero experiments without supervision."
The parents left again, this time more calmly.
The door closed.
Silence.
Alaric slowly turned his head toward Rudeus.
His gaze was absolute.
"Traitor," he said quietly.
Rudeus bristled.
"That was a compliment!"
"It was a revelation."
"They're our parents!"
Alaric sighed heavily.
This wasn't a paranoid world.
This wasn't the Empire.
Here, talent didn't automatically mean danger.
Here, it meant… pride?
And that confused him more than any demon.
He looked again at the perfectly reconstructed wall.
Suspicion of "secret power" had been avoided.
But attention had not.
And attention was the first step toward expectations.
And expectations…
Were a burden he knew all too well.
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