When the group of captives staggered into the Heller Pass, night had already blanketed the desolate land.
They trembled as they crossed the rustling wheat fields, each step teetering on the edge of fear.
Barbarus nights were deadly.
Toxic fog crept across the ground like a living thing. Settlements had to burn pitch torches all night, their acrid flames forming a fragile barrier.
Deep within the swirling mist, predators lurked, creatures that hunted the isolated, tearing their unlucky prey into bloody fragments.
When the captives stumbled into the ring of pitch fire at the village entrance, their taut nerves finally relaxed.
They collapsed to the ground, supporting one another, gasping for breath in the aftermath of survival.
The night watchman had already spotted them from the tower, but fear gripped his throat like iron pincers.
He should have sounded the alarm immediately, but instead he curled up in the shadows of the post, hands clamped over his mouth and nose, even his breathing cautious, afraid of alerting the monsters roaming the night.
Only when familiar voices mixed with gasps reached his ears did he dare press his pale face to the window, peeking through a narrow crack.
His gaze froze on a dust-covered face in the crowd, so familiar.
The watchman whispered hoarsely, voice trembling, "Morkel? Is that really you?"
Morkel raised his mud-streaked face, brow furrowed toward the post.
"It's me, Torin." His voice carried confusion and reproach. "You saw us. Why didn't you ring the alarm?"
"I-I accidentally fell asleep." Torin's voice tightened. Negligence in duty was better than admitting to cowardice.
Torin staggered to his feet, legs trembling like reeds in the wind.
He mechanically raised his arm, the rusted alarm chain clinking in his fingers.
DONG!
The heavy bell shattered the night. The villagers scattered like startled animals, rushing into their homes; none ran to defend the village gate.
Doors slammed shut one after another. In moments, only a few overturned pitch torches remained in the village center, hissing in the dark.
"Heh."
Typhon's eyes flashed with contempt. Mortals were always cowardly and selfish.
Caelan suddenly asked, "What did you see?"
Mortarion's gaze swept the chaotic village. "Fear."
Caelan turned to Typhon. "And you?"
"You're asking me?" Typhon was surprised, unsure how to respond.
After a pause, his eyes flicked to the trembling watchman. He whispered, "Weakness."
"Then tell me, why are they afraid? Why are they weak?"
Typhon answered, "Because they fear the enemy. They fear death."
Caelan shook his head.
"And you, what did you see?" Typhon regretted speaking. What gave him the courage to question Caelan? Maybe Caelan's kindness had created an illusion, making him forget who he was facing.
"I saw the bystander effect. The larger the group, the weaker the sense of individual responsibility," Caelan answered.
He pointed at the man in the tower. "Cognitive dissonance. His fear clashed with his duty, creating psychological discomfort. To resolve it, he changed his own story, a lie to ease the dissonance. That's self-justification."
"When truth threatens one's self-image, the mind chooses whatever hurts the ego least. That's self-rationalization."
Typhon was captivated.
He could sense Caelan's intent; he was teaching him.
No commands. No superiority. Just logic laid bare, like puzzle pieces inviting him to piece together the truth himself.
When Caelan finished, Typhon leaned forward unconsciously. "And then?"
"Mass panic," Caelan said calmly. "In crises, individuals are easily infected by collective emotion, lose reason, and chaos follows."
"No leadership, no coordination. They never even identified the threat before trampling each other to escape."
Caelan's teacher's tone slipped through. "And what's the consequence of that?"
Mortarion lowered his gaze. "Everyone hopes someone else will step up."
"Everyone thinks: if I just hide long enough, the enemy will eventually leave."
Typhon sneered. "To rely on the mercy of your enemy, to kneel and wait for death instead of fighting, pathetic."
Good thing he wasn't like them.
Caelan didn't argue. He murmured, "That's human nature."
"The weakness of human nature has bred a vicious cycle. Individuals shirk responsibility out of fear. The group loses defense through disunity. The danger grows deeper. And the deeper the danger, the more each person retreats into self-preservation."
"What should we do, then?"
"Break the cycle," Typhon blurted out.
Mortarion's gaze sliced through him. "Reverse it."
Typhon flinched under that look, retreating instinctively behind Caelan.
Caelan's back became his only shelter, but Mortarion's eyes grew colder.
"Break it how? Reverse it how?" Caelan pressed, showing no approval.
"Maybe… we should inspire their courage?" Typhon's voice faded to a murmur.
Mortarion said, "Lead them to resist."
"How do you inspire them? How do you lead them?"
Silence fell.
Then Caelan asked softly, "Imagine this: a tiger is chasing both of you. You can't outrun it. It'll stop to eat whoever it catches first, letting the other escape. Who survives?"
Typhon slumped. "Who else? Him."
He didn't know what a tiger was, but it sounded terrifying.
Mortarion remained silent, breath frozen in thought.
Caelan added, "But you're more agile, you can climb trees. The tiger and Mortarion cannot. Who survives now?"
Typhon straightened proudly. "Then I would!"
It was hypothetical, why not let himself win once?
Caelan turned to Mortarion. "What do you think?"
After a pause, Mortarion replied, "We both will."
Typhon said, "But you can't outrun the tiger!"
Mortarion clenched his fist. "I'll kill it."
Typhon nearly jumped. "Caelan didn't say you could kill it!"
"How would I know if I don't try?"
"Mortarion can kill it."
Typhon's fists clenched and loosened, deflated.
He forced a smile, eyes dimming.
Of course, they were father and son. He was just a sidekick. Even in a hypothetical scenario, Caelan wouldn't side with him.
Caelan's voice drifted in: "But the tiger will tear Mortarion's throat unless you help him."
"Me?" Typhon's eyes lit up, trembling with uncertainty.
Caelan said, "Your psychic power is your blade. You can slow the beast."
Typhon's fingers trembled. "But I'm not strong enough."
"You're still growing. When you mature, you'll be strong. The key is, are you willing to help?"
"I'll help him!" Typhon declared.
"How do you inspire? How do you resist? Answer me."
Mortarion and Typhon exchanged a glance and shouted in unison: "Kill the tiger!"
Caelan's lips curled slightly. Typhon still had hope.
...
The rescued captives dragged their weary bodies toward the bonfire in the village center.
The firelight cast a warm orange glow across their faces.
One by one, tightly shut doors creaked open. Hesitant footsteps turned into running.
An elderly woman with white hair trembled as she touched the scabbed wounds on her son's body. A young wife clutched her missing husband, sobbing with joy.
Caelan stood in the shadows, tirelessly teaching Mortarion and Typhon.
"Self-efficacy theory suggests that an individual's belief in their ability to succeed at a task stems from four sources: personal success experiences, vicarious experiences, verbal persuasion, and physiological-emotional states."
"They lack personal success experiences, but you can give them vicarious ones. Add verbal encouragement and emotional reinforcement, and they'll find the courage to resist. Once they taste victory, they'll break the vicious cycle and create a new, positive one."
"But you can't just give endlessly. Human nature fears power, not virtue. You must establish authority, give a slap, then offer a sweet treat."
Caelan disliked teaching through deconstruction. He and the other Primarchs preferred sincerity.
Even now, he was sincere. But with Mortarion and Typhon, deconstruction was necessary.
They both sought truth, obsessed with it.
If he mixed in too much personal emotion, it could lead to misunderstanding.
Unlikely, but still worth guarding against.
"What are you celebrating?"
A man roared hoarsely amid the tearful reunions. He pointed a trembling finger at the ragged returnees, eyes swirling with something colder than hatred.
"Why didn't you die out there? Why did you come back? The Overlords won't spare you. Do you know how many people you'll get killed?"
The bonfire crackled on, but no one dared make a sound.
His selfish accusations didn't spark outrage. Instead, they stirred a deeper emotion shared by many, bone-deep fear.
"On Barbarus, mortals are livestock to the Overlords."
Typhon's lips curled into a cold smile, not at the man, but at himself, at all of them.
The Overlords ruled Barbarus.
That was the cruelest truth.
Generations of Barbarans had been penned, butchered, tamed, so used to kneeling they ate from troughs without shame.
Mortals survived under the Overlords because they were bred, used as endless material for experiments and control.
The puppets the Overlords created were forged with warp sorcery, but their raw materials came from mortals.
The Overlords had lust. Beautiful mortal women suffered the worst fates, like Typhon's mother.
Mortals were like chickens awaiting slaughter. When the Overlord entered the coop, every chicken scrambled to survive until fate chose the unlucky one.
The survivors bowed their heads in symbolic mourning.
Then, in the relief of survival, they returned to their troughs, pecking away to fill the void left by fear.
Day after day, they learned to bow lower, even pushing the weak toward the Overlord's claws.
When the chickens meant to be slaughtered broke free and stumbled back into the coop, the entire pen fell silent. How would the Overlord punish them?
"Hand them over! Deliver them to the Supreme Overlord!" the man screamed, veins bulging.
"Or the Overlord's army will raze our village! We'll all die!"
"But he's my son!" the old woman wailed.
"So what? My son died too! Do you want to die with them?"
The shouting, crying, and cursing blended into chaos. Human nature was laid bare in all it's uglinies.
"There! Them!"
The man raised his hand, bony fingers pointing toward Caelan and the others. "They defied the Overlord! One of them is a sorcerer! They'll bring disaster, burn them! Burn them now!"
His eyes swirled with malice. Typhon's cold smile deepened.
Mortals were always like this.
His mother had been defiled by the Overlord. Did anyone show sympathy?
They drowned her. If he hadn't run fast enough, he'd be dead too.
Mortarion remained silent, filled with sorrow.
The man was selfish, foolish, and cruel, but who made him that way?
The Overlords. All to claim their god.
Mortarion didn't wallow in guilt, but he knew he had to change this world. He would never bow to gods. Nor would the people of Barbarus.
As the man's hysteria grew and the villagers' eyes turned dangerous, Caelan suddenly smiled.
His voice was soft, but it pierced the chaos like an ice pick.
"Do you know what this is called?"
"What?" Typhon raised his voice.
"When a kind man is bullied, and a gentle horse is ridden to death, it's because they're too kind."
Mortarion's voice was heavy: "So kind men deserve to be abused?"
"No," Caelan said. "But humans fear strength and exploit mercy. So your kindness must not be cheap. You must show some edge."
With a flick of Caelan's finger, the crowd lifted off the ground.
Bodies floated like leaves caught in invisible strings, legs kicking, arms flailing, helpless in midair.
"Let me go! Let me, mmph!"
The man's scream cut off as if a wire had tightened around his throat.
Caelan casually flicked his finger again. The man's lips sealed shut, frozen like ice.
Caelan turned to Typhon. "They know we're sorcerers. That we could crush them with a gesture, yet they still called for our death. Why?"
The man's wide eyes trembled, reflecting the glow at Caelan's fingertips.
He only knew Caelan was a sorcerer.
If he'd known Caelan was this powerful, he wouldn't have dared speak.
"Because we're too soft-hearted. We didn't treat them like livestock, like the Overlords do."
Caelan asked, "What should we do then?"
Typhon hesitated, voice low: "Maybe… just teach them a lesson. We're not the Overlords."
He knew Caelan wasn't that kind of person; otherwise, he wouldn't have helped them.
But himself?
Sure, the words were what Caelan wanted to hear. But deep down, didn't he feel the same?
Mortarion's gaze swept over Typhon coldly.
Even something this simple needed Caelan to guide him step by step. Childish.
"You all heard. Someone's pleading for you."
The crowd floated down like leaves, except the man, who slammed to the ground with a thud.
"Say thank you."
"Th-thank you…"
The thanks were scattered and weak, just like the villagers' hearts.
Typhon knew their gratitude was soaked in fear of Caelan. But the heat in his chest surged uncontrollably.
Yes!
He helped them. They thanked him. Wasn't that how it should be?
Caelan's gaze swept the shrinking crowd.
"The Overlords won't dare retaliate. If we can rescue them, we can protect you too."
The crowd's instinctive fear began to shift.
In their exchanged glances, something new began to rise above the fear.
"A slap, then a sweet treat." Mortarion etched it into memory. He understood, Caelan was demonstrating.
Caelan spoke slowly, "But I have conditions. Trade your children for safety. Every single one."
A shiver of panic swept through the crowd, but their nerves relaxed, replaced by a strange sense of relief.
Now it made sense.