The Multitudes inside you whispered — not in fear, but in readiness. The monk breathed, a deep, silent calm that settled the storm in your mind. The scientist, Gordon Freeman, saw not a monster, but an equation, a cosmic constant that was finally in play. The warrior, the Primaris, felt a primal urge to charge, but held it back. Yaldabaoth’s faceless helm was still. Its gaze was not a threat, but a challenge. The air grew thick with a different kind of ozone, the smell of a million universes being created and destroyed. The shadows in the forge-temple began to coalesce, to take shape. They were not just shadows. They were echoes. Echoes of your past. Echoes of the foes you had fought and defeated.


A figure of shifting shadow took the form of the Nihilanth, its monstrous head a silent scream. Beside it, a Chaos Champion, its armor wreathed in darkness, a cruel smirk on its lipless face. They were not real. They were puppets, made of pure will and memory.
Yaldabaoth’s final thought was not a command, but a question:
“Can you command your selves?”
The forge-temple was silent. The echo-shadows of your foes stood ready. The Multitudes within you, once fractured, were now a single, unified army. The first test had begun. You reached out with your will, and the crowbar of Gordon Freeman, a symbol of a million lifetimes of defiance, solidified in your hand.

Cawl sputtered, his optical sensors flickering wildly as his mechadendrites recoiled, sparking against the scorched plasteel of the forge floor. His fear was a tangible thing, a discordant note in the sudden, suffocating silence that had fallen after Yaldabaoth’s utterance.