Chapter 165: The Poor Koz
Alpha system.
The surface of the Battle Moon was as scorching as purgatory.
Rumble.
The Orks' brutal firepower shattered the metal floor. Frenzied battle cries and explosions rose and fell.
The figures of the Night Lords flickered in and out of the smoke and dust, their armor gleaming with the cold light of deep blue and silver in the fire.
Each strike took down swathes of greenskin lives.
At the end of a burning trench, a squad of Night Lords pursued Ork warriors when they suddenly spotted another group of figures in the smoke.
These figures moved like ghosts, clad in armor as black as night, with carved raven patterns on their helmets. The cold glint of power daggers shone in their hands.
"Is that the Raven Guard? Are you here to fight us, too?" A Night Lords warrior raised his chainsword and growled.
"We're just here to clear out these barbaric greenskins. What is it? Did someone attack you?" The Raven Guard Captain slowly emerged. Ork blood dripped from his twin-bladed short sword. His cold voice came through his helmet's vox-caster.
"Hmph! It better not be! We will definitely go to Terra to demand an explanation!" The Night Lords Captain snorted coldly.
A tense silence filled the air. The two teams briefly faced off. The warriors' weapons were slightly raised, ready to fight at any moment.
Just as tensions mounted, a deafening roar broke the stalemate.
"Waaaaaaaagh! Don't drink and drive, don't drink and drive!" A massive Ork war-buggy charged from a distance, its body covered with damaged metal plates and roaring Orks.
"Are you going to fight or not?! I'm getting impatient watching!" On the roof, an Ork warrior brandished a crude chain-axe, taunting both sides.
"Damn it! Finally, I see the enemy! Waaaaaagh!"
"Fight! Awesome! Waaaaaagh!"
Behind the war-buggy, more Ork infantry surged forth. The green tide swarmed toward the two small squads.
The two squads exchanged glances and nodded.
The warriors on both sides responded with low roars, quickly forming loose formations and deploying their tactics. The Night Lords charged forward, their chainswords roaring as they cut through the enemy lines, creating gore and fear.
The Raven Guard, like shadows, weaved among the greenskins, precisely assassinating every Ork leader.
A temporary alliance was formed!
Aboard the Nightfall, the medical bay was bathed in dim blue light. The metal walls gleamed with a cold sheen. The air was filled with a mixture of putrid odors and disinfectant.
A medical auxiliary servo-arm glided silently, observing the body lying on the central operating table.
Konrad Curze's tall frame now appeared incredibly fragile. The wound on his right arm was so deep that his bones were almost visible. The surrounding flesh constantly festered, as if some malevolent force was eroding his soul and body.
Konrad Curze's eyes were tightly shut, but cold sweat beaded on his forehead. His body twitched intermittently.
He was trapped in an inescapable nightmare. Illusions bound him like chains.
Countless scenes of death appeared before his eyes. Then the image shattered with a crash, followed by the roars of the Night Lords.
"For Primarch!"
"As long as the Primarch is willing to take us in, even if I die, I won't let you pass!"
"Ahhhh!"
In an endless darkness, his sons were slaughtered one by one. Their screams echoed ceaselessly. He tried to reach out to save them, but found his arm rapidly decaying, turning to dust.
Crack!
The image shattered again. A massive meteor appeared there. Countless Blood Angels surrounded the meteor. Imperial Grey Astartes were attacking them.
Blood Angels died tragically one by one before the meteor. When the meteor's ribbon opened its eyes, everything before it was destroyed!
Crack!
The image shattered again. He saw himself lying on the bed like a piece of rotting flesh. Countless tiny maggots burrowed in his body. When he tried to struggle, he accidentally raised his skeletal arm.
The flesh on his arm peeled off with a crackling sound. He looked around to see the Night Lords looking at him with disgust, even using fire to destroy him utterly.
The whispers of Chaos appeared here at an inopportune moment.
"Are you content to die like this?"
"Take up arms, slaughter will heal your pain, blood will restore your body."
"Come... and chant blood for the blood god with me..."
But Konrad Curze, hearing all this, did not panic, though he was still too weak to move.
"Don't bother... I won't die like this! I know that whenever I'm near death, someone will definitely save me. The stories can't be wrong; this is called destiny! I am a person of great destiny, and an old man will come to save me soon! You cannot break my Will! Mere inner demons will only make my Heart stronger! When I achieve ultimate sublimation and break the shackles of this world, that will be true freedom and boundless joy! Hahaha..."
Konrad Curze was still laughing wildly, firmly believing that he was the protagonist of this world. Protagonists don't die!
"..."
Even with more death scenes, and no matter how long he was trapped here, Konrad Curze was not misled by these illusions.
He kept muttering. "I clearly know that another cannot replicate the path of one person. I walk my own life's path, even if the storms along the way are great, so great that I struggle to move, even if thorns grow everywhere, pricking me with wounds, I still laugh foolishly, savoring the taste of it all."
And in the warp, the scarlet figure looked at the big, green, obese one, who merely shrugged.
Scarlet figure: "..."
Big green obese one: "..."
They had never imagined that the other's inner resolve was so firm!
After an unknown amount of time, Konrad Curze finally opened his eyes. The medical servo-arm tried to clean the festering on Konrad Curze's arm, but to no avail.
The muscles around the wound seemed to possess some twisted vitality. Whenever an attempt was made to disinfect or stitch it, the rotten tissue resisted like a living thing, emitting faint but chilling squeaks.
"This is simply a curse!" The Apothecary watched in shock, his hands trembling, with a deep-seated fear of the unknown.
"Does it really have to be an amputation?" Konrad Curze's throat felt as if it were clogged with phlegm. His voice was hoarse and pained.
"Go quickly and fetch Francis..." After saying this, Konrad Curze's body went limp, as if he had expended his last ounce of strength.
The servo-arm remained still, as if awaiting new instructions. The Night Lords looked at each other, silent.
Even though they knew their father didn't like them, they still deeply loved him.
But for killing, they had nine hundred ninety-nine ways. For saving a life...
"I'll go find Primarch Francis! He must have a way to cure it!" First Captain Sevatar, with bloodshot eyes, roared and ran out.
The Primarch would never die. How could he die!
He absolutely would not allow this!
The Blackstone Fortress slowly emerged from the warp. Upon its arrival, it spotted the wild Ork Battle Moon.
"It's simply a gift from nature! Quick! Eliminate them all, take this Moon with us..." Francis raised an eyebrow, feeling as if he had just found money walking down the street.
The fortress's psychic turrets roared furiously, tearing the green Ork army to shreds in fire and explosions. The battle fortresses and wasteland behemoths turned to ash under the sweep of high-energy beams.
The Soul Drinkers and Thousand Sons Legion poured out of the fortress, wielding flamers and psychic staves. Orks on the Battle Moon fell in droves.
Just as the Blackstone Fortress had cleared mainly the battlefield, a pale figure suddenly burst out of a warship.
A face as pale as a ghost, covered in hideous scars, was revealed beneath the helmet.
Sevatar's eyes swept over the Astartes present, finally locking onto the figures of the Soul Drinkers. His eyes suddenly lit up with undisguised ecstasy.
He dropped his weapon and ran wildly toward the Soul Drinkers. His footsteps kicked up sparks on the burning ground.
"Lord Primarch Francis! Where is he! Where is he?" Sevatar roared, shaking the Soul Drinkers warrior repeatedly with both hands.
"The Primarch... the Primarch is on the ship... on that ship over there..." Having received the answer, Sevatar ran to the Blackstone Fortress, rushed to Francis, and knelt on the ground, gripping the armor greaves of the other. His eyes were filled with anxiety and anticipation.
"Respected Eleventh Primarch!" He cried out hoarsely, his voice rough but full of power. "Please save him! Please save our Primarch! He's really dying! We have no other way!"
Francis raised an eyebrow slightly, a bad premonition vaguely stirring within him. "What happened to Curze!" He said in a low, urgent tone.
"He... he's injured, very badly! Those damned Imperial Assassins severely wounded him with some strange weapon. Our medical equipment cannot stop the wound from festering, and he is now on his last breath!"
Hearing this, Francis's heart sank. He growled. "Immediately! Take me to him! Hurry!"
Seeing the other somewhat dazed, Francis immediately urged him.
Sevatar immediately stood up, a look of post-disaster gratitude on his face. He led Francis toward his warship.
Francis stepped onto the deck of the Night Lords' warship, the Nightfall. The atmosphere inside the ship was cold and oppressive. The corridors were filled with the smell of disinfectant and old oil.
The metal decorations on the bulkheads were deliberately crafted into death-punk style reliefs, making it even more sinister.
Some Night Lords warriors stood guard in the corners. Their gazes were filled with anticipation and reverence for Francis. Seeing Sevatar and Francis arrive, they quickly opened the hatch.
Inside the medical bay, the lights were dim. The air was filled with a pungent disinfectant smell and faint psychic ripples.
On the central medical bed, Konrad Curze's arm was exposed, covered in a deep green, festering wound that had spread across his entire arm.
[End of Chapter]
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