"Please halt, Lord Curze. No one is permitted entry without the Emperor's authorisation."
Two Custodians in golden armour crossed their power glaives and stood before Konrad Curze, who had come seeking the Emperor.
A flicker of dissatisfaction passed through Curze's eyes, but it vanished swiftly. He understood that the Custodians were merely executing their duty. He halted. The shadows beneath his feet seethed restlessly.
"Let him enter."
The Emperor's voice emanated from the inner chamber — calm, penetrating. The Custodians withdrew their glaives the instant they heard the Emperor's command, stepped aside, and moved with the precision of well‑oiled machinery. Without hesitation, Curze entered the Emperor's private quarters.
"Father..."
He knelt on one knee and bowed his head.
"Rise, Curze."
The figure upon the throne cast a glance upon him — a rare gentleness in His eyes. "Between you and I, father and son, there is no need for such formality."
The Great Crusade had not yet encountered its true storms, and Curze had already demonstrated extraordinary talent. The Emperor was pleased.
"Tell me, my child. Why have you come?"
"To seek my brother."
Curze met the Emperor's sun‑like gaze, as though seeking His disposition toward Nyx's present fate.
"Do not worry for him... Nyx is stronger than either you or I imagine."
The Emperor's tone was even. Though He could not help but wish to thrash Nyx every time they met, in truth, the Emperor cared for Nyx more than anyone else.
(Khorne: I care twice as much as you, mouth‑and‑teeth!)
"At this moment, he is aiding another of your lost brothers in reclaiming a world. That world will become the fleet's next destination."
This should have been sufficient answer to calm Curze. But today, Curze was clearly in a certain state of mind.
The next destination?
"Father... Is he still on Terra?"
Curze's fists clenched unconsciously. His knuckles whitened slightly.
"Calm yourself, Curze. What you see is but one of many futures."
The Emperor's voice softened. "Just as you trust Nyx, trust me... Please, also trust the brother you have never met. His return will not shake your place in my heart."
The Emperor paused for a moment — as though uttering something most natural:
"You have always been my most beloved son."
Curze was silent. He did not respond. After a time, he saluted once more and turned to leave. But the sound of his footfalls — too light, too deliberate — betrayed that he was not as calm as he appeared.
Five minutes later.
The shadow behind the throne stirred silently. Having confirmed Curze's departure, Malcador slowly emerged.
"Your Majesty. It is not always appropriate to speak to your sons in such a manner."
"Why do you say this, Malcador?"
A faint note of perplexity coloured the Emperor's voice. He saw nothing amiss with his response just now.
"If I am not mistaken, you intend to say the same thing to every Primarch who remains alone with you?"
Malcador's gaze seemed to pierce straight to the heart.
Cornered by his old friend, the Emperor's majesty before His son quietly dissipated, leaving only a rare trace of embarrassment and awkwardness. It was only before Malcador that He sometimes revealed such an authentic side.
"...You know me, old friend."
The Emperor sighed softly, as though bearing an invisible burden. "I have never been good at this... Not in the past. Not now."
After a brief pause, His voice settled again:
"But teaching Horus — that will not change. Even if he is no longer the 'first‑returned son'."
Malcador stood in silence.
"Even you and I — it is difficult to fully alter this universe's future."
The Emperor gazed into the void, as though a figure had appeared within His sight. "But he can. And because of that, I believe in him."
Deep within the mountain‑top castle of Barbarus, inhuman shrieks and piercing laughter echoed between the stone walls.
The xenos overlord, Necare, had collapsed to the ground. His colossal form was undergoing a terrifying distortion. Dark green pustules continuously erupted from beneath his carapace, bursting and exuding a powerful stench of decay. His once‑invulnerable shell rapidly softened, suppurated — as though consumed from within by an invisible force of putrefaction.
"Heh heh... Convert to Father Nurgle, Necare."
"You shall play a pivotal role in the Grand Father's great script."
"Accept this boon, and you shall be instantly freed from this pain. Of course, your precious body is now sufficient to complete the script even without your consent."
A Nurgling — its head twisted, its body like a festering cyst — hopped joyfully atop Necare's rotting corpse, leaving sticky trails with every step.
"...I... am ready..."
The supreme corruption was unendurable, even for this xenos overlord. The instant Necare submitted, all pain receded like a tide. The pustules closed. The ulcers ceased. His swollen, pus‑drained body returned to its former sombre pallor — as though the terrifying transformation had been but a dream.
But the Nurgling, still merrily bouncing upon Necare, testified that it had all truly occurred.
"Heh heh! Tasty!"
"Father Nurgle needs you to be 'just as you are'. Remember — speak no superfluous words... though you could not even if you wished."
The Nurgling emitted one final, malevolent shriek, then vanished into the dark green mist that rose from nowhere.
Nurgle's intervention had completely disrupted this world's original trajectory. This planet — once destined only for oppression and resistance — had now been quietly placed upon the Grand Father's crucible. To brew the anticipated finale, He had not hesitated to personally extend His hand and alter Mortarion's path of growth.
"Go... Go..."
Necare's voice was as hoarse as gravel. Though his body had returned to its prior state, a weakness from the depths of his marrow gripped him tightly — granting the xenos overlord his first taste of fear in life.
"Descend the mountain... Capture the humans for me!"
On the other side — the Reaper camp.
With Nyx's aid, it had been revitalised. The people's quality of life had taken a qualitative leap. The weapons in their hands had finally reached a level Nyx could acknowledge.
Yet Nyx had not relaxed. Just moments ago, a faint stench of decay — faint, yet sufficient to make his soul recoil — had penetrated his long‑suppressed olfactory senses. This stench was unique to Nurgle. It was a blasphemy against all living things.
In truth, Barbarus as a whole was highly unpleasant to Nyx. Mortarion's 'stinky appellation' was practically a given.
For this reason, Nyx had taken the initiative upon arrival to seal off his sense of smell. But this breath was different — it touched the soul directly.
For the past several days, Nyx had tossed and turned, earnestly contemplating how to further enhance the Reapers' combat power. Now, this dangerous omen made it impossible for him to remain still.
"Father... What's wrong with you...?"
Mortarion noticed the sudden shift in Nyx's expression. He had never seen Nyx wear such a grave face.
"Mortarion."
"I am here, Father!"
Nyx rose. His gaze was fixed upon the mist‑shrouded mountain peak in the distance, upon the shadow of the castle. His voice was low and resolute:
"We need to capture a xenos."
(The xenos: Dude... are you serious?!)
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