A Dream of Illusion

Foreword: This side story is not closely related to the main text; it is merely a dream. Also, please ensure that you have a basic understanding of Konrad Curze Curze or have read his biography before reading to have a better reading experience.

--

Death, death, death.

Kill.

The abuser picked up a piece of flesh with his pale hand and stared at it blankly. He seemed unaware of his own location, indifferent to everything around him, simply squeezing the flesh with his fingers to extract its sweet juice.

Then he smiled.

He knew which piece of flesh it was; it was a person's left cheek.

But why was it underneath him?

The abuser's expression returned to blankness, and his fingers tightened again, gripping the piece of flesh.

It had lost its vitality, but still retained a certain resilience, which was being rapidly erased. With a crunching sound, blood dripped slipperily between the fingers.

The abuser laughed maniacally—the stench of death assaulted his nostrils at that moment, and the pungent smell finally reminded him of who he was.

Konrad Curze Curze.

One of the Primarch of the Imperium of Man, one of the sons of the Great the Emperor, one of the demigods walking among humans.

The only truly hideous monster in the world.

He grunted in disgust and began to wait for the hallucination to begin.

He had grown accustomed to its presence; every time he awoke to the torment of a headache, it would burst forth from somewhere, devouring his reason, memories, and emotions. Then, everything would dim and fade, turning into the darkness he knew best.

The illusion has been waiting in this darkness for a long time; it will extend its sharp claws, pierce into his flesh, and taste his blood and pain.

But no.

There were no illusions, no darkness, no pain, only tranquility and the stench of death.

Konrad Curze Curze realized this incredulously. He let out a roar from his throat, his face contorted, and the dried blood that had settled on his face peeled away, causing a slight stinging sensation. His filthy hair clung together, stinging his eyes and bringing another wave of pain, but he paid no heed.

He stood up, braced himself against the wall, his dark eyes gleaming in the darkness, and then he began to roar again.

"Sevilla!" he slurred. "Sevatarion!"

There was no reply in the darkness, then he began to recite other people's names, names he could still remember and didn't hate—"Shen! Talos! Vandred!"

Still, no one answered.

Konrad Curze Curze was still calling out, but there was nothing else he could do. His thoughts were torn apart and crumpled by the disappearance of the illusion, becoming fragments that could not be pieced back together.

He didn't understand what the disappearance of the illusion meant, and just let his thoughts wander wildly: it wanted to torment me, its brief disappearance was only to plunge me into deeper pain, it always has.

It, like my father who threw me into hell, is a murderer of me.

His mind was caught up in this conjecture, and Konrad Curze Curze whimpered, his ribs, protruding from his erratic eating habits, rising and falling with his movements. His emaciated body was covered with nothing but a few tattered rags, and blood and wounds made him look like a discarded, broken toy.

He knelt on the ground, still not using his eyes to observe the darkness, remaining indifferent to everything around him. He held the piece of flesh in his right hand, weeping as he scratched horribly wounds onto his body with his sharp nails.

His flesh was torn open, blood gushed out, and he roared in pain, but he continued to insert his fingers, trying to induce hallucinations with the pain—he would rather be whipped by pain now than suffer greater torment later.

In a daze, he remembered the words of one of his brothers, and his voice.

"You think I didn't hear those whispers?" Lion El-Jonson growled angrily at him. "But I don't care about any of that stuff. You're just a coward!"

"No!"

Konrad Curze Curze growled, his kneeling position turning into a heavier fall as he lay convulsing on the cold deck.

"Shut up, shut up! You have no idea what I've been through!"

His eyelids trembled, and he could barely lift his head. Saliva mixed with blood spurted from his rusty-tasting mouth.

His muscles spasmed, tensing and relaxing, causing him to spurt even more blood from the wounds he had just inflicted on himself. As the mist dissipated, he laughed in terror and screamed wildly on the cold metal deck, his limbs stained crimson in the pools of blood he had created.

This horrific state lasted for two full hours. When he finally stood up from the pool of blood he had created, he was a emaciated walking corpse covered in blood.

He shook his head unsteadily, observing his surroundings, easily piercing through the darkness. Pain lingered, yet his own thoughts were indifferent to the point of ruthlessness. He found a strange kind of enjoyment in this state of contradiction.

With doubt in his heart, he began to examine the room—he saw eight flags pressed against the walls, a huge iron table with flickering lightning on its surface, and three chairs of different sizes.

The ground was covered in blood, which he must have done himself. In fact, not only that, but there were also terrible marks left by his fingers everywhere, making the ground look as messy as a field that had been ravaged with a rake.

The smell of blood was everywhere. Konrad Curze Curze looked down thoughtfully at his hands and, unsurprisingly, saw torn or twisted fingernails.

He grumbled as he sat down and began plucking off the remaining nail fragments from his fingers. He ignored the scabbed-over parts.

They will always heal on their own, but he won't.

Thinking of this, he couldn't help but smile, a terrifying smile, like the stiff, ashen smile on the face of a dead person who had suffocated from laughing.

After finishing this task, he stood up again, his thoughts gradually returning to calm. He no longer felt pain, and reason returned to his body.

Konrad Curze Curze began to observe the room again, and after half a minute, he searched his memory and then fell into complete silence.

This was not a place he was familiar with, without a doubt. No one on the Nightfall would dare to hang such an early company flag in their room, and even if they did, those criminals and scum would not be able to face those eight flags with a positive attitude.

"There are no good men in my legion" —Konrad Curze Curze laughed again—"Yes, no good men. My legion is full of criminals, full of scum, full of..."

No, that's not right, etc.

Where exactly is this place?

The pale, filthy monster frowned: Where was I before?

He began to recall, and fragments flashed through his mind, not his hallucinations, but things that had actually existed.

He saw a statue of flesh and blood, its eyes weeping blood, blood dripping down the bones and the pieces of flesh that had been glued on. The statue was covered in chewing and biting marks, which was normal, because it was made by Konrad Curze Curze himself.

He made this statue with his hands and his teeth, a statue of the Emperor. Somewhere he once spoke to this statue, making his final confession, his final defense.

Then what?

He covered his forehead in bewilderment—and then? What happened next?

He continued to recall, a tearing pain surging through his brain, causing him to growl involuntarily. In the midst of the pain, he even tried to ignore the extremely obvious sound of the door sliding open.

Konrad Curze Curze remained in pain, trying to ignore it, but his instincts wouldn't allow it—his monstrous instincts urged him to turn fiercely around and look at the person who dared to disturb him at this moment.

He swore that if this were one of his criminal sons, he would break the bones of this audacious man.

But he didn't; he was stunned.

The person who walked in was not anyone he knew who might disturb him at this time.

It wasn't Sevatar, it wasn't Shen, it wasn't Talos, it wasn't any of those who still managed to cling to their beliefs, nor was it any of those utter scumbags.

The man who entered was a giant, with jet-black eyes and deathly pale skin, just like all the Nostramo. But here's the problem: none of his offspring could be so tall.

He didn't even know this person.

"Who are you?" Konrad Curze Curze hissed, his words dripping with threat.

He had adjusted his posture, hunching over and remaining in place—yes, he was wounded, but that didn't stop him from disemboweling his unarmored opponent.

When that time comes, he will grab the latter's internal organs, savor his pain, and extract every word from his blood. Curze has even already decided what his first question will be.

Why are you so tall?

"For some special reasons."

The giant spoke calmly, his voice equally hissing, his Nostraman so fluent. "But... who are you?"

"I asked the question first!"

Curze chuckled and lunged at him, ignoring why his unspoken question had been answered. His right hand formed a claw, and he swung it toward the unsuspecting abdomen. A cold smile appeared on his face as he swung his claw, only to be slammed heavily to the ground a moment later.

The world spun around him, and his back felt as if it had been completely torn apart. Then came two merciless kicks, one to his chest, making it hard for him to breathe, and the other to his forehead, making him dizzy and lightheaded.

His opponent's strength was so great that even the Primarch's physique couldn't recover from it quickly, and his speed...

He's faster than me? Who is he? No, what is he? Konrad Curze Curze whispered to himself, demanding the answer.

Then, he got the answer.

My name is Karyl Lohars.

The man's voice came from beside him, and his tone was even gentle.

Aren't you going to introduce yourself to me?

Curze barely opened his eyes, staring at the killer with hatred, and mumbled a curse word from Nostramo. The man who called himself Karyl laughed afterward.

The laughter remained gentle.

"How interesting," he said softly. "I almost never dream, especially not one as real as this."

What kind of dream? You delusional madman!

"I don't deny your accusations, but compared to the two of us in our current state, perhaps you are the one who is more seriously insane," the man who identified himself as Karyl Lohars said with a laugh.

Konrad Curze Curze continued to stare at him with such hatred that it even lessened his pain.

His gaze refocused— Curze stared, trying to memorize the man's face so he could have a complete picture when he peeled off his skin. He saw a pair of dark eyes, and a face as handsome as most Nostramo nobles.

Hatred surged within him, Curze sneered, remaining silent as he silently carried out his plan of slaughter.

He hasn't realized just how abnormal his current thinking is.

He arrived in a strange place with a confused memory, and encountered a giant with the height of Primarch and who was Nostramo. So many mysteries were left behind, and he only wanted to kill the giant.

Why?

The answer is actually quite obvious, because of Karyl Lohars's undisguised pity.

"This is indeed a dream, Konrad Curze," Karyl said softly. "Take a look out the window. Don't you notice how chaotic and illogical the view is? The universe wouldn't be like this, unless we're in that murky, vast ocean. But you and I both know this isn't Warp."

Yes. Konrad Curze Curze knew he was right—this was not Warp.

But that doesn't matter.

"I will kill you," he growled. "I will make you cry and beg me in your own blood--!"

"But you have to get up first," Karyl said, his smile finally fading, but pity remained, along with a strange emotion that Konrad Curze Curze didn't recognize at all.

He stared at the man with hatred, not understanding where this hatred came from, yet accepting it easily. He writhed his muscles, propped himself up, and struggled to his feet, howling as he lunged at his enemy.

This could no longer be called an attack; he had lost too much strength, and the pain he had just endured was simply too great—now, the way he lunged at Karyl Lohars was utterly ridiculous, devoid of any of the expected ferocity.

His current appearance made him look like a corpse that had recently been resurrected and was about to return to death, seeking the support of a tombstone.

In return, his enemies opened their arms.

It's hard to say whether Konrad Curze Curze felt a surge of suicidal impulse when he saw this gesture, given his chaotic mind.

He had always wanted to die, that much was certain, but he had to die in the right place, at the hands of the right person. He had witnessed his own death countless times, but perhaps it wouldn't be so bad if everything ended here?

He sneered, then stumbled into a cage. His enemy gently encircled him with both hands, one behind his head, the other on his right shoulder. There were no restraints, no force applied, yet Konrad Curze Curze' thoughts came to an abrupt halt.

The pain and subsequent sweet death he had anticipated did not come; he only felt a shiver rising from the depths of his bones.

". What are you doing?"

"Hospice care," Karyl Lohars whispered. "I'm not sure if this is a dream, Konrad Curze, but I know you are real. Even though you are the complete opposite of the person I remember. He wasn't as frantic as you, not as scarred and broken as you are."

Who exactly are you?

"Konrad Curze Curze asked, trembling."

Then, he got the answer.

A force surged from the void, striking his brain precisely. Thought ceased, and images flooded in, one after another.

The same childhood, the same mines, the same foul acid rain. The sky over Nostramo was forever black, people wailed in the night, and gangs and nobles laughed silently. But this time was different; this time, he was not alone.

He didn't painfully pull the trigger himself at the top of the church, nor did he devour the corpses of the dead out of his need for food. He didn't even suffer from the hallucinations; his pain was driven away by someone.

Those things that awaited Konrad Curze Curze in the darkness were driven away by one man.

He is not in pain, never.

He is not a monster; Konrad Curze Curze is not a monster.

Konrad Curze Curze began to tremble, tears streaming down his dirty face. Grief swept over him like a tsunami, destroying all his depravity. His pale skin shimmered beneath the tear tracks, his lost nobility laid bare, just like his sorrow.

He glimpsed the truth, a truth he could not bear. Konrad Curze Curze, the monster, could not bear it; he was still breathing, he was still alive.

Every single moment he lived was filled with screams of those truths in his mind, while his own memories shrank back in shame, unable to compare themselves to that other person. He was a monster, and Konrad Curze Curze was someone he dared not even imagine.

He is the person he once tried to become.

The monster broke free from the embrace, collapsed to his knees, and began to weep uncontrollably, screaming and convulsing. His bones seemed to break from the immense grief—then he screamed and wailed.

"Why? Why? Why did you make me see this?"

"Because I peeked into your memories," Karyl replied calmly. "Even if only part of them, I still need to make amends. Besides, I won't lie to Konrad Curze Curze. So, if you crave the truth, then know it."

"Shut up!" Curze howled, commanding. "Don't speak again! Don't talk to me like that again! You already know what kind of monster I am!"

"Yes."

Karyl Lohars sighed and knelt on one knee, "I already know."

He gazed silently, his eyes filled with sorrow, like a cemetery keeper.

"I—" Konrad Curze Curze buried his head in tears, his voice abruptly turning calm at that moment. "Then what are you waiting for?"

Karyl did not answer that question.

You know what I crave.

The pale monster knelt on the ground, head bowed, hands clasped together, fingers pressed against his chin. He trembled as he awaited judgment, or rather, pleaded for it.

"You know that, don't you?" he asked softly, full of hope.

"All I know is that you harbor boundless self-loathing and guilt; I've only seen a part of your memories. I know what happened to you on Nostramo, and I know your fate. Beyond that, I know nothing. I don't know why you've become the way you are now; in fact, I still doubt whether this dream was real."

"But I really am!"

Konrad Curze Curze abruptly raised his head, urging himself to move with his knees. He stumbled to the ground, but without hesitation grabbed Karyl Lohars' hands and pulled them toward his neck.

His eyes gleamed with a longing and pleading for death. "I'm real! You can feel it! Kill me!"

Karyl Lohars still did not answer.

"Kill me—!" Konrad Curze Curze cried out again. "Don't let my filth extinguish his light! I am a monster in the darkness, I shouldn't live, I shouldn't exist!"

The hunchbacked, depraved beast howled and pleaded, tears streaming down his face, as he witnessed another possibility that tormented him.

What tormented him even more was that he discovered he had begun to crave this warmth that shouldn't exist. He longed to be protected, to escape the darkness—but he couldn't.

Because he is the monster of darkness.

He had to reject this precious, radiant love; he couldn't accept it, or he would face an end worse than death.

The monster clenched its fingers, using its own strength to force Karyl Lohars's fingers to close. Gasping for breath, consumed by a thirst for death, it cried out, "Quickly, kill me!"

His Judgment remained unmoved.

Don't you understand?

The monster cried as it spoke.

"I must die. I've done too many wrong things. I arrogantly and recklessly wandered in the darkness, running wildly down the path of depravity. I'm a cruel and tyrannical monster. I'm not the person you know. I must be convicted!"

His eyes widened—

"Yes, and not only that, you must utterly destroy me, or they will surely find out. You must burn me to ashes; you must do this so that no one discovers my existence. The Night Lords should be Judgment of the night, not a bunch of scumbag killers."

"This is all a dream," Karyl Lohars said. "And you are already dead, Konrad Curze. Think carefully, were you wearing fake armor, waiting to be slaughtered? Did you confess to your father before that? Therefore, I don't need to kill you—"

"--You must!"

The monster suddenly raised its head, its dark eyes filled with terror. It screamed incoherently, a foolish grin spreading across its face, yet deep within those eyes, there was still a final plea.

"Kill me." He lowered his head, calmly pronouncing his guilt, all madness gone. "Whether it's a dream or not, I crave death and destruction; I beg you to grant my wish."

"This is my first wish," he said cautiously. "Is that alright, Father?"

Silence, as still as a cemetery, fell; the monster had never shed so many tears in his life.

Two minutes later, he heard a sigh.

"Good."

A flash of cold light disappeared in an instant, followed by a burst of pitch-black flames.

--

Karyl woke up at his desk, the brief nap not making him feel any better. The fatigue from reviewing official documents lingered, but something else seemed to be there as well.

It was a deep, lingering sadness.

He thoughtfully raised his hand; the fragments of the dream had completely vanished, but a tear slowly dripped from the corner of his eye. Karyl removed it with his hand, stared at it for a moment, and remained silent.

These are not his tears.

This chapter is 6,000 words. I'll take a break now; there will be more tonight, which is the main text.