32 Conscription (II)

For a long time, Konrad Curze Curze and Karyl Lohars shared a tacit understanding that was difficult to comprehend. This understanding wasn't reflected in their actions, but rather in many unspoken interactions.

For example, on many nights, the Night Haunter would put down his work and go somewhere in the city in the early hours of the morning. He would squat on the Gargoyle and thoughtfully stroke its head, using the warmth of his palm to soften its coldness.

Minutes after his arrival, another person will arrive. They will not speak to each other, but will simply gaze at the city before them.

They savor and appreciate its changes, absorbing the information they need from the wind, and genuinely feel a peaceful joy. Then, after a while, they will leave together and return to their daily, tedious work.

This is just one example and is not enough to fully express their indescribable tacit understanding, but perhaps you can already get a glimpse of it.

That's why Karyl wasn't surprised by Curze's slightly cold tone.

In fact, he felt he should have asked long ago.

"What do you want to ask?" Karyl asked casually. They were in Konrad Curze Curze's office, where everything was as usual.

"Let's not talk about the problem now," said the Night Haunter. He reached for his cup and drank the filtered water in one gulp.

He picked up a bronze kettle and began to pour himself a fresh glass of water. The kettle didn't seem like a Nostramo product; it was too ornate and not something Konrad Curze Curze would like.

He probably kept it and used it only because of its surface relief. The person who made it meticulously carved a scene of three giants standing under the stars and talking to each other with fine, continuous brushstrokes, which is very exquisite.

"So, what do you want to talk about?"

"I don't know," Konrad Curze Curze replied cautiously, his expression rather intriguing. He squinted, held a glass in one hand, and had the corners of his mouth turned down.

"I tried to guess what you were thinking based on what I know about you, but I failed." He managed a weak smile. "But it seems I don't know you well enough."

Karyl sighed.

"Perhaps you should learn more from your brother Rogal Dorn," he said meaningfully.

"Dorn is a good man, but I learned it from you." Curze raised his chin defiantly. "This approach of using observation to identify problems, then burying them in your heart until you absolutely have to address them—isn't that exactly what you've always practiced?"

"That's in the past," Karyl said. "In the past, I could hide plans from you, hide the truth from you, and hide the real problems. But not now, Konrad Curze."

"Yes, you're certainly not hiding these things anymore, because you've found something new to add to this tiresome game." Konrad Curze Curze shook his head seriously.

"You used to never use your power so recklessly in front of everyone, no, you used to be very cautious even about using your power, Karyl?"

"This is a dark age, Konrad Curze," Karyl began slowly. "Although the future before us may seem bright, I must tell you that the sky is still dark and gloomy."

"These words may sound like those of wizards and witches trying to manipulate their ignorant followers, but in essence, they are the same as us. They are struggling to survive, and so are we. My current identity allows me to no longer adhere to the rules of the past; this is the complete opposite of my usual methods, but I must adapt to it."

Konrad Curze Curze nodded slowly, closed his eyes, and let the atmosphere fall silent.

A few seconds later, his body began to tremble. The temperature dropped further, the indoor thermometer started to alarm, and the machines made futile attempts to bring the temperature back to normal, but they could not succeed, at least not until Konrad Curze Curze stopped them.

Five minutes later, he opened his eyes, his face appearing even paler than before.

"How is it?" Karyl asked.

"I didn't see anything, but I hope Jago Sevatarion is in good health," the Night Haunter replied, his expression serious but his tone deliberately light.

Sadness flickered in his eyes, but not negativity. Karyl smiled at him silently and slowly, a smile that was not gentle, but full of bloodshed, with countless white bones flashing by in his shadow.

"There's no need for sorrow," he said softly. "Blood debts must be repaid in blood."

The conversation ended there, and everything seemed normal.

--

Recruiting has begun.

The message originated from the "The Nest," and within just three days it spread from Quintus Hive to the entirety of Nostramo.

People spread the word—the literate told the illiterate, the workers changing shifts told their colleagues who had just come up from the mine, and the guards preached in the streets. The floating job postings and welfare regulations that used to circulate were now replaced with something else entirely.

During working hours under the eternal night, they hummed as they hovered overhead, broadcasting recruitment messages in alternating between Low Gothic and Nostramo.

At first, few people understood what conscription really meant until they saw or heard the name of the Eighth Legion. Instantly, the chilling atmosphere was ignited.

Miners with school-aged children began submitting their resumes to the mine manager following the instructions, while students receiving literacy education repeatedly asked their teachers about the specific procedures.

The guards patrolling the streets had to spend more time explaining to people why only children aged twelve to fifteen were allowed.

It may sound absurd, but the enthusiasm of the Nostramo had little to do with whether joining the Eighth Legion would bring better treatment; the recruitment notices didn't mention anything about "benefits" or similar things.

People were enthusiastic only because it would help Konrad Curze Curze, the savior of Nostramo —and the Emperor.

Hmm. And the Emperor. It might sound like a terrible risk, but considering this is Nostramo, where most survivors harbor hatred for the nobility, and the word "The Emperor"...

In Nostraman, it doesn't carry a very positive connotation. In fact, it's a neologism formed by combining two words, one of which is "noble."

So now you might understand why the Nostramo aren't too fond of the Emperor. Perhaps this situation won't change for another decade or so.

In short, back to the main point—although the conscription has caused quite a stir in Nostramo, its scale is not very large.

The Midnight Blade have never been a large legion, and Curze has no intention of changing that. This is compounded by the impact and selection process of the twentieth operation.

According to Jairzinho's speculation, he believes that only three out of ten people will eventually be able to successfully enter the legion and leave the reserve status.

This success rate can no longer be called low; it's downright alarming. Fortunately, the Night Lords' tactics don't actually require a large number of troops. In the Night Haunter's view, it would be enough if the total number of troops in the legion could be increased to 40,000 or 50,000 in three years.

"The war we're going to wage doesn't need bombing, frontal assaults, or human wave tactics," Konrad Curze Curze told his company commander. "Using fear tactics might tarnish our image, but all we need is efficiency."

Van Cleef nodded, agreeing with the Primarch, but not solely because of the Astartes' natural obedience to the Primarch.

The Night Lords were executioners in the past, and they already understood very well what fear could turn a person into. Van Cleef was one of the best at it; otherwise, how could he have become a company commander?

"So, how did the first week go?" Curze asked with a hint of anticipation. He and Van Cleef were walking through the increasingly well-developed corridors of the Nest, stirring up the thin mist, which made them look like two Ghost.

"One thousand two hundred and twenty-three," Van Cleef cautiously reported a number. "That's all the reservists in Quintus who can successfully pass the twentieth operation."

"Only? Listen to your tone, Van Cleef, isn't that enough?" The Night Haunter laughed, shaking his head with a slightly sarcastic tone. "Being too greedy isn't a good thing. Besides, they only passed the twentieth surgery. How many people do you think can survive the modification surgery?"

"One-third." Van Cleef remained cautious.

"Then let's go see them." Konrad Curze Curze strode forward, his tone relaxed. The company commander remained silent for a moment, then followed. There was something he hadn't told his Primarch.

There is a tradition within the Eighth Legion.

Veterans would "select" reservists, betting on these recruits. And now, Van Cleef estimates that many in the training grounds within the Nest have begun to continue this less-than-honorable tradition.

He didn't know how his Primarch would react upon discovering this, but...

As one of the few people who doesn't gamble much, Van Cleef was completely indifferent to it.

He even had an urge to smile.

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