Return Voyage, Homecoming?

The Tredesia's engines roared violently before disappearing silently into the dark vacuum. But the sudden brightness at its tail could still be seen through the porthole, resembling the flickering of a star.

Flames erupted as a fleet led by the Tredesia slowly departed without lingering. On the bridge, Karyl reviewed the battle reports, memorizing more data and lessons learned.

He certainly didn't like doing this, and in fact, he wasn't good at it either, but he had to.

One generation plants the trees, another enjoys the shade. It has always been this way. He wanted to record all the experience the Night Lords had gained with their blood, so that it would take root and sprout in the hearts of another new generation after he returned to Nostramo.

One day, they will grow into towering trees, shielding the new blood from the enemy's blades and cannon fire.

Yes, the Eighth Legion left just like that. They had no reason to linger near Lycaeus, did they?

In fact, their reason for coming was not even reasonable. Karyl naturally wouldn't reveal his true purpose for being there, and besides, some things would take a different turn if he got involved.

Konrad Curze Curze will handle everything himself; what do interpersonal relationships matter?

While still deep in thought, Karyl stopped reviewing the battle reports. He lightly tapped the Dataslate in his hand with his finger; a turbulent current swept across it, and its screen immediately went dark. He casually put it down and turned away.

A gray-haired man stood behind him, holding up a complex instrument with both hands.

"Could you adopt a more serious posture?" asked the Remembrancers, Bellros.

"No," Karyl said. "That's the most serious pose I can strike."

"But you just look like you're standing there casually."

"Yes."

Is this serious?

Karyl nodded. "Look at my expression, Mr. Bellros. Don't I look serious right now?"

The Remembrancers's lips twitched; he seemed to have an urge to smile, but he forcefully suppressed it. He pressed the shutter, took the last photo, and put the camera down, letting it fall to the ground, where it was tied to his chest with a rope.

The Remembrancers, wearing a brown leather vest, lowered his head and rummaged through his satchel to find a kraft paper notebook and a very plain, even slightly chipped, fountain pen. He then quickly opened the notebook, assuming a posture as if he wanted to conduct an interview.

Karyl shook his head helplessly, then turned and gestured to Captain Gisbil Hassier and his crew, who were watching silently.

The old captain immediately understood, and his booming roar echoed across the bridge once more, "Lazybones, get your asses moving and your legs moving! Adjust engine output, confirm course, destination Nostramo, return to port!"

The crew answered Gisbil with a resounding shout.

"So, what do you want to ask, Mr. Bellros?" Karyl crossed his arms, leaned back against the data table. "According to regulations, I will answer all questions to the extent permitted by military discipline."

"Okay, okay," the Remembrancers nodded repeatedly. "So, the first question: how was it feeling boarding the Emperor's Dream?"

"Oops."

Bellros paused, his hand about to pick up a pen. He looked up, a strange, turbulent look swirling in his eyes behind his gold-rimmed glasses. "Excuse me, I think I misheard just now. Could you repeat that?"

"Fantastic," Karyl replied expressionlessly. "Every time I ascend that magnificent cathedral, so resplendent with its artistic and religious details, I feel exhilarated, my heart expands, and my spirits soar. I haven't been aboard many times, but each time has been an unforgettable experience."

"Do you really want me to write it like this?"

Just kidding—but are you really going to write this down?

Bellros nodded. "Only a select few within the Imperium have the privilege of boarding the Emperor's Dream. If possible, I would certainly like to describe it in detail, to unveil its mysteries for the general public, so that they too can imagine themselves aboard this flagship of the Emperor."

Karyl suppressed the urge to sigh and spent about thirty minutes describing the interior design of the Emperor's Dream and the landmarks that could be called iconic structures.

Bellros nodded as he rapidly scribbled down notes on a parchment. A portable recording device, its indicator light flashing incessantly, was attached to the collar of his vest.

Karyl guessed that he would probably listen to the conversation while making revisions to the parchment during his rest time at night.

"Well, that's about it. I've said everything I could, Mr. Bellros. Do you have any further questions?"

"Yes," the Remembrancers looked up again. "I heard you have a room on the Emperor's Dream, is that true?"

"."

"Is this true, Instructor Karyl?"

"Yes," the instructor of the Eighth Legion said expressionlessly. "Yes, I have a private room up there. It's spacious, and even has an enclosed balcony for stargazing and a small Garden of Nurgle."

"So luxurious?" Bellros was visibly surprised. "Then, may I ask, how did you acquire it? I mean, is there some legendary story behind it that can be recorded?"

"Your question doesn't seem to have anything to do with the Great Crusade, Mr. Bellros."

The Remembrancers raised his right hand and, without batting an eye, temporarily turned off the recording device on his collar. Watching him, Karyl suddenly felt a very strong urge to sigh.

Fortunately, he held back. Meeting Bellros's expectant gaze, he slowly spoke.

"No," Karyl said firmly. "There's no legendary story behind it. It's just a simple room. Many people have their own rooms on the Emperor's Dream, don't they? One more won't make a difference."

"But I can't interview them either," the Remembrancers, spreading his hands. "Besides you, who else can I ask?"

Karyl finally sighed.

"Ask something else," he said, his tone carrying a hint of warning, but his expression one of utter helplessness.

He even rubbed his temples.

"You can ask questions related to the war, or perhaps questions about certain aspects of the Legion's culture, Bellros."

The Remembrancers didn't press the matter further; wisely and tactfully, he turned the recording device back on. "So, what story do you have for me regarding Captain Jago Sevatarion?"

Karyl raised an eyebrow.

"Oh." He nodded and spoke slowly. "Yes, there are many. What kind would you like to hear?"

--

Konrad Curze Curze has read many books.

Time passed silently and quietly, slipping away from human perception. By now, he had read many books. He was no longer the Wraith on Nostramo, able only to act on instinct and the innate knowledge in his mind.

He knew the saying "the closer one gets to home, the more apprehensive one feels," but he never imagined that this saying would one day apply to him.

This is really a headache.

The Night Lords curled his lip and maliciously traced a line across the metal dummy in front of him with his pale finger. A piercing, terrifying metallic scraping sound rang out, and the once bustling training ground fell silent.

Third Company Captain Fer coughed behind him, his voice soft and hissing, surprisingly in Nostraman.

"Primarch. This isn't quite appropriate."

"What?" Curze asked without turning his head. "What's inappropriate, the Mourning Bird?"

The Chief Librarian tilted his head back, his Adam's apple bobbing. He heard a muffled laugh behind him, and without turning around, he knew who was mocking him—no one but his adjutant, Adebiman Basley, would dare to do so.

"What I mean is --"

With several new scars on his face, Fer maintained his calm tone as he spoke. He didn't intend to lose his composure in front of the Primarch at this moment; he had plenty of ways to deal with his lieutenant later.

"--This metal target is not suitable for you to use to test your strength."

Curze chuckled softly, but said nothing. He lowered his shoulders, bent over, and loosely clenched his right hand, his five fingers quietly closing as if he were holding a knife, piercing the air.

The Night Lords in the training grounds didn't cast any glances at this place—at least they didn't look directly at it.

"So," the Night Lords spoke softly as he brandished a non-existent blade at an imaginary enemy in the air, "Has the data analysis been completed?"

"Completed, Primarch."

"Have we conquered them? How many worlds have we subjugated?"

"Forty-six," Fer said. "If you include those that quelled rebellions and those worlds that surrendered without a fight, then it's one hundred and two."

"That sounds like a lot." The Night Lords chuckled and stopped what he was doing.

The lines of his back were clearly visible beneath the black bodysuit, Fer, looking at his Primarch's back, could only feel a chill run down his spine.

Every muscle was deliberately arranged in advance, with perfect lines and distribution, yet together they created a sharp, inhuman aura. Gazing at them, a scene suddenly appeared before Fer's eyes.

That was his Primarch standing atop a pile of corpses, clad in armor, and it had happened not long ago. The Night Haunter had infiltrated a city that refused to surrender at the break of dawn, and as day broke, the Night Lords smoothly entered the fortress.

The corrupt city lord and all his subordinates had been scattered and gathered in the city's largest square. Konrad Curze Curze trampled on their corpses, his armor stained with blood, and civilians knelt around him.

Nevertheless, the Primarch's blood-stained face remained calm, as if he had only done something insignificant.

"However, compared to the entire galaxy, it's just a drop in the ocean," Curze commented in an unusually indifferent tone, before quickly changing his tone.

He turned around, his expression having softened at some point.

"I really wish I could apply for a medal for each of you," the Night Lords said with a smile. "It's a number that makes me proud, a number that would make anyone proud. Unfortunately, we don't have any medals to receive, Fer."

"And we don't care." The Third Company Captain shrugged. "Honor is essentially just a constraint."

Curze scoffed and tapped Fer's armor with a finger. "But if I actually manage to get this honor, you'd better not put on some melodramatic act about not wanting it, Fer. Otherwise, I'll kick you into the hunting squad and make you personally train new recruits."

"."

Fer Zalost wisely chose to remain silent, while his Primarch strolled past him with a seemingly slow but actually swift movement, and brazenly slipped into the darkness.

Fer and his adjutant watched the Primarch's actions in silence for a moment, then two blue lights suddenly appeared in the Third Company Captain's eyes.

"Adebiman."

"Using psychic energy? You're truly shameless."

"Ha." Fer sneered, raising his fist, the blue light in his eyes fading. "I only used it to confirm whether the Primarch had truly left. Come on, get in the cage."

His adjutant shrugged nonchalantly. "Sure, come on."

Standing beside them, Konrad Curze Curze smiled silently before actually leaving.

He practiced this skill every day without ever slacking off. But it had little to do with the technique he initially learned from Karyl; now, it was more like an instinct etched into his very bones.

Like some monsters who are born with a fondness for darkness, Konrad Curze Curze was able to pinpoint the most hidden and darkest corners in every place. Using this skill, he made his way back to his office unnoticed.

Next, he spent a few minutes recording the names of people who bumped into him on the street but didn't notice him; their names were written on a Dataslate.

It may sound strange, but Night Lords does have something like a "monthly assessment," with stealth and anti-stealth training making up the majority of the assessment. Those who fail or fail too many times are left to stay on the bridge while everyone else goes out to carry out missions.

After finishing this task, he placed the Dataslate aside, a sudden sense of unreality welling up inside him—in just a few short years, he had completely integrated into this place, as if he was born to lead such a legion, born to interact with the Night Lords in this way.

Curze squinted, dismissing the useless thoughts. He picked up another Dataslate and began writing commands, the words "Primarch Visit" shining brightly in solemn font at the very beginning.

The Nightfall will soon return to Nostramo, and his orders will be transmitted directly to the ground the moment the Nightfall docks in orbit. The visit of a Primarch is a momentous event for any world. Moreover, this time, it is Fulgrim who has come.

He lowered his head and pressed his hand to his chest. Between his clothes and chest, a pendant radiated warmth. Konrad Curze Curze smiled slightly and continued working.

Update complete. 10,000 words tomorrow.