The Show Begins (V)

Konrad Curze Curze leaned over the railing, looking down at the view below.

Inside the amphitheater, voices surged like waves, almost everyone was participating in the discussion, all wanting to know what kind of evidence Magnus would present to convince them.

People were divided into many factions. Some believed that no matter what Magnus said, it couldn't cover up the fact that they were abusing psionic powers, while others thought it would be better to listen to what the Crimson King had to say first.

There's also a very small minority who are extremely radical, believing that all Psyker should die. Even Mortarion doesn't think that way. Interestingly, if someone they're talking to thinks that's too extreme, they'll start bringing up the title of the Lord of Death in an attempt to change the other person's mind.

"You'll break this railing sooner or later, Konrad Curze."

"It's made of steel." Curze smiled, turned around, and shrugged at Rogal Dorn.

His words were clearly pointed, but Dorn didn't say much, only taking another sip of wine—not Russ's special vintage, of course, but the Macragge wine provided by Roboute Guilliman.

The Primarch in the private room mostly chose this tea, except for Fulgrim. He and Sanguinius opted for herbal tea and forced Ferrus to join them.

To be fair, the image of Ferrus Manus holding the ceramic cup with his silver hands is truly absurd, especially when he stands between Fulgrim and Sanguinius. The contrast created by his appearance makes it hard to resist the urge to laugh.

Dorn didn't respond immediately. He turned to confirm Perturabo's location before turning back to continue, "You shouldn't have joked about him with me."

Whose joke is this?

"Where did you learn this habit of asking questions you already know the answer to?" Dorn asked, frowning. "It's not a good habit, Konrad Curze."

"But it's become very difficult for me to change it," Curze replied with a smile. "Just like Perturabo finds it hard to have a normal conversation with you."

Dorn fell silent again, beginning to think. After a moment, he nodded, accepting the explanation, and then brought up another matter.

What do you think Magnus will do?

"I don't know, brother." The Night Lords turned his head, leaned against the railing, and sighed, his voice softening. "Only he knows what he will do, but to be honest, I don't expect to persuade him and his legion to change their minds in this meeting."

"He is indeed very stubborn. Many people have warned him that the Warp is not as wonderful as it seems, but he remains obstinate and will not listen to any advice," Dorn said.

His brows were furrowed, and his usual serious expression seemed to carry a deeper emotion at this moment.

"Sometimes I even suspect he's had surgery on himself, installing a filter in his brain to passively filter out all negative information about psionics or the Warp. Otherwise, there's no way to explain his 'omniscient' arrogance; even Malcador has never claimed to know everything about the Warp."

"Ha."

"Why are you laughing?"

"Nothing," Curze smiled and shook his head. "So, how much time does our arrogant brother have left?"

"Eleven minutes," Dorn said, pausing for a second before pressing the time to the second. "Twenty-five seconds."

"That means we have eleven minutes left to chat, so, Rogal," Curze leaned closer mysteriously. "What do you think he'll do?"

"I don't know," Dorn answered honestly.

"Don't be like that, just give me a guess, anything is fine," Curze pressed on relentlessly.

This was supposed to be a harmless joke, and if Perturabo or Lion El-Jonson were here, they would probably have given Curze's flippancy a serious critique.

If Fulgrim or Leman Russ Russ were here, they might have continued along with Curze's line of thought, taking the joke further, or pushing it in a completely new direction.

But Rogal Dorn was different; he thought about it very seriously. A full five minutes later, he spoke again.

"My relationship with Magnus has long since deteriorated. Ever since I, like Corax, refused to let the Legion fight alongside the Thousand Sons, a rift has formed between us."

"He seems to have interpreted my decision as a signal that I'm siding with Mortarion, but that's not it at all. I simply don't want the Imperial Fists to fight a group of allies who could be leaving the battlefield at any moment. I believe you understand what I'm saying, Konrad Curze."

The Night Lords nodded expressionlessly—of course he understood; he had experienced it firsthand.

That joint operation resulted in Night Lords losing nearly two hundred men for no apparent reason. Afterwards, he confronted Magnus, who offered a rather casual apology, saying, "It was unavoidable."

What do you mean by "having no other choice"? Can't we even give them a heads-up before retreating?

"He has long since drifted away from us, and he doesn't seem to realize it. I didn't know much about him to begin with, and now I have to overturn much of it. So, if you insist on giving me an answer..."

Dorn sighed.

"I can only say that I have no expectations of what he brings up," he said seriously. "His attitude toward psionics and the Warp is extremely arrogant, Konrad Curze. I don't think we'll see anything good in a few minutes."

Minutes later, his prediction came true.

--

Magnus smiled as he walked back into the amphitheater, his guards marching ahead of him, chests out, steps in perfect unison. He himself held his head high, his posture as proud as a victorious general.

The clamor of discussion even paused briefly because of his arrival and his gesture. Seeing this, the opponents couldn't help but begin to doubt their previous assumptions—perhaps the Crimson King did indeed possess some decisive evidence?

Their discussion quickly resumed, as Magnus was followed by a full twelve Servitor, who carried a huge instrument with their modified mechanical arms.

The instrument has an irregular shape; the obsidian base appears to have never been polished, and each corner seems to extend and split into more facets.

A large, pale white gemstone was placed in the center of the base. Under the lights of the amphitheater, both the gemstone and the base reflected a dazzling array of colors, as beautiful as the ever-changing color of the Crimson King's single eye.

On the golden platform, Malcador, holding a scepter, turned his head with a grim expression and cast an inquiring glance at the Emperor.

"He won't give up if we don't let him try." The Emperor replied to the Sigillites after a while, a flash of psychic Radiance appearing in his eyes.

"Let him do it, Malcador, at least once. With me here, things won't be too bad."

"You spoil him too much, my lord. I believe Karyl Lohars would agree with me," the Sigillites said grimly, exchanging a glance with Valdor Constantine beside him.

The Adeptus Custodes Guard leader's expression was equally grim—he certainly couldn't figure out what the device did, but he could clearly sense something from Malcador's sudden change in attitude.

Meanwhile, Magnus had already opened his arms and began his speech with enthusiasm and seriousness.

"Psyker are an unavoidable topic when we discuss the Imperium."

He spoke slowly, his voice loud and clear, amplified by his psionic powers, echoing in the ears of everyone present. Even though there was a microphone on the wooden platform, Magnus did not choose to use it.

"Attitudes towards Psyker vary within the Imperium, but can generally be summarized as caution. Whether it's using them or viewing their potential for development, there's prejudice, stubbornness, and even the obstinate belief that Psyker are wizards who should be burned at the stake."

He paused for a moment, his gaze deliberately sweeping over some of the people who had just spoken.

"Today, we've progressed to the point where we can traverse the stars just to deliver food or drink. We possess such power, yet we still harbor such prejudice? This is neither progressive nor wise. But I can understand the majority's thoughts."

Magnus withdrew his gaze, smiled again, and appeared kind and sincere.

"Psionic power has always been a gift possessed by only a few. To outsiders, it seems mysterious, dangerous, and perhaps even attractive. But to me, it's simply another means of understanding the world."

"It's essentially no different from mathematics; both are tools held in our human hands. But this understanding requires prior knowledge of it, and many people simply don't possess psychic abilities, so how can they possibly understand it? That's precisely why I created this instrument!"

"It can create something from nothing, allowing someone without any psychic abilities to open a new door, gain new eyes, and observe a completely new world!"

He raised his arm again, giving orders to the Servitor, and thick cables and related equipment were quickly brought over from the other end of the theater. Under the watchful eyes of the crowd, Magnus began to personally adjust the instruments, his demeanor still relaxed, as if victory was assured.

Inside the Primarch's box, Mortarion turned his head, his face grim, and expressed his emotions to his brothers in a loud, almost roaring voice, "He must be insane!"

"But he seems quite rational, brother. Look at the way he's going on and on; I bet he's incredibly excited right now." Leman Russ Russ chuckled, putting down his glass—or rather, throwing it on the ground.

The fine beer spilled from the glass, leaving a darker red stain on the red carpet. The alpha wolf didn't even glance at it; its right hand was already slowly closing.

"This kind of rationality might be worse than madness," Vulkan said worriedly. "What exactly does he want to do?"

"Whatever he intends to do, Father has no intention of stopping him," Horus said slowly and seriously.

The moment he opened his mouth, everyone's attention was drawn to him. The Wolf God, who had recently succeeded as Warmaster, was still wearing his fur, but the gentle smile that was most common on his face was gone.

"But this is by no means a good thing. We all know the dangers of psionic power. Even those Psyker who have undergone years of training can have problems during a spellcasting session. What makes him think he can successfully create Psyker?"

"I agree," Alpharius, standing beside him, immediately said.

"I agree, but what are we going to do?" Roboute Guilliman asked, with a hint of inquiry.

"Let's just wait and see. Since he dared to bring out this instrument and use it as a tool to turn the tide of the meeting, it means he must have already tested it many times," Angron said with a furrowed brow.

The gladiator stood solemnly with his arms crossed, his muscles bulging, his posture composed, yet somehow exuding a sense of danger. His hoarse voice also attracted the attention of many Primarch.

"That's not necessarily true." Ferrus Manus offered another conjecture in a cold voice. Phoenix looked at him, wondering what Gorgon would say, but to her surprise, he ended his speech there.

"Alright. Since it's come to this, let's hold a vote in advance." Fulgrim shook his head helplessly. "So, how many of us agree that the Librarius should be retained?"

As soon as he finished speaking, he raised his right hand first. Jaghatai, Sanguinius, Vulkan, Roboute Guilliman, and Alpharius also raised their right hands.

"I want to state—" Roboute Guilliman immediately began, raising his hand to explain, "I do not agree with Magnus's attitude towards psionicism, but the Librarius is still very necessary. At least Librarian can give us a significant advantage in war."

"Indeed." The Lord of Drakes nodded, his face still showing worry. "I believe in the self-discipline of the Librarian, but I'm concerned about Magnus."

"So, the rest are all from the opposition?" Fulgrim pressed.

Horus shook his head, indicating that he was not on either side and that it was entirely up to the Emperor to handle the matter.

Lion Aljonson readily agreed with him, drawing a meaningful stare.

Leman Russ Russ, Mortarion, and Angron all voiced their opposition, as did Dorn. Perturabo followed behind with a gloomy expression, raising his hand in protest, though his attitude seemed somewhat odd.

After almost everyone had expressed their opinion, their attention turned to the two remaining individuals.

Konrad Curze Curze, with Kołos Corax.

The Night Lords and the Lord of the Crows stood together on one side of the observation deck, while Curze leaned leisurely and happily against the railing, swinging his toes.

Corax, on the other hand, stood ramrod straight, his eyes beneath his black hair showing no emotion whatsoever, utterly calm, as if the Primarch's gazes did not exist at all.

"So," Phoenix casually rose from the sofa, stepping barefoot onto the carpet and walking between them. He raised his hands, putting them on his arm, and asked naturally and curiously, "And you two? What do you think?"

"I agree with condemning Magnus," Corax said. "But the Librarius definitely needs careful consideration."

And you, Konrad Curze?

"Me? I'll wait and see what he does, then I'll decide." The Night Lords chuckled and shook his head, escaping from the Phoenix's arm like Wraith, and turned to look into the theater.

The moment he turned around, the smile on his face vanished completely, leaving only a cold calm. It was as imperceptible as a massive glacier beneath the surface of a deep blue sea, yet undeniably real.

This chapter is 4k words long.

The eldest brother was paralyzed and furious, the second brother was furious and paralyzed, fierce and cunning, cunning and fierce.

Q: Who are these two people?