Light (Part 4, Combined)

Fulgrim had originally expected to see a city; now, he realized he was mistaken.

He stood blankly atop a grim, jagged spire, his brothers standing in a row beside him, save for one who crouched comfortably atop a gargoyle extending from the edge, his posture so natural it seemed as though he belonged there by birth.

The stench wafting up and the gunfire echoing from the streets below forced the handsome demigod to knit his brows in spite of himself.

He did not need to turn his head to know that Rogal Dorn and Ferrus were expressionless, or that Lorgar was frowning as he pondered their father's orders.

Since they could endure it, so could he.

"Konrad?" he called out softly. "Where is this place?"

"Quintus."

Crouched atop the gargoyle, his brother replied in halting High Gothic.

It hissed and clicked, sounding little like High Gothic, and the accent remained heavy. Yet, his voice was soft, carrying a strange sense of familiarity.

Fulgrim pursed his lips, his gaze shifting away from Konrad Curze's tattered rags—garments that could not conceal the young Primarch's extraordinary physique, but which signified something else entirely.

"Chaos."

A calm voice spoke. "I see no order here, not even a flawed one. Konrad Curze, why is it like this?"

Fulgrim could not help but sigh; he detected a calm reproach in Rogal Dorn's tone.

"Because The Great Purge is coming," their young brother said. "Once every twenty years. Karyl says it was even more chaotic last time."

"The Great Purge?"

"Yes."

"Have you not thought to do something about it?" Rogal Dorn asked.

"Do what?" Konrad Curze asked, his tone serene.

Fulgrim was startled, fearing their new brother was about to start arguing with Rogal—an occurrence that was hardly rare, as it seemed to happen whenever anyone spoke to Rogal Dorn.

But he certainly did not want to see that happen with a child of only a year and a half.

However, Dorn fell silent. After a moment, he spoke again: "You do not know what to do, do you?"

"I do," Konrad Curze said. "Karyl told me what to do."

"Why would you let him tell you what to do?"

Rogal Dorn's voice remained calm, but Fulgrim had already begun blinking rapidly—he turned to look at Ferrus, only to find the latter crossing his arms and sighing silently.

Lorgar stood beside Ferrus, turning his head to meet Fulgrim's gaze with a complex expression.

No one spoke.

"Why not?" Konrad Curze said. "At the very least, Karyl has been right every time so far."

"You are a Primarch, Konrad Curze. Perhaps you do not yet understand the meaning of that word, but you soon will. You will bear a heavy responsibility, one that demands you think for yourself rather than rely on a mortal."

"Karyl is not a mortal."

"Yes, he is a psyker, but that proves nothing."

Konrad Curze stood up from the gargoyle—for a fleeting moment, Fulgrim thought he saw anger or a similar emotion on his brother's face. If so, Fulgrim would have understood.

But there was none.

There was only a sense of calm.

He walked back to the top of the building, smaller than all of them, yet he passed them with complete composure and leaned against a humming machine.

Then, he smiled. The smile was stiff, enough to make one wonder about the meaning behind it. However, the Primarchs present did not misunderstand.

They could see into Konrad Curze's eyes and knew there was no malice there.

Fulgrim pursed his lips, unable to fathom the mindset with which Konrad Curze faced Rogal Dorn's words.

If someone were to tell me "Colin is just a worker," he thought, I fear I might do something irrational.

"You don't know him very well, Mr. Rogal Dorn."

"Call me Rogal, or Dorn—you need not add such a title after my name. You are my brother."

"Not yet," Konrad Curze said calmly.

"..."

A cold wind blew, followed by silence.

It could not pierce the skin of the demigods, of course; in truth, even if the temperature were much lower, they would not feel the slightest discomfort.

Yet, amidst this cold wind, the towering giants fell silent, save for the smaller one who remained comfortably leaning against the air purifier, calm and at ease.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

Rogal Dorn asked, then slowly furrowed his brows, a stern expression blooming across his face. Fulgrim watched his expression shift, feeling for the first time that the atmosphere had turned stagnant.

Ah, this is bad, he thought silently.

"Not yet." Konrad Curze repeated. "You are his sons, aren't you?"

"Of course." Lorgar answered quickly.

"But I do not know if I am." Konrad Curze said. "And if I am not, then I am not your brother."

"You cannot be anything else." Ferrus whispered. "The bond of blood, brother, can you not feel it?"

A pair of pitch-black eyes looked over, and then, the one being questioned nodded slowly, only to shake his head again, his sleek black hair fluttering in the foul-smelling air.

Despite being dressed in tattered, patched rags, he was, at this moment, so calm that it felt only natural.

"How could you not be?" Lorgar asked anxiously, as if trying to prove something. "Father said you are his son—"

"—Not yet, Mr. Golden." Konrad Curze said. "Also, I apologize for interrupting you."

Fulgrim almost laughed.

He had been watching their new brother's eyes the entire time, so he knew that Konrad Curze was genuinely sorry for the interruption. He had cut Lorgar off, called him Mr. Golden, and then apologized for it afterward.

He didn't mean it. Fulgrim thought after his amusement faded. He is just that simple.

"I am Lorgar, Lorgar Aurelian."

"Mr. Golden" said in a reluctant tone: "But, Konrad Curze, you truly are his son."

He fell silent for a moment, then suddenly gestured with his arms in a display of earnest sincerity: "If you were not, how could you be so tall, so powerful? The agility with which you leap and move through the night sky is not something mortals possess!"

"Why do you all use the word 'mortal'?"

Konrad Curze frowned, the first time he had shown such displeasure mixed with confusion: "I do not understand the way you use it—am I not a mortal?"

"You certainly are not."

Fulgrim explained softly, his demeanor so gentle that it even surprised Ferrus, who stood to the side.

"You learned High Gothic without a teacher, you can see in the dark, you can ignore the cold and resist hunger. And you were born knowing many things, were you not, Konrad Curze?"

"Yes."

"Then, you are not a mortal."

"But I can be hurt."

Konrad Curze tilted his head. "I bleed—I feel pain. These are the marks of being a mortal, are they not? Being hit by a laser gun hurts, and being hit by a bullet hurts. Do you not feel the same?"

For a moment, Fulgrim was almost unable to answer.

He fell silent, a look of sudden bewilderment flashing across his handsome, near-perfect face. He lowered his head, and when he raised it again, his expression had changed.

Now, he was grave.

"We do, brother." He said in a low voice. "We feel pain."

"We live here." Konrad Curze said.

He raised a hand and pointed to the small Rainwater Filter above the Sanctuary, a faint trace of happiness on his face: "That is a Rainwater Filter; it can turn acid rain into drinkable water."

Rogal Dorn stared silently at the horrific structure before him; certain principles made him unwilling to call this thing, cobbled together from rotting planks and scrap metal, a house.

Then he asked: "May I go inside and look?"

"Of course!" Konrad Curze nodded. "But please be careful when entering; that door needs to be lifted to be opened—oh, and please do not sit on that chair, it is Karyl's."

"I shall."

Rogal Dorn walked to the door, looked at it, pinched the handle made of rusted, bent metal with two fingers, and then slowly lifted it.

He pushed it open and saw a stretch of gloomy darkness. It did not look like a dwelling, but rather a prison.

However, the darkness could not hinder Rogal Dorn's vision; he saw every corner without obstruction.

There was no decor inside, no soft bed, nor anything that could make the place look remotely decent.

The walls vibrated as the wind blew. There were gaps in the ceiling, which meant it would leak when it rained.

It offered neither shelter from the wind nor protection from the rain.

Dorn silently scanned a corner covered in rags, then looked at a dilapidated chair.

It was clearly sized for a mortal, and Rogal Dorn could see what was wrong with it at a glance—its structure was unstable, so anyone sitting on it would have to keep their back perfectly straight to remain steady.

That was unacceptable for a chair, and on the seat sat a plastic tray containing a black substance that emitted a strange odor.

Rogal Dorn took a deep breath, gathering the information he needed.

"Is that food?"

He turned his head and asked Konrad Curze—who was currently being measured by Fulgrim, looking quite constrained and clearly uncomfortable with such intimate contact.

Fulgrim was equally uncomfortable doing it; he kept his lips pressed together, his expression complex.

"Yes, nutrient paste. Karyl eats it often." Konrad Curze replied immediately.

"That stuff does not contain many nutrients, and it likely tastes like sawdust."

"Yes!" Konrad Curze nodded repeatedly. "That is what Karyl says, too."

"So, this is what you eat?"

"Ah, no!" Konrad Curze blinked. "I occasionally catch some rats to eat."

"Rats?"

"Yes."

Dorn watched as their new brother smiled with a pride so pure it nearly made him grit his teeth. "I know twenty-three ways to cook a rat!"

"Is there no normal food?" Ferrus Manus asked in a low voice.

"Isn't this normal food?" Konrad Curze replied, puzzled.

"..."

Dorn lowered his head, asking no further questions. He turned to the edge of the building and gazed at the scene below. After a while, he spoke again.

"What do the others eat?"

He asked briefly and calmly, then added, "I mean, those gang members—the ones patrolling the streets back and forth."

"..."

"Konrad?" Fulgrim whispered. "What's wrong?"

"They eat meat."

Konrad Curze answered Dorn's question in a low voice; at this moment, he sounded almost unlike himself.

"Meat? What kind of meat?" Dorn continued to ask.

He was calm, yet his hands were clenched tight. Clearly, he had already sensed the answer to the question—or at least a part of it.

"The meat of others," Konrad Curze said. "The commoners', the workers'. But they don't eat their own, and they don't eat the nobles'."

Fulgrim's hands stopped—he had been measuring shoulder width, a task very simple for him, and he had already memorized much data. But at this moment, that data was thrown into disarray.

His usually steady hands were now even faintly trembling.

"The Emperor preserve us," Lorgar Aurelian murmured. "What is this place?"

"Nostramo," their pale brother said quietly. "Quintus, the Underhive."

Silence.

A vast silence swept over them once more, easily striking these giants down. No one resisted its authority; deep purple clouds spread and rolled above their heads. A foul stench drifted through the cold wind.

Lorgar Aurelian began to chant scriptures in a low voice. Ferrus Manus folded his hands behind his back. Rogal Dorn was as calm as ever, though his hands had already balled into fists.

Fulgrim stopped the trembling of his fingers, brushed calmly over his brother's shoulder, and then patted him.

"Shall we continue?" he asked softly.

"But, Fulg—"

"—Fulgrim."

"Mr. Fulgrim."

"No 'Mr.'"

"Fulgrim?"

"Yes, Konrad. Fulgrim."

"But I don't want new clothes."

"Why not?"

"Because I will get them dirty."

Fulgrim heard his brother say, "Blood makes clothes very heavy, and when it dries, it becomes stiff. If I move, scabs of blood will flake off. If I wear clothes like yours, I will ruin them."

"And if you do get them dirty, so what?" Fulgrim asked.

He did not let himself sigh. He was afraid of being misunderstood.

"Your clothes are very beautiful."

Konrad turned his head and whispered, "Karyl told me that beautiful things usually mean they are precious, and precious things should be cherished, shouldn't they?"

"Yes," Fulgrim smiled. "Precious things should indeed be cherished, yes. So I will make you one. Hmm, something more ordinary, how about that?"

"More ordinary?"

"Yes, just like the clothes you are wearing now, black as well. But, it will be waterproof—so it will also prevent blood from soaking into it. How does that sound?"

"Will it trouble you? Karyl said it is not good to trouble others."

"Of course not," Fulgrim said. "It is but a small matter."

"Then... thank you?"

No need to thank me.

Fulgrim sighed and turned his head, his gaze meeting Ferrus's. At this moment, an emotion similar to his own was churning in the latter's eyes. They exchanged a few glances and understood each other's meaning.

Lorgar was still chanting, his face full of compassion. But Rogal Dorn turned and walked toward the Sanctuary. He reached the doorway, stopped, bent down, and pulled out a chair that was far too miniature for him.

"You cannot fit in that chair, Rogal Dorn," Konrad Curze said, sounding slightly hesitant.

"I am not sitting in it," Dorn said calmly. "I am going to repair it."

"Repair it?"

"Yes."

Dorn nodded and lifted the chair; his strength made the task effortless. Yet, he held the chair with great care.

"It is merely a structural issue. As long as there is spare wood or metal, I can fix it."

"Hmm, there is a useless, old-fashioned water purifier behind the Sanctuary."

Konrad Curze blinked, his face full of confusion. "It might be able to help you. But why do you want to repair it?"

"Because I wish to express my apology," Rogal Dorn said, his back turned to him.

"Apology?" Konrad Curze asked blankly. Behind him, Fulgrim was even more bewildered, and even Lorgar stopped chanting his scriptures to look over.

Ferrus Manus slowly raised an eyebrow.

"Do not be surprised," Rogal Dorn said, still facing away from them. "When one does something wrong or says something wrong, one should express an apology. And the best way to do so is to take action to make amends."

"You have never done this before," Fulgrim whispered.

"That is because I have never been wrong before."

"Does that include your remark that Magnus reading books all day is a form of mental obsession?"

"Yes."

Fulgrim finally laughed out loud.

He patted Konrad Curze on the shoulder. "This is Rogal Dorn, Konrad. This is who he is. You do not yet know what his apologies signify. But believe me, once we have all met one another, this matter will surprise everyone."

"Number seventeen."

"Number seventeen?"

"Yes, number seventeen." The pale giant nodded. "I am going to number them."

Ferrus Manus looked at the gargoyle.

They had leaped across the tops of spires and buildings many times, and Ferrus had seen many gargoyles. To him, this one was no different from all the others.

"Are you numbering them in the order you see them?" Ferrus asked.

"Yes. But some gargoyles do not have them; I do not want to number those."

"Why is that?"

Fulgrim glanced at Ferrus in surprise, not expecting him to be so interested in this question.

"Hmm."

Konrad Curze pondered for a moment and said, "Because they should have their own names, not numbers. I number those gargoyles because I do not know how to name them yet, but..."

He frowned and paused, as if he did not know how to express his meaning.

Fortunately, Ferrus did not press him further.

"Indeed, if you cherish something, you should give it a name."

Fulgrim pursed his lips into a smile.

The giant known as the Gorgon looked at him expressionlessly before continuing. His voice was low but powerful.

He asked, "You have been mentioning someone, Konrad. Kael Lohars—could you introduce him to us?"

Lorgar looked over sharply.

"Hmm." The pale giant nodded thoughtfully. "I can, but I do not know where to begin."

"What is his personality like?" Ferrus asked.

"Ah?"

"Has he ever lost his temper with you?"

"No," Konrad Curze said quickly. "Never—and he is always apologizing to me."

He frowned.

"I do not like it," he whispered. "No matter what happens, regardless of whether it is his fault or not, he always apologizes to me. I do not like it."

He looked up at Ferrus, who remained expressionless but nodded, as if encouraging him to continue.

"And... he is very intelligent and very patient. He tells me many things and knows many things. But he is very pessimistic."

"He is very pessimistic?" Rogal Dorn repeated. "Why would you describe him that way?"

"I cannot say why."

Konrad Curze shook his head.

"Kael is always pessimistic. He never says it explicitly, but I know how he views Nostramo. I once told him that this world is sick, and he did not refute me; he only smiled."

"From that moment on, I knew he was a pessimist. He laughed because he felt that the sickness of Nostramo was incurable. He even wanted to burn the world to ash with fire."

"But I can understand him."

"The workers dying of lung disease by the roadside in the slums, the children who chose to join gangs and resort to cannibalism, the meat sold in butcher shops, the miners, the nobles, and those hallucinogens."

His voice grew increasingly low and soft, until at the end, it was almost like a dream-mumbling.

"Those things caused him great pain. He never spoke of it, but I could see his sorrow."

Remaining silent, Ferrus shook his head—he was never good with words to begin with, and compared to his brothers, it was even more dire.

He was also well aware of his own nature; he was combative by instinct and stubborn in will. But those were merely outward appearances; among his many brothers, only one could perceive his penchant for overcoming difficulties.

That person called him the Gorgon.

Ferrus did not loathe this nickname; he could even say he somewhat liked it. He believed it was perfectly fitting, just as fitting as the warhammer Fulgrim had gifted him.

And now—this Gorgon of iron raised his hand and patted Konrad Curze on the shoulder.

"You saw his pain clearly," he said in a low voice. "That is especially important, brother. Hold onto it."

His brother looked at him in a daze—half a second later, Ferrus Manus laughed for the first time, his smile filled only with goodwill.

Above the heads of the demigods, the night continued.

I see many readers urging for updates. The normal update time for this book is around 5:00 PM. If there are updates at other times, it means I am carrying out the traditions of the Night Lords Legion.

Finally, a book recommendation!

Warhammer: In the Name of Nirvana. It is incredibly good, plentiful and satisfying, an excellent work with solid prose. Recently, it has been beating up Plankton ().

One million words!

Are you not tempted by this?