Interlude 138: The World's Most Incompetent Father

"Take off the mask. ♞👣 Claws ♔🐺," Konrad Curze Curze said. "I want to see my father's face."

Karyl didn't speak, he just shook his head. A few seconds later, he uttered a question that was completely inappropriate for that moment.

"Which one?" he asked, his posture surprisingly calm.

Curze paused for a moment, then burst into laughter, but his posture changed accordingly. The hand holding the knife was behind his back, and his left hand was placed in front of his chest, making it look as if he was about to bow or salute.

"You just killed a lot of people, Konrad Curze," Karyl continued. "But the stench of blood is overwhelming, and there are even bits of flesh on your hands. What did you just do?"

"I must protect Nostramo, and I will do anything for it, Father."

Curze answered softly, his left index finger lightly touching his breastplate, blood flowing down the golden patterns. He narrowed his eyes, lowered his left hand, and naturally clenched his claws, his expression like that of a dangerous predator that had not yet eaten its fill.

This flesh and blood could not satisfy him; he needed more.

"Yes, you protected it." Karyl nodded. "But what did you just do?"

Konrad Curze Curze sighed.

Do you really have to get to the bottom of this?

Do you have to beat around the bush?

"I learned that from you." Curze gave a rather wicked smile, his right hand still behind his back. "Politely and seriously changing the subject when faced with a question you don't want to answer—isn't that your most common trick?"

For a moment, none of them said anything.

No one changed the subject, but no one spoke either. Silence always arrives unexpectedly. Some people fear it and are unwilling to bear the consequences of silence, but they are different. They have always been adept at silence.

Then the wind howled past, blowing over the Bone Temple behind Karyl, known as the Terminus Altar, and through it, reaching the plain behind Konrad Curze Curze covered with thick layers of ashes.

This place used to be filled with the dead, but now it's empty, with only skeletons remaining.

The sky remained crimson, and the howling winds raged through the distant mountains and cities, their mere presence causing a stinging sensation—even Konrad Curze Curze could not escape this sting.

In fact, things only got worse because of this. The voices of the dead were clearly audible in the howling, mournful wind; to him, this was no secret.

Whether he wanted to or not, and regardless of the specific circumstances, he was blessed by God, and therefore he heard everything.

For example, a woman recounts how she was skinned alive by those Word Bearers; a father tells how he witnessed his family being devoured by Daemon; a toddler clumsily calling out to his parents.

He heard those words clearly.

He finally spoke.

"Have you been listening to these voices all along, Father?"

Karyl nodded slowly.

"I must listen," he said. "And I'm willing to listen, at least for a while. He won't listen; He'll only hand them the blade. Vengeance are endless, Konrad Curze, but those Vindicators are few and far between."

The Night Haunter blinked. He seemed to have a lot to say, but couldn't utter a single word. After this long and awkward silence, the only sound he could utter was a long, trembling sigh.

"A few years ago—" Then he suddenly began, "—I heard some condemnations of us coming from Terra."

"Who?"

Curze smiled, did not answer the question, and simply continued his story.

"Some accused us of violating the Imperial Truth, of playing with the dead, and pinned a series of complicated charges on us. I didn't understand it, so I started trying to get to the bottom of it. The investigation took several months of my own work."

He paused, deliberately leaving the question unanswered. Karyl knew what he wanted to hear, so he asked, "What did you discover?"

"There's no real source; it's just a lot of talk," Curze said. "That's the truth. Although I don't care what people think of us, I was still surprised that this matter escalated to the point where both the Departmento Munitorum and the Adeptus Arbites are holding us accountable."

He paused again, and when he spoke again, his voice had become low.

"The officer in charge of this investigation wrote me a private letter in which he earnestly quoted an ancient saying: 'The living should not call upon the dead unless they expect a response.'"

"Now I'm even more confused. How could an officer qualified to be an investigator be misled by rumors? So I reopened the investigation, but this time I thoroughly investigated within the legion. I want to know if some people used some special abilities in front of the public."

"The first person I investigated was Sevatar."

He burst into laughter, while the skeleton remained unmoved. No emotion flickered across his pale, skeletal face, except for the flickering black flames in his eye sockets, which seemed to echo Konrad Curze Curze's laughter.

"Yes, but the results show it wasn't him, and actually, it wasn't anyone in our legion either. Do you know who the source is? It's Mr. Bellros von Sharp."

Konrad Curze Curze shrugged, while the skeleton tilted its head, looking slightly surprised.

If he could take off his mask, perhaps he wouldn't need to go to such lengths to express his emotions. Or perhaps he could remain unmoved by Konrad Curze Curze's words—but that's the problem.

Neither of them were within his options, so he had no choice but to put on this comical act of surprise.

He had to respond.

Curze took it all in. He shook his head sadly, his black hair falling loose, cutting his dark eyes into pieces of varying sizes, within which a boiling emotion quietly spread.

He continued his story.

"The old Remembrancers included too many fantastical descriptions in his book, and he was clearly not very good at writing, as he himself said. In his book, Jago Sevatarion and his squad members, and us..."

He sighed.

"He could almost always talk directly to the deceased, though that wasn't his intention; it was just that his way of describing things was a bit off."

"For example, he documented a corrupt judge we found. Then, during the interrogation, he spent three whole pages describing how Sevatar stared at the judge with an 'omniscient' gaze and how he used a 'soft, deathly voice' to get the judge to confess his crimes."

"His works sell very well within the Imperium, I think, because he inadvertently fulfilled people's desires."

Curze shook his head, his expression slightly helpless.

"We are a mysterious legion; almost no one has directly witnessed us over the years. He lifted this veil of mystery, coupled with his identity as Remembrancers."

"And so things naturally fell into place," Karyl continued. "Interesting, an unintentional slip—no wonder Remembrancers always complain about critics being unfriendly to their work."

"No."

"What?"

"No," Curze denied. "The real reason is because he described it in too much detail, Father."

Once again, Konrad Curze Curze paused deliberately, and silence fell around him; the wind howled, and the Bone Plains were utterly still.

"He likes to expand a single sentence into thousands of words, and he enjoys speculating on Sevatarion's thoughts, as well as everyone else's—you know what's most crucial about that? He's usually very accurate, almost never wrong."

Karyl nodded.

Curze grinned, his white canine teeth showing through his lips, and he inexplicably seemed somewhat pleased.

"Are you laughing?" Karyl asked.

"Of course, I don't think you've lost your sight, Father?" Curze raised an eyebrow, asking rhetorically. "You've merely ascended to godhood—which god goes blind?"

"There are indeed blind gods in mythology and legends."

"They never actually existed!"

That's hard to say.

Karyl crossed his arms and nodded seriously. Even with a mask on, he couldn't hide his relaxed mood.

"Who knows, Konrad Curze? There's so much to tell about the barbaric era."

"For example?"

"For example, Terra used to have oceans, many oceans. There were also rivers and waterfalls."

"I know that."

"Forest."

"I know."

"So why ask, Konrad Curze?" Karyl looked at him inquiringly. "You're trying to prolong this conversation, I can see you're trying, but I have nothing more to teach you."

"No, that's not it," Konrad Curze Curze said.

He denied it, shook his head, and then repeated—"No, that's not it, Father."

"But I have said all that needed to be said, and I have done all that needed to be done," Karyl gently advised. "We have reached the final moment; success or failure hinges on this."

"I also know that you've done a lot of work in the shadows over the years. For example, you've used your talent very well. You warned many people in advance, which saved them from disaster—and since these people didn't die, even more people could be saved by them."

"You've already become a hero, Konrad Curze. Don't hesitate now, don't let all your previous efforts go to waste. What more could you want?"

Konrad Curze Curze did not answer the question.

He kept his mouth tightly shut, as if preventing himself from uttering that answer. His right hand, behind his back, gripped the long, narrow, shadowy blade tightly, its claws taut on the hilt, as if it held the life and death of a world in its hands.

Or, many worlds.

So Karyl didn't urge him any further.

They had a tacit understanding; this silence had been rehearsed countless times between them.

If someone could turn back the clock, making it run backwards, and return time to many years ago, they would be able to discover when Konrad Curze Curze learned to adapt to this silence.

At that time, he had only one name, and his only companions were a group of Gargoyle —even then, he understood that some things were not that Karyl didn't want to explain, or that he was too lazy to speak, but simply that he had too much to say, nothing more.

Karyl never lied to him; in his words, it was "the honesty that should be expected between partners."

So, regarding these matters, if he neither wants to lie nor knows how to clearly explain them, in the end, only one option remains.

Silence, that's all.

Just like the Night Haunter now, he didn't answer that question, and the reason is actually quite simple.

Firstly, he didn't want to lie. Secondly, he didn't know how to explain things clearly. So he remained silent; he could only remain silent, as if to defy the non-existence of time in this place.

This was an unwinnable duel; he couldn't win because he couldn't be selfish.

He was taught so well by Karyl.

He knows what is right and what is wrong. He knows the price to pay for always being on the right path, and he has the courage to bear that price—or rather, not courage, but understanding the necessity of it.

This is the only way, and the only way is to do it; otherwise, we will have to watch the world burn, be destroyed, and laugh wildly as Chaos triumphs in the end.

So he hissed and spoke.

"Uphold your principles," Night Haunter said quietly. "You taught me many things: how to kill, how to move in the dark, how to understand the world. This is the most important thing you taught me, Father."

"Yes," Karyl said.

He seemed to be trembling.

Therefore, I should stick to my principles, I should --

The Wraith extended its right hand, and the shadow blade, surging like darkness, immediately came to life. It would never have defied Konrad Curze Curze's grip before, but now it danced incessantly in his hand.

"--It's back to you."

"That's true."

Is this the right thing to do?

"I'm not sure," Karyl said.

His answers, usually firm or swift, seemed hesitant at this moment.

He looked at the Night Haunter, who looked back at him. As their eyes met, the Wraith, with an extraordinary understanding, comprehended the unspoken words he had not uttered.

These words had been buried in Karyl Lohars' heart for a long time. Before, when he still had eyes, the Wraith had never noticed. But now, he saw everything through those dark eye sockets.

Realizing how ironic this is is truly painful.

The sounds around the Wraith faded away instantly, leaving only the whistling wind. He smelled the burning odor and experienced a rapidly blurring sense of illusion.

He was unwilling to admit it, so he lowered his head and shook it repeatedly like a malfunctioning machine. The noble demigod in blue and gold armor involuntarily bent over and whispered in the wind.

In reality, it sounded more like a sob.

"You can't see the future. You're not like me, nor are you a god," the Wraith whispered. "It's always been this way. You don't know what the future holds—so you're just gambling, Father. You've always been gambling."

A few seconds later, he looked up and glared at his father.

"What makes you think I can always make the right decisions?!" he demanded hoarsely, his right hand waving wildly, the blade trembling more and more noticeably. "What makes you so confident in yourself?!"

"I don't believe in myself," Karyl said. "Never. I've always been a pessimist, Konrad Curze. Remember? But because of you, I'm willing to be more optimistic."

He raised his right hand, grasped the edge of the mask, and then began to strain.

Pale ashes emerged from beneath the mask, accompanied by a series of bone-crackling sounds that echoed through the air, one after another, sending shivers down one's spine, yet the hand remained unwavering.

He gradually increased his strength, and suddenly dark clouds gathered in the sky, obscuring the crimson and plunging everything into darkness. Thunder and lightning continued to strike, hitting them all around. Ashes kept scattering, and the stench of burning flesh came in waves.

The dark red, shattered crown atop Karyl's head began to tremble and spin with a hum. Suddenly, the Temple of Bones rose from the ground, beneath which roared countless vengeful spirits that had existed since ancient times.

The mask fell to the ground, the crown covered it, and the wronged souls sang in unison.

"Sing me a song," he said. "Always."

Konrad Curze Curze stared at him, stunned.

The face beneath the mask remained unchanged.

A pale face, with dark eyes like dim stars, resting quietly above the cheekbones. A high nose bridge, and thin lips pressed into a line, like a sculpture.

The only difference was the crown, the shattered crown—the fragments were coming together, getting closer and closer, while the songs of the dead were growing fainter and fainter, once soaring high, now almost like whispers in their sleep.

Konrad Curze Curze suddenly realized something.

He dashed away, practically flying close to the ground. He shoved the knife into Karyl's hand with a force far beyond what should have been possible—he was a deadly killer, his control over his strength should have been unparalleled.

Except now. Now, he's not a killer.

"Father."

He called out, bowed his head to wipe away his tears, and took a few steps back. He raised his head and stared into those dark eyes. After a few seconds, the Lord of Blades spoke loudly, his tone like a declaration.

Yes, there's nothing more to say.

"A triumphant return is imperative."

"I'll try."

Karyl answered with a smile, neither dodging the question nor changing the subject. Likewise, he did not lie. As always.

He clenched his right hand.

For the first time in his life, and for the first time since their long separation, he truly gripped the knife. This time, he did not refuse it.

A roar of fear and excitement.

A fierce wind swept in, and the ashes within transformed into a terrifying storm, obscuring everything Konrad Curze Curze could see. Even as the Primarch, he had to raise his hand to shield himself. The wind seemed to never cease, yet a heavy object, accompanied by a flash of golden light, fell into his hand.

It was a mask, forged from bones, with deep-set eyes like the eternal night of Nostramo. Golden patterns shimmered on the top of its forehead, as noble as a crown.

The Lord of Blades suddenly smiled.

"And what about you?" he asked.

Neos strode up behind him, a proud smile on his face. This was unprecedented; he had never shown such an expression before.

"We will win, Konrad Curze," he said slowly. "We have no reason to lose."

Finally finished writing!

If I said I wouldn't cut, I meant it. Isn't that heartwarming?