A Father's Ten Thousand Years

First comes darkness. ♢♦ 👽♢

It will always be darkness.

There is no sight, hearing, or touch; in fact, there is nothing here. I can hear my own breathing, but it is merely an illusion. There is no breathing; I am already dead, a remnant of the past.

Self-awareness is the biggest lie, just like the deception of free will; it is an accidental error in human evolution, a beautiful illusion that appeared by chance.

It was so beautiful that everyone tried to indulge in it, which then spread into a dense web, connecting countless people. In each mesh of the web, there was a towering tree that bore abundant fruit.

But I don't exist, I never have existed, there are only lies and deceptions.

I died, in the final battle. Can that really be called a battle? Perhaps it should be called a premeditated suicide.

This suicide stemmed from countless conversations between three stubborn, obsessive, and foolish people. We made many contingency plans, some extreme and some moderate, but only this one was ultimately implemented.

In truth, they both knew very well that the choice had always been in my hands. If I chose to live, I could live indefinitely.

But what if I choose to die?

I tried to smile, but I couldn't.

Let's get back to the main topic.

So, who are you? Why should I talk to you? Ah, it took me a while to realize that I was just talking to myself.

I am nothing more than a person who never existed, a thief occupying a stolen body and name. I am an echo, an illusion, and a madman staring into the darkness, muttering to himself.

I died, but I won't call it a sacrifice. I don't want to sound like some kind of hero, or someone who finally did a good deed before dying.

I am the one who set the entire galaxy ablaze.

How many people have died because of this?

For example, this guy, Herlock of the Numinas 61st Company. You see, he's in the dark.

Did you see his face? Of course you couldn't; all you could see was a bloody mess.

He was Calth the Five Hundred Worlds of Ultramar in the Ultima Segmentum, a stable, wealthy, and prosperous sector. It was a rare miracle in our world.

There was a man who loved data and theoretical analysis who governed these five hundred worlds very well. He and his sons were the best people I had ever met. He devoted his life to trying to ensure that everyone was well-fed, clothed, and lived with dignity.

These three conditions are not difficult to state, but if you have a book of human history, you will find that no one in history has ever accomplished this.

He was just a hair's breadth away from success, just like his father.

Well.

Let's get back to the main topic.

Numinas is a province of Calth, Herlock sergeants came from the province's Auxilia, namely the Ultramar Guard.

He was a loyal soldier, loyal to Calth, loyal to Ultramar, loyal to the Imperium, to humanity, and to the Emperor. He lived for forty-five years and was always a good man.

Then he died; the cause of death was complicated.

While he was still alive, someone peeled off his face, cut off his hands and feet, and pierced him through the abdomen with a long flagpole, then lifted him up.

The flagpole pierced through from behind, which was cruel, but once you got through the first few minutes, the pain would subside. The body's self-preservation mechanism put him into shock until the killer forcibly revived him.

Sergeant Herlock then clearly felt what he was experiencing; he could feel the rough surface of the flagpole with his internal organs and the swaying as the murderer carried him.

He was in great pain; the cruelest torture a person could endure was nothing compared to this. But the real agony was yet to come, because the murderer carried him out of the place where he was executed, and let him see his hometown burning fiercely in flames.

This agony drove Sergeant Herlock truly mad, and that was the real cause of his death—not from excessive blood loss, nor from the excruciating pain, but from madness.

Then, he found me.

To be precise, it wasn't him who found me, but me who found him.

Who I am?

That's a very good question.

You see, I still remember this, but the sad thing is, I've forgotten my own voice and can't introduce myself to you. I've forgotten so many things.

However, just like Sergeant Herlock's cause of death, the cause of this incident was also quite complicated.

Essentially, my memory loss stems from a loss of humanity. And humanity is a very complex concept; it encompasses many things and cannot be directly seen or touched. It doesn't exist, yet it certainly does.

I've never truly seen the real face of my own humanity; its outward manifestations were merely patches of crumbling glaciers. But not anymore. Strangely enough, I shouldn't feel any emotions anymore, such as sadness or regret.

Perhaps this can be considered a punishment for what I have done.

I've digressed, and I've steered the conversation to a new point. I'm no longer able to maintain my sense of self and focus for long periods. It's a real shame; I used to be a very focused person, capable of spending over a decade on a single task, even though I ultimately failed.

However, in a way, I did succeed.

Unfortunately, there's no concept of time here.

There is only darkness here, nothing else, including myself; I do not even exist.

I really miss them.

Ah, let's talk about Nostramo? Yes, let's talk about it again, I need something to hold me back.

My earliest impression of Nostramo was a puddle.

The acrid rain had created a small pit in the corroded stone bricks, just big enough to be used as a shimmering mirror. If the light had been better, I might have been able to see my face in it.

The lighting was poor at the time; Nostramo was perpetually shrouded in darkness, with no concept of daylight. The dazzling neon lights and searchlights transformed the sky into another wondrous, colorful, yet mercilessly heavy mirror, pressing down on everyone's heads.

It suffocated them, turning them from humans into beasts.

I still remember how I felt at the time: cold, then pain, excruciating pain.

I had never experienced such pain before; it was the first time I had ever felt anything. So I started screaming in the darkness in Nostraman, a strange, hissing language.

I later learned that the people who first created and used it were actually a group of artists and poets. However, in my time, those who used it had transformed from creators of beauty and hope into their opposites, into a group of degenerate and ignorant destroyers.

They suffer without realizing it, they kill and do evil for no reason, as if it were instinct.

At the time, I didn't understand anything; all I knew was to clutch the painful spot and scream desperately. I wasn't the only one making strange noises in the darkness; there were others shouting and screaming in the dark just like me.

Some people do it to release emotions, to sober up from the psychedelic pleasure of drugs or the horrific thrill of murder, but others do it simply because of pain.

I wasn't in pain at the time; I didn't have that concept yet. I was just sad.

It took me a while to come to my senses, and some memories flooded back into my mind.

It can probably be divided into two parts. One part is a chaotic silhouette, like a clear blue sky and soft white clouds. This part is very chaotic, and even now, I can't be sure where it comes from or what it comes from. I think it's actually just a reflection.

But the other one wasn't so gentle; the owner of this memory was Karyl Lohars, who...

I?

Ah, my name.

I really miss it; it seems like it's been a long time since anyone called me that. But, as I said before, this name was stolen.

Karyl Lohars was long dead, but like all those who died unjustly, I found him. I remember the deal; back then, I didn't yet have a full sense of self, and he was the first lucky one to speak with me.

However, I don't really think he could be that lucky. I am a fundamental law governing the world, and I shouldn't have self-awareness, nor should I focus my attention on Nostramo.

Karyl Lohars told me he was willing to give anything for Vengeance.

I asked the person, and as usual, he rattled off some names, his face contorted with rage.

He referred to me as Vengeful Spirit, as if I were some ancient legend circulating among the stars. Decades later, I realized that as humanity ventured into the stars, it also brought some traditions that it shouldn't have taken with it to various worlds.

While it is human nature to branch out and pursue progress and new things, humans are also stubborn and protective of tradition. They want to protect all traditions, including this extremely bad one.

Later, I started using this name, and this title.

I still remember my initial thought—there are many ways to Vengeance, and I don't need to resort to violence entirely; there must be a way to reduce the frequency of bloodshed.

Initially, I planned to carry out this Vengeance in a slightly gentler way.

The unfortunate thing is that I am ultimately not Vindicators, but just one of countless radical Vengeance. I have no way of making people realize how bad their situation is and that they absolutely deserve better.

No one wanted to listen to the whispers of an Underhive in the mine, nor did anyone dare to stand shoulder to shoulder with him and fight against everything. I was somewhat disappointed, but the more I saw, the more I realized what was wrong with this world.

The world that humans live in should not be like this.

I began to feel anger at the pervasive evil, and that was the beginning of my downfall.

I chose a different path and decided to stick to it, honing my skills in killing. I did it with such natural ease that I could find vital organs without even needing to learn. For several months, I was addicted to the Vengeance thrill of killing and began to crave more.

Until that day, I suddenly realized...

What's the point of killing these people?

A group of ignorant people who willingly embrace evil, born in hell, exposed to its evils and forced to eat people. They have committed sins, yet they do not know that it is sin, but rather treat it as a job, a job that can provide them with a living, food, shelter from the cold, and dignity.

I returned to the mine, seeking solace.

I've killed too many people. The miners could see I was different, but they still accepted me that night—this "colleague" who appeared, left, and then reappeared.

A man named Hakan handed me the little food he had saved, thinking I was shivering with hunger and wanted to comfort me. But I was just angry.

I am angry at these people who have lived their entire lives at the bottom of the mines, never breathed a single breath of clean air, and never walked with their backs straight. I am angry at their kindness and submissiveness, angry at the miners and slave owners who exploited them, angry at the nobles, and angry at the whole world.

I finished the food Hakan had given me, and I was consumed by rage. I had come seeking comfort, for they were the only signs of "kindness" I had encountered in Nostramo, and I hoped they could give me the strength to keep going.

But I did not gain that power; all I received was an increasingly chilling rage.

Barring any unforeseen circumstances, I would have started killing slave owners that night and continued until I had turned the entire world into a sea of blood. But Hakan told me that they had found a child at the bottom of the mine.

Although he used the word "child" at the time, he seemed hesitant when he spoke. I didn't overlook this detail and began to think about what kind of child would be born in a mine.

And so everything fell into place, just like the twists and turns that every story should have. Guided by the miners, I found a sleeping child deep inside the mine.

He was very tall, with long arms and legs, and even when he was curled up in the mud with rats, he still looked enormous. But what really attracted me was the expression on his face.

It contains no impurities, neither the madness brought about by sin nor the numbness and weariness that seem to be innate in the oppressed, but a complete purity.

This expression belongs only to children, so despite his tall stature and unusual appearance, I immediately concluded that he was a child.

At the same time, I realized that he was not from Nostramo. So, where did he come from? I pondered this question, and when I came to my senses, I had already brought him back to my Sanctuary.

The child couldn't speak yet, he could only make hissing sounds. I realized he was a little afraid of me because I had brought him back almost forcibly.

Without a doubt, this was a mistake, and I began to urge myself to change my mindset—in this hell, this might be the only gem; if I missed it, I would never have another.

At the time, I didn't know his identity or power; I just felt that I had an obligation to raise such a child.

In the normal way, not in Nostramo's way.

So I knelt down and began to apologize to him.

For the first few seconds, he didn't understand what I was saying. So I started repeating the word "apology," emphasizing it over and over, and looking him straight in the eyes.

Amidst the hissing sounds, he learned the first word of Nostraman, and immediately began to learn all the other words on his own.

He started asking me who I was.

To be honest, at first I didn't want to tell him.

If the name Karyl Lohars is translated directly from the oldest Nostraman, and all the metaphors associated with the nobles are removed, then the name can be roughly translated as: executioner with blood on his hands.

It's not a good name, but I'll tell him eventually that hiding things and lying are not the right way to treat a child. If I were him, would I want to be Deceit? Of course not. Putting myself in his shoes, I told him the name.

He began to repeat himself, gradually shifting from a huddled position in the corner to a semi-squatting position. I noticed the evenly distributed muscles on his seemingly thin body, and based on my understanding of human anatomy, I immediately realized that the child's muscle distribution was far from natural.

It is a muscle designed specifically for hunting; each one is something that cannot be naturally formed, at least not in a human body.

I started to have doubts—was he really just a child?

Then he told me he was hungry and asked if I wanted to eat a rat.

This seems to be the longest I've ever stayed focused.

Maintaining one's sense of self in this darkness is not easy; it constantly erodes the lie I've woven, and everything that the name Karyl Lohars represents.

I cannot escape, nor can I even back down, because this darkness is myself.

I can only stay here and listen to and watch everyone's stories. I have already told the story of Sergeant Herlock and Karyl Lohars, and there are always new stories to tell here, for example.

Ah, take him for example.

Can you see him? Over there in the darkness, that new visitor, the one in the somber blue armor.

His name was Alenian, from the First Company of the Midnight Blade. His cause of death was simple: hypoxia and hypothermia caused by the vacuum.

He and his brothers traversed half the dark galaxy on a mission to find one of hundreds of fragments of armor among the stars. He found it, but at a price.

The ship was damaged, the Void Shield was pierced by the power of Chaos, and the subsequent damage to the hull sucked him out. Before dying, the last thing Alenian did was to clench his hands tightly.

He remained in that position until his face froze and he died completely.

Ninety-two Terra hours later, they found Alenian's body among the dim stars. They managed to pry open his hands and take a piece of black armor.

To accomplish this, Alenian's body, which was eventually buried in the sarcophagus, underwent some changes. His original hands were replaced with a pair of metal arms that were made later, because if they wanted to get the armor plates, they would have to break Alenian's hands.

He gripped it so tightly that it would be absolutely impossible to remove the armor plate without force. While doing so, Alenian watched them—or rather, glared at them.

He deliberately crafted this expression before his death, seemingly to intimidate any enemies who might try to take his body. At the time, there were no enemies around his corpse, only his brothers.

I could hear them mourning.

I am also mourning for him, even now.

Alenian died for me.

He didn't have to die in such a foolish attack, like countless others; I caused their deaths. Therefore, I should stay here and accept this futile punishment until my last vestige of humanity is worn away and I return to my primal state.

But before that, I will remember everyone's face.

They didn't come for me, but for Vengeance gods. In this age, almost no one knows of my existence—but I must remember, only I can hear, only I will hear.

And I have to listen.

It seems like some time has passed, and I'm still in this darkness, nothing has changed. Sometimes, I hallucinate, mistaking myself for someone else in Nostramo or the Burning Terra.

Unlike most people, I have two hometowns, but neither of them actually belongs to me; they are memories in my mind.

I still remember the feeling of the day Terra shattered; it felt like I had done something terrible, something awful. And you were powerless to do anything about it, because you had to.

In that instant, at the very moment of shattering, 37,269,823 people died.

From that moment on, the number of deaths only increased.

I thought of my friends.

Neos, Malcador. Are those their names?

Leaving aside Malcador for now, Neos is really strange; I can still vaguely sense him.

Not the Emperor, not the Master of Mankind, but my friend Neos, a carpenter and mason, who prefers creation to destruction and is highly skilled in agriculture.

He was being tortured, and I think he was being tortured far more than I was, because I could hear faint screams coming from him.

Time has no meaning for me, but for him, every minute and second that passes is far more precious than eternity.

He kept screaming in agony. Normally, the pain a person feels should be transformed at some point because the human nervous system learns to adapt sooner or later. But he was different, and I suspect that's because of what we're going through.

If I still had my sight, perhaps I could see what he looks like now.

If all plans had gone smoothly, he should now be a golden skeleton, sitting on a dilapidated Throne, holding together all of Terra, while also managing to take care of something else.

For example, a body that has lost its soul and self-awareness, or a body that belongs to a god.

My body.

We took a shortcut, as always. It started with the gap Malcador mentioned. He's always so clever. Ah, Malcador, how are you, old friend? I hope you are.

I wish I still had sight and hearing, at least one of them? I want to hear their voices, or see their faces now. I imagine I would see a Throne, guarded by the Adeptus Custodes guards, and how many of them would be people I recognize?

I don't know, but I hope I can see Constantine Valdor, not his statue, or a strange Adeptus Custodes Guard marshal.

However, this was merely hope. I knew perfectly well that if I had sight, I would see my own corpse immediately, nailed to the back of the Throne with a dagger. If I did that, the lie we had so painstakingly maintained would crumble.

That god was deceived, and the price was my downfall. I cannot wake up, otherwise He would wake up with me.

I'm sorry, Konrad Curze.

It's always been like this; I'm a father who only knows how to apologize. But you've done a great job, in every aspect, you're much better than me.

You must forget about it for now; you mustn't mention that name.

Anchor point

Sevatarion.

Yes, Sevatarion, Xianni, Van Cleef, Fer, Richter Nair.

I remember everyone. Am I talking to myself? Yes, I am talking to myself. I am--

I hate all of this.

I hate this dark Chaos galaxy, I despise those evil false gods. I will cut off their heads and turn everything to ashes.

Nurgle, you deserve to die! You and your rotting body should be burned to ashes by me, your decaying divine kingdom should be destroyed and burned to ashes. I will shatter everything you have, I will make you a worthless weed by the roadside. This is for Mortarion, I will kill you!

And you, Slaanesh, you wanton beast, you utterly irrational wretch. To hurt you is to give you pleasure, I understand, I know, because I've tried it. I hurt you, yet you still felt pleasure.

It's okay, not this time. This time you really will die. The ecstasy that comes from transcending everything will make you happy for a fleeting moment, but what follows is true terror, and you will no longer be able to feel anything.

I will tear you to pieces, burying every inch of your consciousness in my wasteland, where countless dead will soak it with their resentment. You will lose everything except emptiness.

And then there's you, Tzeentch. You hypocritical believer, god of deception, god of lies. Do you find pleasure in standing atop everything, looking down on everyone, and hurting every inch of hope that people struggle for?

I will kill you, I will definitely kill you, I will strip you of everything and then shove your head into your well, to observe everything you desire, to become an all-knowing god, and then wail and beg for release in the ensuing annihilation.

Magnus and his sons would be pleased, those who died on Terra would be pleased, and every tragic person throughout history who has been affected by you would be pleased.

We will all despise you, we will hang you high until your feathers are dried to ashes by the sun.

Finally, it's you, Khorne.

You have no honor; you're just a coward.

You will die, but you will die meaninglessly. You will not die in battle, but in an assassination. Begin to wait, wait for the moment I sever your head.

And, and—and this world. Ah, everyone hates each other, everyone wants to kill each other, everyone is unconsciously begging me to put a blade in their hands.

Then let it come; the spiral of hatred has been sown and is already formed. Come on, come on, come on.

Let vengeance become the dominant theme of the world. Kill fathers, kill mothers, kill sons, kill daughters. And you, Xenos scum, I despise you, but Vengeance is impartial. Take up your knives and kill humanity! Forge a furnace of hatred, cook blood with your blades, slaughter them all, slaughter all those who have harmed you! Go—

"Don't do this, my friend, wake up!"

Who is speaking? No, when did he speak to me? Was it just now? Time... how much time has passed?

How much time has passed?! Respond to me, respond to me! No, say something, anyone will do, anyone will do.

Let me die.

It's too agonizing. I'm sorry, I apologize, but I can't take it anymore. I pushed the Rock to the top of the mountain, I endured the torment, I scorned the emptiness. I thought I could persevere, but I couldn't.

Everyone. Everyone is screaming their stories, their suffering, at me. I want to respond, I really want to respond. I have to break free and help them do what they couldn't do, I have to make the abusers pay, I.

I can still hold on.

You're right, I can still hold on, yes, yes. I can hold on a little longer.

How long will it take?

A hundred years, a thousand years, ten thousand years? How long have I been here? Time has no meaning here, so only a second has probably passed outside. Perhaps just a second ago, I plunged a sharp blade into my own chest.

Speaking of blades, ha, yes, I used this knife to kill Horus Lupercal's skin. I gave him rest, but he can only be a traitor now, and in the history of the Imperium, he will be the most despicable traitor.

I tried to sigh.

Hello, I am Karyl Lohars. Hello, hello. Say something, hello? Anyone, I beg you to say something.

Am I crying?

Perhaps so. I've never cried before; I've forgotten how to use this physiological function. No, I can't have too much of an emotional reaction; I must calm down.

Konrad Curze.

I can't bear to think of him.

Let time flow by meaninglessly; one day, it will all come to an end.

My punishment will end one day, and I will receive my due end. Take down my remains, Malcador, quickly. Loyal Adeptus Custodes, take it down, then burn it completely to ashes and throw it into the void.

Someone will covet this corpse; there are always evil people eyeing evil things.

Then, they rescued him from the Throne.

I am merely an executioner, a bloodthirsty executioner. My survival will only bring more slaughter. Rescue him, and then let him lead the Imperium and humanity to rise again.

I can see it, believe me, Valdor, I will see your lord's triumph. Let him lead his sons on another Great Crusade, conquer the stars, and save humanity.

Perturabo, how about you take charge this time? You're capable enough to handle everything. Sanguinius, may only Radiance beneath your wings. Lion, Lion, reorganize your legion first, then we'll talk about other things. No, I was just kidding, may your blade always be sharp.

Angron. Hold on, son of the mountains, hold on. I know you can, they are still with you, believe me, I can feel it.

There's no need to feel guilty, Corax. I was the one who persuaded you to abandon your Deliverance and go to the stars to become an assassin. If you have any grievances, you should take them out on me. I am the culprit, and you owe me nothing.

Jaghatai, we have never spoken before, but you are very wise. You know what should and shouldn't be done; please use your wisdom to advise your brothers.

Vulkan, kind Vulkan, I'm so sorry for what I did to you. It wasn't my intention, kind blacksmith—why did you have to suffer so much?

Ah, Ferrus! Hello, Ferrus. It's a pleasure to meet you. You and Fulgrim can fight side by side now. I didn't take his things, but taking Laerhe away might be difficult. It doesn't matter, may your friendship shine as brightly as ever.

Fulgrim? Yes, Fulgrim. Thank you for being willing to teach Konrad Curze. I'm a terrible teacher; all I know is how to kill. Thank you. I hope your injuries are healed, and I hope your legion can be rebuilt.

I'm sorry, Rogal, I'm so sorry for what you've suffered. But that's just how despicable He is. I know you can bear it, but I still want to apologize. But it's alright, you are a rock after all, and I don't think you need my concern. Thank you, Rogal, you are an example for all of us.

Roboute? No, don't take that sword. I know you want to, but don't use it. That's Fer's sword; it shouldn't be used by any human. Don't use it, and go govern your Five Hundred Worlds. They are the jewels of the Imperium; keep them in good condition. Give my regards to Lady Euten, and thank you.

Finally, it's you, Konrad Curze.

Konrad Curze.

"Father, please wait a little longer."

Is anyone talking?

No one answered in the darkness.

It's okay, I will persevere, I will keep waiting. I know that the time I'm experiencing is just a fleeting moment in eternity, and I understand that if these irrational processes were repeated a thousand times, only one second would pass in the outside world.

I remember now, Malcador told me about this. I will be trapped in hell forever, wallowing in suffering, but that doesn't matter. I have understood the meaning of eternity; I am suffering here precisely for this purpose.

I will wait.

That's all for today's update. Some relatives are coming to stay overnight, so I have to entertain them.

Tomorrow we'll return to the main storyline.