Terra (Forty-Five, the Night King, Constantin Valdor's Battle)

Memory is intertwined with sound, smell, and image. A musician, upon hearing a piece of music, will invariably recall the afternoon they first practiced it; a painter, upon hearing a seemingly plausible but ultimately flawed comment, will likely remember their first critic.

Whether these things are good or bad, whether people are willing to acknowledge them or not, they have always existed and will always exist, until the vessel holding this memory loses its vitality, falls into a pool of blood, or dies of old age. ♙♕ 😲✌

For Konrad Curze Curze, every time he wields his knife, a phrase comes to mind.

"Hold the knife tightly; you must swing it quickly, swiftly plunging it into the heart, severing blood vessels, and striking vital organs. The human body will inevitably feel pain when faced with injury from a sharp blade."

"Therefore, this is a necessary Mercy, not towards the enemy, but towards yourself. If you don't always maintain that last shred of compassion, you'll become a monster. Don't understand? It doesn't matter, Konrad Curze, you'll understand later."

I understand now.

The Night Haunter swept past expressionlessly.

A sinister, foul-smelling darkness tugged at him from the abyss, from nightmares, yet it knew him intimately. Every voice whispered to him, its words filled with reverence. Some withered, bony hands emerged from beneath his feet, holding a crown as radiant as moonlight, attempting to place it on his head.

Without even glancing at it, Curze kicked it away. This was certainly not the first time he had done this, and the Bone Hands were neither frustrated nor angry; they simply picked it up and awaited his next visit.

He quickly rushed out of the darkness.

The vast sky changed color in horror at that moment. The crimson of the dead, unique to the unjustly killed, pierced through the dark clouds, appearing silently as if celebrating his arrival. A violent airflow swept by, howling like a storm through every gap in his armor. His scarlet cloak billowed and danced wildly in the wind.

The Night Haunter, though in the eye of the storm, felt an unprecedented calm.

What a grand welcoming ceremony!

The battlefield was in complete chaos, and no one noticed the strange phenomenon. With their feet tangled in mud and blood, few had the strength to even look at the sky.

Curze took a few steps forward, arriving at the very edge of this mountain of corpses. He looked around and happened to see a group of cold gray steel and bright yellow stubborn rocks, as well as a relatively small number of other "Imperial Fists".

They were fighting fiercely in the trenches, struggling to hold each other together. The Mars from their friction had long since turned into raging flames, but they had little impact on the current situation.

Their numbers were far too few—at least compared to the rebels, whose numbers were abnormally high.

Curze observed the scene thoughtfully, knowing in his heart that he had come back again.

If his memory serves him correctly, this is the 423rd time.

Each time he tries to find the wandering god, he is passively sent away by His power to other places, to places that have been completely permeated by the spiral of hatred.

The Night Haunter understood that this was an urging. The god was urging His completely unfamiliar favorite to go and carry out more Vengeance for Him—not to come and seek Him, because He had no desire or emotion to see Him.

The god of Vengeance treats everyone equally, is absolutely fair, and utterly ruthless.

Konrad Curze Curze laughed silently—Oh dear God, do you know that you are actually a foolish god?

You are held back by power, craving to create more hatred, completely ignoring the maniacal laughter of your true goal in the darkness. It doesn't even need to hide from you; a few simple tricks and dubious rituals are enough to Deceit you into wandering all over Terra.

Sighing, Curze closed his eyes as black snow drifted down, slowly melting on his shoulder armor. He silently counted to five, then opened his eyes. At that moment, the Night Haunter's dark eyes held no more emotion, only the icy coldness unique to an assassin.

Complete the mission, kill the target, commit the murder—that's all.

A blade needs no emotion.

He spread his arms and leaped down from the mountain of corpses, the wind whipping his black hair across his forehead. His expression was utterly indifferent. A second later, he landed, the short knife in his right hand already stained with blood.

It wasn't the weapon that accompanied him the longest; it was merely a high-quality Power Weapon crafted according to his specifications, perfectly adequate for killing.

He charged toward the group of enemies, their bodies as red as blood, and his blade sliced through them, completely slicing open the flesh encased in Ceramite.

He deliberately slowed the pace of his killings, and the traitors quickly discovered his presence. Then, these so-called Word Bearers began to loudly proclaim his name—Lord of the Blades, Night Haunter, Wraith of Nostramo.

They worshipped him, not hated him.

"Time can change a lot of things, can it, Father?" Curze sneered.

Yes, that's right.

Curze squinted, letting the golden light fade from his sight.

He tilted his head slightly and swung his left hand. Bones shattered, blood gushed out, and the most simple and direct violence cruelly revealed its claws. A traitor dressed in a uniform unlike any other Auxilia uniform fell to the ground, his eyes and lower face completely torn open by Curze.

As the assassin passed by him, he deliberately glanced at him.

This is yet another prime piece of evidence of a distorted timeline. He wondered, how many years has this war actually lasted?

This is not war, Konrad Curze. Wars will end.

Good heavens, you sound really pessimistic. Like him, were both of my fathers the biggest pessimists in the world?

I'm actually quite optimistic.

The Night Haunter suddenly burst into laughter, the shrill sound echoing through the enemy ranks. A leaping blue flame hurtled towards him, emitting an even sharper cry. Without turning his head, Curze crushed it in one swift motion and charged toward his next target.

It was a Word Bearers priest wrapped in human skin, and the one who started the blue flame. His armor was covered with human skin, which was deliberately dyed scarlet by fuel.

Just looking at him made Curze feel like his eyes were being burned—come on, at least give me some proper Power Armour! Is this how you treat potential Machine Spirit?

The Night Haunter abruptly stopped, grinned at the steaming corpse standing in the center, elegantly raised his right-hand blade, spun it around, and then gripped it normally.

The man Word Bearers words quickly began to contort in pain.

He wasn't wearing a helmet, and his excessively pale face was covered in black scriptures. He was indeed Lorgar's son; if you ignored his sunken cheeks and sickly eyes, he looked at least seventy percent like Lorgar.

Then, Curze cut him in half at the waist.

Amidst his screams, the Night Haunter dragged his mangled body toward a tank engulfed in flames.

The vehicle, seemingly from hell, let out a violent roar, and a huge cloud of smoke erupted from between its orange-glowing tracks. A dozen thick lasers shot out from its muzzle, but none of them hit their mark.

With a smile, Curze stuffed the priest's mangled body between the tracks and slipped away. A burst of fire from the explosion completely overturned the massive creature, and the crew, who had become one with the tank, let out muffled groans as they tried to escape.

So the kind-hearted Night Haunter used his knife to cut open the fleshy armor side plates and dragged them out one by one.

However, these people did not express any gratitude for his kindness. To show their dissatisfaction, Curze tattooed the foreheads of the Imperial Aquila on them and comically strung them together with a long Eight-Pointed Star flagpole.

A flag made from stitches of a baby's skin is fluttering in the wind, its Chaos Star completely destroyed. The wound looks like a vertical, dripping, sharp blade.

Waving this banner, amidst the piercing screams of the traitors who had been branded with Aquila, the Night Haunter charged into the very center of the enemy ranks.

A series of smooth killings thus began quietly, without any warning or signs of an impending end.

Only the constantly flying limbs and severed bodies, like a whirlwind of flesh and blood, were the best proof that the Night Haunter was focused on his work. He exchanged swords for swords, blade against blade, causing one life after another to quickly vanish from his hands.

His armor was soaked with blood, the patterns outlined in blood into a cruel new look, the seams filled with bits of flesh and bone, his black hair drenched in blood, and his cloak no longer the crimson it once was, now darkened by the sticky blood of the traitors.

Logically, such a satisfying massacre should have brought him pleasure, and the torture of the traitors should have made him smile. However, the truth is that there was nothing of the sort.

There was no pleasure, no impulse, only tranquility.

It was all just a facade; he needed to create fear, so he forged a banner of cruelty. He needed to let traitors know of his arrival, so he acted without mercy, with extreme cruelty.

The blade always knows how to cut through flesh, doesn't it?

Ten minutes and forty-four seconds later, they began to flee, rushing towards the rift opened by the power of Chaos.

Curze didn't give chase; he simply released his left hand and tossed the flag aside. He sheathed his knife, turning the scabbard upside down, from which bits of flesh and blood gushed. Only then was his blade returned to its sheath. He took a deep breath and brushed the stray hairs from his forehead with both hands.

Because of the blood, it wasn't difficult to do this. Blood splattered, sliding down his forehead and leaving winding trails on his pale face. Curze looked up at the sky. The bloodstains had faded, but darkness remained, like a cold, steely sky.

He smiled silently.

You probably need to keep trying, Konrad Curze.

How many more times should I try? Curze wondered to himself.

He found a rock, slowly sat down, and waited for his brothers to arrive.

They will surely notice the commotion here and realize how much of a gap he has created for them in this bloody tug-of-war. Neither Perturabo nor Rogal Dorn will miss such a good opportunity to break the deadlock.

They will come, they will find him, but I cannot find him.

Curze placed his hands on his knees, lowered his head, and a quiet breeze blew by, the burning metal crackling, yet his breathing was so still as if he were asleep.

+You're tired, my son, I know, but+

I know, I know.

Curze closed his eyes and remained motionless, as if he were already dead.

I know this is far from the end, and such pursuit and killing will happen many more times.

Every kill I commit for Him pushes me further and further away from Him. I have tried my best to carry out the killings without emotion, but it is still Vengeance.

And I had to do this for Him to allow me to continue trying, to go after Him, to attempt to see Him.

But

+But what is it?+

But I'm in so much pain, Father. I'm killing him.

There was no answer, only a sigh.

Konrad Curze Curze opened his eyes and saw two expressionless faces.

He suddenly smiled slightly, "Hi, everyone, what time is it now? Shouldn't we be having dinner?"

Perturabo reached out and pulled him up. Rogal Dorn handed him a rag, Lord of Iron took with his left hand and began to gently rub the Night Haunter's face with. The latter did not struggle, but merely rolled his eyes in slight helplessness.

The dried, scabbed blood slowly dripped from his face, like a plaster statue being hammered by an artist, dark red fragments falling evenly, leaving his pale face as still as ever, even capable of displaying the expression he knew best.

"Stop laughing," the Lord of Iron said in a low voice. "I know you're not feeling well."

"It's my duty." Curze shrugged. "Just like having to fight alongside Rogal, that's not easy for you either, is it?"

The city breaker Forrix, coughed almost imperceptibly.

"If your throat is sore, you can leave now, Forrix," Perturabo said without turning around. "Go maintain the trenches and prepare for the next battle. Besides, I need some private space to talk to my brothers. All of you, leave."

The Iron Warriors silently turned and left. Rogal Dorn silently made two hand gestures, issuing two commands without uttering a sound.

Thus, various "Imperial Fists" designs and the traditional Imperial Fists followed closely behind, as if they had already developed a tacit understanding by fighting side by side for decades.

"Hey, Rogal— " Curze seized the opportunity and winked at the stubborn rock who had just turned around. "--What do you think it's like to fight alongside our Abo?"

"Don't worry," Wanshi said. "It's like knowing you've come to help."

Perturabo tried to turn his head, but for some reason he couldn't.

Curze curled his lip and sat back down on the rock. "That's no fun, Rogal. I was hoping to hear some complaints about Abo from you."

"Abo" slowly exhaled a breath of cold air, spitting out a sentence through gritted teeth. "Could you please stop calling me that?"

"Why? Didn't you already agree? I've been calling you that all this time, dear Abo." Curze chuckled and shrugged. "Or are you just trying to hide that nickname from Rogal?"

"I heard it," Dorn said. "In fact, I heard her call Perturabo that many years ago, long before Calliphone became the tyrant of Lokos."

"That was an accident," the Lord of Iron said grimly, without even glancing at Dorn standing beside him. "Don't push your luck, Rogal Dorn. Besides, I hope you don't forget that I won the theoretical debate after that dinner."

"Congratulations on your victory," Wanshi nodded to him. "I didn't have a chance to congratulate you then, but it's not too late to do so now."

Curze suddenly asked with ill intent, "Then why didn't you have time back then?"

Perturabo did not answer, but simply raised his hand, lifted him off the rock, grabbed his shoulder armor, and led him back to the new trench they were digging.

Rogal Dorn subtly twitched the corner of his mouth, not immediately following, but instead raised his hand and burned the flag before beginning to walk.

They returned to the trenches and went into an underground room. After observing for a moment, Curze discovered that the diggers had even left grooves that could be converted into windows.

"How interesting." He chuckled. "An architect's instinct?"

He looked at Perturabo, who gave him the answer with a blank expression and a very slight tilt of his head.

So Curze turned to Rogal Dorn and asked, "What is this, Rogal? Is it your builder's instinct at work, or do you still hold onto hope? We're already in hell, and you're still thinking about leaving windows in the room."

"We will win," Rogal Dorn replied calmly. "Then, this makeshift, crude basement will be expanded and fully equipped. The surrounding rubble will be cleared away, and the streets will be designed to normal levels. By then, these markings I left will make things much easier for the workers."

Curze smiled and nodded at him, "A great idea, but will there still be blue skies over Terra then? It's not that I'm pessimistic, brother, but perhaps you should be more cautious. They might need bulletproof windows rather than normal glass."

Dorn almost laughed, while the Rock gave his brother's joke the highest praise with a rather relaxed expression. He was wrapped in a battered suit of armor, every part of him covered in wounds and bullet holes, but his mood seemed unaffected.

Curze turned to look at Perturabo.

The Lord of Iron didn't even glance at him, and slowly walked to the center of the room, where a makeshift table was set up, made of several empty crates stacked on top of each other. Several black cubes were placed around the edge, and he reached out and pressed them one by one, and a map was projected onto the screen.

"Terra's space and time are chaotic, but we have thoroughly investigated the situation along the entire eastern front of the Imperial Palace."

As he spoke, he pointed to a spot on the map.

"We are right here, measured by our own feet, there's no mistake. We've never left this place, and the chaotic space has no room to fool us. Based here, we've built a rudimentary defensive fortification stretching five kilometers. From trenches to supporting positions and blocking zones, we have it all."

He suddenly fell silent, and Rogal Dorn picked up where he left off.

"But we can only build five kilometers," Wan Shi said seriously. "That's the limit. We don't have enough manpower, the battle is chaotic, and we lack supplies. This is the best we can do—and five kilometers is just a drop in the ocean for the entire eastern front of the Imperial Palace. So Perturabo and I came up with another idea."

"What method?" Konrad Curze Curze asked softly.

He was very calm, almost as if he knew the answer already.

"Symbolism," Rogal Dorn uttered the word. "The enemy doesn't care about discipline, tactics, their lives or ours. They just want to create chaos and watch people scream in the flames. But they still need to find us to do all that."

"They need to find us to kill and torture us, so we plan to make some minor modifications to the trenches," Perturabo said calmly. "For example, raising a flag every five hundred meters."

Dorn came to the long table, drew a line on the map, and then precisely marked ten points.

"Ten flags," he said. "As long as the enemy isn't blind, they'll spot us immediately. Then, their corpses will pile up."

The Lord of Iron sneered and spoke at length, as if he had long harbored this intention and had been holding back for a long time.

"And we will leave these bodies behind, piling them up around the trenches as a mound of corpses and a landmark."

"They will never give up; they will only keep attacking, keep coming here to try to kill us, or at least inflict psychological damage on us."

"That's what they want, to see others follow in their footsteps into this so-called Chaos, becoming wild beasts drawn by blood-stained bones. And we will use the most primal human methods to show them why wild beasts are extinct."

"The more they come, the more frequently they come, the larger this landmark will become. It has no design, uses no building materials, it just needs to be piled up with corpses."

He gently placed his hands around the crates.

"Isn't it ironic?" Perturabo asked in an unusual tone. "The first collaboration between two architects has resulted in a landmark building that has absolutely nothing to boast about."

Rogal Dorn did not answer.

Curze shook his head.

"If you actually complete it, I think it will be the most magnificent building I have ever seen in my life, even better than Imperial Palace, at least it won't be made of gold," he said. "However, I would like to give you a suggestion."

"What advice, Konrad Curze?" Dorn asked.

"Engrave the Imperial Aquila on every corpse," the Night Haunter replied with a smile. "Trust me, you'll find it useful."

--

Constantine Valdor bowed his head, panting.

His muscles, every muscle in his body, were exhausted to some limit; the fibers were as taut as fine steel cables pulling a heavy load, just waiting for an opportunity to snap completely.

But this did not stop him from grasping the Apollonian Spear and fighting alongside Kolaus Corax.

"Tell me—" the Lord of Deliverance asked quietly amidst the carnage, "Did the squad I sent out fulfill their duty?"

"He died a worthy death," the Adeptus Custodes Marshal replied in a low voice. "He was the bravest warrior I had ever seen in my life."

Indeed, this is not a consolation or an exaggeration, but rather the heartfelt words of Constantine Valdor.

He didn't know how to describe the sacrifice of the Raven Guard. These natural assassins resolutely chose to charge in a group at the critical moment, choosing a tactic that was completely contrary to their nature and training. Their only purpose was to buy Ollanius Persson a chance to escape.

They didn't know what his mission was, nor did they understand why this mortal was so important, even worthy of the Adeptus Custodes Guard Marshal saying, "We can all die, but he cannot," but they agreed. For the Emperor and for humanity, they were willing to do so.

And so they died, their bodies devoured by the traitors. Those foolish and barbaric creatures treated this depraved and shameless act as a glorious triumph, which enraged Valdor.

In the past, he wielded his spear only for the Master of Mankind. Only now, he fights for the dead. He cannot perceive the difference between the two, for he has no time to think.

Therefore, he was completely unaware of the praise coming from the other end of the connection.

But even if he knew, what could he do? The current situation didn't allow anyone time for contemplation. Only battle, only battle.

Valdor swung his spear, briefly silencing some of the gaping, blood-red creatures. Their so-called blood splattered out, as black as oil.

The elite Raven Guard swept past him, helping him complete the killing, before vanishing like smoke, disappearing into the shadows before everyone's eyes.

Their sharp claws were already stained with countless drops of blood, but even if they killed more, it wouldn't help their current situation. They were surrounded, completely surrounded by enemies hundreds of times their number.

All of this stemmed from Constantine Valdor's impatience—he was too hasty, wanting Ollanius Persson to complete his task. He briefly abandoned his vigilance against the darkness, thus stepping into a trap prepared for him and Ollanius Persson by the forces of Chaos.

He had been cautious enough, but no matter what the past was like, they would find an opportunity if he relaxed even for a brief moment.

These are just the things they are.

Valdor understood that if it weren't for the Raven Guard, the mission he received from his lord would have failed long ago, and he would have died, casting an eternal shadow over the glory of the Ten Thousand.

No need to overthink it.

Kolus Corax swept past him like a real Shadow, his voice soft. He was somewhat similar to his famous brother, yet quite different.

Valdor had seen Konrad Curze Curze many times; the Night Haunter's soft, Nostramo- like voice was threatening and rhythmic, and even without any hostility, his voice instinctively carried a dangerous quality.

The Lord of the Deliverance, however, spoke quietly and calmly, as if he were no longer surprised by anything.

We must break through!

Valdor shouted in the direction he had left, completely ignoring the pile of mangled flesh left behind. This was Corius Corax, whose every appearance and departure was destined to take away dozens, even hundreds of lives.

"How do we break through?" Corax asked. His voice came from behind Valdor at that moment.

The Adeptus Custodes Guard Marshal whirled around and pierced the skull of a massive beast with his spear. It spoke in a human voice, the voice belonging to Colius Corax rapidly transforming into a broken scream—and it was his voice nonetheless.

Without realizing it, Valdor, mimicking Ollanius Persson's tone, roared out a curse, "You beastly bastard!"

He shattered it, the price being six new wounds. Auramite was being ravaged, just as he himself was. Everyone in this living hell was being ravaged, first and foremost his lord, the Master of Mankind.

Constantine Valdor was furious when he thought of this—he saw before his eyes the faces he and Ollanius Persson had seen on their long journey, and the very beginnings of Terra.

The Imperial Palace still stands, and ordinary people at least had clothes to wear and food to eat. But now, they have nothing.

A surge of intense grief overwhelmed him, forcing him to set aside his anger and to fight with a newfound resolve he had never shown before.

At the end of the connection, the Emperor was observing all of this.

No, perhaps it cannot be called the end; this connection was once a chain. One end was held in the Emperor's hand, and the other was around Constantine Valdor's neck. But now, its nature is quietly changing.

It is no longer a chain; one day, it will become some kind of strange connection with conductive properties. The original end is still held in the Emperor's hand, but this time, it will no longer be around someone's neck; it will be held in the hand of another human.

It will become a link.

That will be the end of everything.

Within his prison, the Master of Mankind patiently orchestrated everything. He stood at the boundary between reality and illusion, the Webway burning silently behind him, the demons blocked by the golden flames, unable to advance an inch.

They knew they wouldn't get any chance to kill him here, but they still came, their purpose being to deplete his strength—or, more accurately, to replenish it.

The beings behind the Daemon certainly weren't so kind; they did this simply to torment him.

If he relaxes even for a moment, if his humanity falters even slightly, the deity from ten thousand years in the future, shaped by prayer and faith, will surround his personality and turn everything he has painstakingly maintained into ashes. He will bring him immense power, but will also utterly destroy all his carefully laid plans.

The Emperor will not allow any of this to come to pass.

All sacrifices should begin with him.

He will endure everything, bear everything, until they achieve victory.

This was just another battle fought in the darkness, torches blazing, and this time, he wasn't even alone. Some understood him, some supported him, and some fought alongside him in the darkness. Countless humans were fighting alongside him on Terra.

So why should he lose this time?

A dark, frost-covered wind swept across, and the eyes of the Master of Mankind shone like Astronomican.

But only for ten thousand years.

This chapter is 8k words long and updated. After careful consideration, I think it's better to finish writing the extra chapters and release them all at once, so they can serve as a break after the Siege of Siege of Terra ends.