Extra: Round Table Viewing (III)

[You'll soon know who I am, but for now, Conrad Coates. Hold his hand. 🔥🍮 💥💚]

Who are you? And who is Konrad Curze Curze?

Do you want to save him?

[. I think.]

Then take his hand.

The light screen dimmed, but the expressions of the noble Imperium demigods around the round table seemed somewhat strange.

Take Sanguinius for example. The Archangel Baal wore a distinctly puzzled expression, a stark contrast to his usual smiling demeanor. Undoubtedly, he was pondering something. So, what was he thinking about?

Perhaps we should ask Horus Lupercal; does the Cthonia gangster know what his closest brother is really thinking?

The answer is yes, he certainly knew, but he didn't have time to care anymore.

"Was that Father's voice?" Horus slammed his fist on the table. No, he didn't slam his fist; he simply stood up very quickly and then made his voice known to everyone in the room.

Leman Russ Russ sighed, slumped on the table, and waved lazily at him.

"Yes, yes, that's Father's voice, Horus. Sometimes I want to give you a nickname, you know?"

"What nickname?" Alpharius suddenly asked.

Russ smiled maliciously, her overly sharp canine teeth gleaming.

"I'd better not say anything, my dear brother. Your question is clearly designed to get me harassed by this bald guy for a whole week."

Alpharius shrugged, patted the top of his head, and smiled, though not very clearly. Rogal Dorn glanced calmly at them, then stood up as well.

"Yes, that was Father's voice," the Inwit said. "But I don't think that's our most pressing concern right now, this—"

He looked down at the videotape, swallowed back the words he was about to say, and replaced them with a more polite form of address.

" --Narrator Machine, sir, what it's doing is what matters most. We should let it continue."

Hey, how could you assume my gender?

". Miss?"

[Ha!]

The light screen flickered, as if it were laughing, in bursts, continuously. After several seconds, the rapid flickering finally subsided.

[No, just call me sir, though it doesn't really matter. It's been really interesting dealing with you all. Look at you guys, I can't wait to see how you'll react when you get to the end.]

"You seem quite excited about this?" Perturabo asked in a somber and indifferent tone.

[Oh, don't get me wrong, it's just a little bit. Even for me, this kind of thing doesn't happen very often, let alone being there in person. Haha, anyway, now comes the main event, and I wholeheartedly advise you all to be prepared.]

"What preparations?" Jaghatai asked.

He squinted, leaned forward slightly, and his posture suddenly became quite threatening.

[What do you think, the great Khan hasn't yet had a chance to become the sole eagle?]

Jaghatai leaned back in his chair and said nothing more.

He wasn't the first to show a change in expression. Everyone present was Primarch, and even those with personality flaws possessed intelligence far exceeding that of ordinary people. They certainly understood the implication of the videotape, but was it really possible?

Horus sat back in his chair, giving up on thinking. He didn't want to follow the line of reasoning behind that statement; even for him, the implications seemed somewhat beyond his comprehension.

[Very well, it seems that none of you great, extraordinary, noble, invincible, and exceptional Primarchs have any Primarch.]

The light screen immediately vibrated, as if impatient, and quickly projected the next scene. Konrad Curze Curze squatted in his chair, watching the scene expressionlessly, his hands still dripping blood.

Given the Primarch's regenerative abilities, he should have recovered long ago.

[No, Karyl Lohars, the nameless Ghost, this is not death.]

The light screen flickered, and a deafening thunderclap instantly reverberated throughout the room. White light illuminated everyone's faces. Kolus Corax turned his head expressionlessly to look at the only person among them who was dimly lit, only to find that the person's dark eyes were staring unreservedly at the light screen.

He wanted to say something, but Horus's voice drowned out everything at that moment.

"Father?!"

The Cthonia man shouted this, then stood up again in shock, looking at the man wearing a laurel wreath and golden armor who appeared on the screen, his face full of bewilderment.

Leman Russ Russ couldn't help but scratch his cheek and muttered, "How many times have you called that today, brother?"

Almost no one paid him any attention, except Alpharius, who chuckled and gestured a number at him. Their exchange went unnoticed; most people were glued to the screen, eager to see what would happen next.

[Are you Karyl Lohars? No, you are not. Karyl Lohars is long dead. In his last moments, he knocked on the gates of hell, and you—you Ghost —came from behind those gates as promised.]

[Or, let's put it another way. This is Earth, at some point in the pre-Christian era, at the boundary between Eurasia. Cataclysmic events hadn't yet erased this place, and those people were preparing dinner; they had just finished a long day's work.]

[My son—you call him Wraith, but I call him Konrad Curze Curze.]

He is one of my visions for the future of humanity.

[I thank you, Ghost, for protecting him and saving him from a perilous path. But I didn't save you because of his wish. So, will you accept this?]

[Accept what?]

[Become Karyl Lohars.]

I accept.

The camera zoomed in quickly and directly, focusing on that pale face.

I still owe him a knife.

The screen went out, and no more images appeared. Not even text; the videotape suddenly fell silent, making one wonder if something had gone wrong.

The Primarch, however, had no time to concern themselves with why this incessantly chattering so-called Narrator Machine had fallen silent at this moment; they were all preoccupied with their own thoughts. Yet, there are always exceptions.

For example, Konrad Curze Curze.

After waiting for a full ten minutes, he rushed onto the round table, kicked the videotape, and then slammed it down onto the long table. He viciously pressed it against the stone wall, his sharp fingernails digging into the dark surface of the videotape.

→

The Nostramo man turned to look at the screen of light, then brought his face close to the videotape and whispered menacingly.

"What's next?" he asked. "You'd better tell me the truth, you endless, wretched machine, or I'll definitely take you apart."

[Go ahead and dismantle it.]

"I'm not kidding!" Curze roared. "Ten minutes have passed! Tell me what happened! I need to know if this idiot is dead or alive, and whether their ridiculous ideals have drowned them!"

[Don't rush me, even radio programs need time to insert gags, let alone the story you're watching from a parallel universe.]

Magnus suddenly raised his arms and shouted, excitedly clenching his fist.

"You damned thing!" Curze ignored his brother. He laughed angrily, raised his right hand high, and was about to throw the videotape to the ground.

At the critical moment, a slender left hand, as white as jade, stopped him.

Fulgrim gripped his wrist firmly and asked, "What do you want, Konrad Curze?"

"I'm going to smash this piece of junk!"

"I don't think you can do that," Ferrus Manus said calmly, still seated.

His words drew a lot of attention, including from Curze. The Nostramo man turned his head sharply like a wild beast, staring at him coldly with a threatening look in his eyes.

Ferrus narrowed his eyes, his right hand beginning to rhythmically tap his left arm, the clanging of metal echoing incessantly. However, this standoff did not last long, as Fulgrim reached out his right hand and forcefully turned Curze's head back.

He received a wild, low growl.

"What? Are you going to bite me, Konrad Curze?" Fulgrim asked nonchalantly, then snatched the videotape from Curze's hand and even calmly waved it at him.

"You can try," he said. "I assure you I'll bite back; that's how I treated machines that wouldn't obey me when I was a worker."

"Then do you know how I deal with criminals who don't obey me?" Curze asked with a sneer, casually withdrawing his right hand and concealing both hands within the wide sleeves of his black robe.

"I have no interest in knowing," Fulgrim said.

He turned around, picked up the videotape, and walked back to the round table. Konrad Curze Curze hunched over, his hands already protruding from his long sleeves, his sharp, almost jarring fingernails gleaming in the air.

He flicked his fingers, silently following Fulgrim. The Chemos casually reached out and tossed the videotape back to the center of the round table. As for Curze...

He quietly returned to his seat.

Russ grinned at him.

"Shut up, you stinking wolf," the Nostramo man said without even looking up.

"You too, shut up, you little idiot trying so hard to pretend you don't care."

Russ burst into laughter, his young and wild face showing no anger, only pure joy. His words made Curze look up and begin to sullenly spy on Russ from behind the cage of shaggy hair.

"What?" The Fenrisian chuckled, spreading his hands and shrugging nonchalantly. "Do you think there's anything wrong with what I said?"

I'm going to tear your throat open and let you see your own trachea.

"And before that, I'll break every single one of your fingers and shove them into your mouth."

"I will let you suffocate in your own blood, begging for release, but I will not lend you a hand, wolf." Konrad Curze Curze coldly withdrew his hands and slowly shook his head. "I will make you understand what pain truly is."

"Anyone can talk tough, little brother." Russ laughed again, and that was his last sentence. Under Sanguinius' disapproving gaze, the Fenrisian wisely shut his mouth.

The light screen flickered at just the right moment.

The argument between you two is quite interesting.

"Please continue playing, Mr. Narrator Machine," Rogal Dorn said. "We all have our own things to do today; we can't waste our time on a movie like this."

[What? Don't you think this story is worth wasting your whole day on?]

"I have no time to waste on anything," Dorn replied calmly. "I need to continue studying military theory, and my teacher, Ollanius, is a grumpy middle-aged man who won't appreciate my tardiness."

I suggest you beat him up.

"."

Dorn fell silent; even he didn't know how to answer that question. And if anyone asked, Perturabo would say that he enjoyed Rogal Dorn's speechless silence.

But he was more concerned with something else now—from the moment the light screen lit up, this so-called Narrator Machine had been communicating with them, regardless of how disrespectful or obviously sarcastic it might be.

One thing is absolutely certain.

This Narrator Machine is self-aware.

Its every action was something that could not be explained by any so-called programmed settings; every reaction and every word it uttered was filled with a nonchalant cynicism. Perturabo loathed this attitude, but he wanted to know even more what this so-called Narrator Machine really was.

So he asked it directly.

"What exactly are you?" the Olympia asked.

He slowly stood up and drew the ceremonial sword from his waist. It gleamed coldly and was extremely sharp—yes, it was indeed a ceremonial sword, at least to Perturabo.

He raised his sword and pointed it at the black videotape.

Explain, or I will destroy you.

[I have no interest in wasting my breath on you, Perturabo. As your brother Rogal Dorn said, his time is precious. In fact, everyone's time is precious, and I don't want to waste your shared time.]

"So, you're going to continue playing?" Russ asked with a chuckle. "I mean, what about the second half of the story? The Narrator Machine? Did that man named Karyl come back to life? And what did our father do to him?"

The screen flickered, the image lit up again, and froze on a face that shimmered in the darkness—a pale, blood-soaked face.

Karyl Lohars's face.

But that's not the problem. The problem lies in the giant opposite him, a giant covered in wounds, with a steel braid hanging down his back, and a face twisted like a monster.

"What's going on?" the Primarch from Nuceria asked in confusion.

The response he received was a roar from Konrad Curze Curze.