Interlude 31: Old Grudges Settled (Two-in-One)

Sevatar suddenly woke up.

He had expected to see a pitch-black Milky Way and burning warships, but instead he saw a murky sky illuminated by neon lights in a riot of colors.

Countless eerie spires stretched across the distant horizon, their religiously symbolic carvings transforming them into terrifying daggers thrust into the ground. Gargoyle stood atop them, coldly surveying the masses below.

The foul-smelling raindrops were poured out from the Upper Hive's circulating sewage system, landing on their stone or bronze skins, lingering briefly in the corroded pits, before falling straight down, still carrying their coldness.

If they're lucky, they might land in the dilated pupils of a corpse; if not, they'll hit the plastic roofs of Shantytown, turning the foul-smelling rain into a note in a disturbing symphony.

Sevatar stared blankly at all of this.

He knew perfectly well where this was; throughout the entire galaxy, only one world could possess such a sight.

There are countless Hive City within the Imperium, but none can compare to Nostramo before the reforms.

Here, kindness or any virtue will be despised. To survive, one must become cunning or ruthless, with hands stained with blood.

Otherwise, they would only be able to stay in the factory and gradually contract the disease, until they became a coughing corpse lying dead by the roadside, and were eaten by other hungry people.

Sevatar slowly exhaled a breath of cold, foul-smelling air, as if he had only just realized he needed to breathe.

At that moment, a soft chewing sound reached his ears. Sevatar turned around and saw a emaciated woman. She was sitting next to a corpse, grabbing his hand and stuffing it into her mouth, blood dripping from her lips.

Her face was dirty, which should have been covered with grime left by acid rain or other dust, but now it was washed away by tears, making it look strange. Many white streaks divided the darkness, like a surreal and absurd painting.

The woman's eyes were filled with painful tears, yet her movements never ceased.

Sevatar suddenly recognized her.

However, the woman died before he was even in Astartes, or even before he became a miner.

Sevatar looked at her and took a step toward her. Memories from a hundred centuries ago suddenly surfaced before his eyes, and once again, he began to hate his overactive memory.

He didn't want to remember these things, nor did he want to remember the woman's or the corpse's face.

So he stopped in his tracks and finally realized something was wrong—he had shrunk and was dressed in rags. The clothes were ill-fitting and couldn't even completely cover his arms.

Sevatar instinctively narrowed his eyes, a dangerous thought slowly forming in his mind.

He looked at the woman, his palm opening and closing for a fleeting moment.

This is just an illusion, he told himself. And it might even be an illusion created by that bastard Erebus through some means.

I should be floating in a vacuum right now, possibly dying at any moment. None of this is real; I've already experienced these things. Humans can repeat the same thing a million times, but they can never recreate an ordinary afternoon from their memory.

He made his decision, took another step, and walked towards the woman.

However, with just this one step, heaven and earth suddenly turned upside down.

Everything vanished at that moment, followed by a vortex, like different paints being poured into a bucket and spinning wildly. In just a few seconds, the "paints" merged together into complete blackness.

Sevatar frowned as he watched this scene, instinctively raising his fist. But the darkness did not attack him; it merely dispersed, enveloping him like a real night sky.

When they disappeared, Sevatar had arrived at a new place. He had been here before, that much was certain. And in the present Imperium, no one knew this place better than him.

"The Nest," Sevatar murmured, uttering its name.

Yes, the Nest.

Located deep underground in Nostramo, it is perpetually shrouded in a thin mist. Here, all the Nostramo Night Lords once trained.

The eerie and winding corridors connected four enormous training grounds, as well as the dormitories for the new recruits. Or, to use Kassati Nuon's words, brawl rooms.

Yes, a fight.

Sevatar couldn't help but let out a fleeting smile.

He remained vigilant, still believing this might just be a tactic employed by Erebus. Therefore, how much sincerity was hidden behind that smile remained an open question.

It might just be a disguise, or it might be that he genuinely thought of an old friend, hence the smile. Or perhaps it's both, using his true feelings as bait to try and lure Erebus into a trap.

How ridiculous.

Sevatar sighed, his tightly furrowed brows finally relaxing—he was too lazy to care about anything anymore. Regardless of whether this illusion was the work of Erebus, he wanted to explore the Nest again.

He knew this place well, but hadn't been here in a long time. New recruits could still train here, and the civilians of Nostramo could still work or rest above it without knowing anything about it, but he alone could not.

The Star of Eternal Night has long been thoroughly permeated by some Chaos power, and some Daemon or insightful traitors even refer to it as the "Divine Realm." Its sun is still obscured, but its rich deposits of Adamantium can no longer be used for trade.

Sevatar turned around.

He had to leave; staying in this dark corridor would be a waste of this hard-won opportunity. Even though he understood that this place was merely an illusion constructed from his memories, and he could only see what he remembered—

"--I don't think so, Sai."

Jago Sevatarion looked up and saw Konrad Curze Curze wearing the Moonlight Crown.

"You really think this place—" He smiled and stamped his foot, sending a dull thud echoing down the corridor—is a place that Erebus could conjure up?

Sevatar looked at him, his right hand instinctively reaching for his waist. If he remembered correctly, he hadn't finished his training yet, but he had already obtained permission to carry a weapon. Although it was just a short knife, though...

His fingers touched the cold grip.

Sevatar drew his sword, gripping it in reverse, the blade gleaming in the moonlight cast by the crown atop the Night Haunter's head.

"Who are you?" he asked.

Konrad Curze Curze.

"No," Sevatar growled, baring his fangs. "He's dead."

Curze smiled gently, his hands tucked inside his black robe, but his words were sharp. "If all of this is just an illusion, then you are nothing more than a madman wielding the blade of imagination, threatening your imagined Gene-Father."

"My Gene-Father died ten thousand years ago."

"Really? Your self-deception skills need improvement. Death is just the beginning, Van Cleef's famous quote. You can even forget that? Is your memory failing you?"

Curze shook his head and sighed, then casually removed the crown from his head.

In that instant, the soft moonlight transformed into a deathly white light, illuminating the corridor completely.

Normally, such light would be extremely uncomfortable for the eyes of Nostramo, but Sevatar felt no such discomfort. The moonlight even gave him a sense of peace, as if he should be fighting for the crowned one, wielding a sharp blade, under its illumination.

"Fight for me?" Curze looked at him, tilting his head to ask. "Really? You've struggled for ten thousand years, transforming yourself into a machine that endlessly repeats the killing, and you blame it all on me?"

Sevatar silently sheathed his short sword and began to rise. His training uniform and white robe were replaced by precision-engineered Power Armour, and the Night Lords insignia and the blood-stained tear reflected the pale moonlight on his shoulder armor.

He raised his hand, touched the scar on his face, and suddenly spoke, "Ten thousand years, Father."

"Yes," Curze nodded to him. "I know."

You've never answered my calls.

"Perhaps you should say, 'we'."

The Night Haunter smiled and put his crown back on his forehead, answering Sevatar's accusation in a very casual manner.

Your predecessors, your brothers, and your successors—none of us have ever responded to you, not even once.

"Is it that you don't want to, or that you can't?" Sevatar pressed. "I don't believe you can't. I've seen many people here, even that stinky old man who writes books—I've run into him several times."

Curze shrugged ambiguously, answering the question in a rather diplomatic manner. His posture remained relaxed, but his expression suddenly turned serious.

He said, "Both are true. The living shouldn't call out to the dead unless you want a response."

"Of course I want a response," Sevatar said stubbornly.

Curze shook his head and asked softly, "Then, what is it for? What are you calling out for, and what is it that you want a response for?"

Sevatar didn't answer, so he continued talking to himself.

"Seeking support from your elders? No, forget it, Xianni is too busy. Looking for your brothers to talk to? I'm sorry, there's always war in the Chaos Realm; they're fighting on the front lines and can't answer any of your questions. As for your descendants..."

Curze curled his lips into a half-smile and shook his head. "They've only been dead a short while; they deserve a place to rest. Or do you want to disturb their peace?"

His words caused Sevatar's eye to twitch involuntarily.

In fact, when he saw the pale light projected from the crown, he already knew that the Night Haunter before him was not an illusion.

However, he never expected that his Gene-Father would still be so sharp-tongued even ten thousand years later. The words he uttered were like venom, corroding his chest cavity and nearly causing his two hearts to stop beating.

"Thank you for the compliment," Curze said with a smile. "I wish you good health, Sai, and that you live another hundred centuries, how about that?"

"I don't think this is necessary, Father. I'm just an Astartes," Sevatar said with difficulty. "Besides, can you hear my thoughts?"

Curze nodded and said softly, "Of course I can, my son. After all, you are already dead. I am responsible for guiding the souls that belong to the divine realm."

Sevatar was inevitably stunned.

Dead? He's already dead.

The idea quickly took shape and then unexpectedly developed into an uncontrollable laugh.

A few seconds later, under Curze's slightly strange gaze, Sevatar burst into laughter.

The Night Haunter did not stop him, but simply raised his hand and transformed the Nest into a pitch-black graveyard. Coffins were everywhere, some tightly closed, others wide open, but there was not a single person inside.

He spoke softly only after the change was complete.

"Unfortunately, you didn't die."

The laughter abruptly ceased.

Sevatar stared at him blankly and said, "I beg you for an explanation, my esteemed Gene-Father, the great Night Haunter, the Night Haunter of Nostramo, one of the Imperium's most esteemed Primarch."

"You don't need to be like this, Your Excellency, the One and Only Midnight Blade Chapter Master?" Curze asked, half-jokingly.

However, after saying this, he did not wait for Sevatar's reply, but instead turned around and walked towards a certain part of the cemetery.

The esteemed Chapter Master followed him with a stern face.

There is probably no distinction between day and night here, but Sevatar could feel a gentle breeze on his face. The breeze did not carry the familiar smell of ashes, but only a calming power that made him want to fall asleep.

Sevatar posed this question to himself, and half a second later, he received an unexpected answer.

With his back to him, Konrad Curze Curze began, "Magnus found this treasure in the Warp; it's called the Requiem Wind. He thought it was perfect for this graveyard, and it seems he was right."

The Requiem Wind

Sevatar curled his lip, expressing his displeasure to Curze with an expression he would never show within the Chapter.

"Why didn't I know any of these things?" he asked. "Could it be that the divine grace I receive is fake?"

"Why do you have to know?" Curze countered.

"Could you please stop answering with rhetorical questions?"

"Why? It's an ancient legionary tradition. It works well, doesn't it? I don't believe you haven't used this tradition on some people over the past ten thousand years."

"I didn't," Sevatar said. "I've continued many of our traditions, except for this one. I never answer questions with questions; at most, I just don't answer."

Curze chuckled, then suddenly stopped in his tracks, vanishing completely like Ghost in a shadow. The next second, he appeared behind Sevatar and placed his right hand on his shoulder.

"Come on. That government official you threatened 629 years ago gave a very clear account. He said you were holding a chainsaw in one hand and pressing the other on his shoulder, and you even leaned close to him so he could see your white teeth."

"So? Do you need me to repeat what you asked him back then?"

Sevatar remained silent for a long while, then exhaled a breath of stale air, sighed, and shook his head. "I really didn't expect that even after he's dead, he could still sue me."

"He died a heroic death." Curze suddenly smiled. "He was assassinated while traveling to some world to investigate the local lord, who had already fallen into Chaos and become a traitor."

"This official and his team resisted for a total of five hours before being taken down. It has to be said, it's quite a strange coincidence. Mortarion will be quite pleased with this."

"Lord Mortarion?" Sevatar blurted out instinctively. "Why would he be happy about this?"

Curze lowered his head and glanced at him. "Was your use of the word 'adult' sarcastic?"

"Of course not!" Sevatar quickly said. "I'm just your father. You have to understand, not everyone is like us and doesn't like being addressed with honorifics."

"So you often mention Mortarion to people?"

"Yes and no."

Curze chuckled softly. "Alright, I won't say anything more. This is, after all, a matter for you living people—yes, yes, don't remind me in your mind, I know you're still dead, but you'll soon be alive."

"Can I choose not to live?"

"Of course," Curze said. "It's all up to you."

He released his grip on Sevatar's shoulder, then gave him a gentle push. A strong sense of weightlessness instantly washed over him, as if he were falling into an abyss—no, he was indeed falling into an abyss.

A fierce wind swept down from below, but Sevatar stared wide-eyed at his father, who stood expressionless on the edge of the cliff. Konrad Curze Curze's cold face was devoid of any smile, nor any other emotion, only an unfathomable calm.

Sevatar met his gaze, and at that moment, even time seemed to stand still.

Sevatar saw his father raise his hand and tap his forehead with his index finger.

Darkness descended in the next second, completely enveloping him. He had no idea what misfortune awaited him; his father knew, but he could not tell him.

The most unsettling aspect of prophecies lies in the fact that some things cannot be said, and some things cannot be done.

The Night Haunter sighed and turned around, only to see a group of tall Daemon wreathed in black flames.

"What are you doing?" he asked irritably. "You all stayed out just now, letting me provoke him. What are you doing out here now? Watching your poorest brother suffer here?"

"Especially you, Fer, once he remembers those things, the first thing he'll probably have to give up Grak meat."

The Daemon called Fer took a slightly embarrassed step back and spoke in a voice as sharp as blades rubbing together.

"Logically speaking, you should now call me Mourning Bird."

"What?" Curze raised his chin, looking at him coldly. "You never liked this title when you were alive, so why did you suddenly start using it as your real name after becoming a demon?"

"Not really, it's just that... we're not human anymore."

"So?" Curze asked.

His expression was gradually becoming somewhat dangerous. Seeing this, the Daemon wisely coughed and said, "What I mean is, things are a bit unsettled in the divine realm right now. Shouldn't you go and take care of it?"

"Isn't Van Cleef a thing of the past?"

"Company Commander—no, I mean, Van Cleef can certainly keep us in check, but we're not the only ones in Asgard who have a grudge against that bastard. The undead are rioting right now."

The Night Haunter let out a long sigh, then vanished into a Shadow.

--

Kaul Sahora growled as he grabbed the Apothecary, the force so great that it triggered the alarm on the apothecary's armor.

"What do you mean by 'there's no way'?!"

The Apothecary looked him straight in the eye and answered his question, word by word. "It means exactly what it says, Chapter Master."

What does "--" mean?

"--Let's not make things difficult for this Apothecary, Chapter Master."

On a blood-stained cot, Karyl, coughing, joined their conversation.

While artillery fire was tearing through the sky and shaking the earth outside, this place was unusually clean and tidy. Long cables and various equipment were neatly arranged in every corner of the room, while the outside was heavily guarded.

It's a miracle that such a place exists in Litatera, which is being ravaged by Daemon; however, it is, after all, a fortress belonging to the Sons of Red Sand. Considering this, it may not be so surprising.

Furthermore, they also received help from the Shadow Knights.

Centered around this fortress, the Chaos Contamination is being efficiently and rapidly cleaned up by specialized "professionals." According to Kaul's calculations, they will need at most fifty hours to completely remove the Chaos Contamination from Litatera.

"Huh?" The Chapter Master turned around, slightly taken aback. "Wh-what?"

"A similar thing happened a long time ago. The physician who treated me that time was named Jairzinho Guzman, the Apothecary. Do you know him?"

"Of course, instructor!" he uttered without hesitation, causing Kaul's eye to twitch.

"And you, Chapter Master?"

"Of course I've heard of his reputation, Instructor," Kaul replied, straightening his back with meticulous precision. "Who doesn't know the physician who cured Roboute Guilliman?"

A gruesome smile spread across Karyl's bloodied and mangled face. His tendons twitched, his muscles working, a sight too painful to behold. He was laughing, but the two men had no idea why he was laughing.

"Then I won't waste any more words," he said. "Even a physician of such extraordinary skill cannot cure me, so I think we should move these medical instruments to where they are truly needed, what do you say?"

Kaul nodded silently, then waved his hand, and the Servitor began to move the heavy instruments they had painstakingly carried in. The Apothecary bowed, turned, and hurriedly left the room.

Karyl watched him leave, selectively ignoring the fact that he had been glancing at him out of the corner of his eye.

He rolled his eyes, instinctively trying to blink, but his eyelids wouldn't close—they simply didn't exist. How could he close them?

Karyl sighed helplessly, but then he saw Kaul Salah suddenly put on a look of great alarm.

He asked, half-laughing and half-crying, "Chapter Master, what is it?"

"Instructor," Kaul asked cautiously, "Why are you sighing?"

Karyl remained silent for several seconds before he could come up with the right words to answer the question.

"It's just that old habits die hard," he explained briefly. "Also, please speak to me with a normal attitude. I understand that my identity may be somewhat special to you, but I'm afraid I'm not the person you know."

"I don't understand, instructor."

Karyl raised his head and glanced at him with his eyelidless eyes.

"Alright." He nodded slightly. "First of all, when did you begin to get to know me?"

"When I finished the surgery," Kaul said, adding specifically, "The twentieth... I saw a lot. As soon as the surgery was over, I went to the archives on the Nightfall and looked through all the records; your deeds were written down clearly there."

"Deeds?"

Karyl gave another chilling smile at his choice of words. For some reason, this smile made Kaul feel slightly uneasy.

"The word 'deeds' is usually only used for heroes and martyrs, and I am neither. I regret to inform you that what you have seen is probably quite different from the real me, Kaul."

"At the same time, the image you've imagined is completely different from the real me. I understand that you use those stories to motivate yourselves, and although you never call out my name, you do indeed draw inspiration from them."

"You've been doing this for the past ten thousand years. And that's why my image has probably become quite bizarre through your word of mouth."

"I am neither a morally perfect person nor a so-called hero who saved the galaxy. My hands are stained with blood, my personality is extreme and I am easily angered. I like to solve any trouble with simple and direct killing. I am just a reckless man, and what's more, I am now a madman."

He raised his skeletal left hand and pointed to his face.

"I have been mired in darkness for a long time, Chapter Master Kaul, long enough for me to go mad and regain my senses countless times. Now, although I have broken free, I am still in a cycle of madness. Therefore, you do not need to treat me with utmost respect."

"To be realistic, we're just strangers, never met, only known by each other's stories and names. You find it in the archives, while I learn about you from those souls who know you intimately."

"In other words, the title of 'instructor' should perhaps no longer be applied to me. I am an instructor of the Eighth Legion, but not an instructor of the Shadow Knights or any of the Night Lords Squads."

Kaul was speechless for a moment, not knowing how to answer him. Helpless, he could only look into those dark eyes.

It was just a fleeting glance, yet it shook him to his core—he saw two emotions in those eyes and on that blood-soaked face that should never have been there at the same time.

One was calm yet imbued with an indescribable weight, brimming with trust and expectation. The other, however, contained boundless madness, harboring only a thirst for Vengeance; even a mere glance from it could ignite a bloodthirsty impulse in Kaul.

"It seems you understand." Karyl smiled gently. "Thank you for listening to a madman like me, Chapter Master. Could I have some time alone? All of this has happened too fast; I need some time to calm myself down."

Kaul took a deep breath, placed his right hand on his chest in a gesture of respect, and turned to leave the room. As the wooden door gently closed, the smile on Karyl's face vanished completely.

His muscles twitched as he tried to gouge out his own eyes.

The light is too bright and harsh; I don't like light, I don't like it.

Fragmented thoughts, not forming coherent sentences, flashed through his mind. Blood once again soaked the cot, but he silently clenched his eyeballs, turning them into soft, mushy mud.

I've gone mad.

How long will it take to recover?

Ah, Konrad Curze.

In the darkness where there was no light, he called out the name, and then, to his astonishment, he received a reply.

Please look after them for me, Father.

Oh, what bad luck! I just lost my eye.

He burst into silent laughter, his expression utterly deranged. Yet, just half a second later, the laughter vanished completely, leaving only a bitter sadness. Extremely contradictory, extremely bizarre.

+I will, Konrad Curze.+