Interlude: Eternal Ordeal

Leaving behind the darkness, its whispers, and the countless pleas for Vengeance that followed, Konrad Curze Curze stood firmly on Terra.

This sounds like an unlikely thing to happen, after all, he has left this world forever. Although he may still enjoy some small privileges, the fact remains unchanged.

He has shed his mortal body, and his spirit has been tempered in the waves of Chaos, crossing a door that should not exist. To put it simply, he is no longer allowed to appear in the material world unless someone undertakes a massive sacrifice.

The scale must be unprecedented; otherwise, there would be no way that someone as blessed as him could be allowed to pass through the Veil.

If someone actually did that, the scene would surely be beautiful.

Getting back to the main point, if that's the case, how did he come to be above Terra?

The answer goes back many years, to a man named Gogo van Vandire.

This person held three unprecedented positions simultaneously during the thirty-sixth millennium: Ecclesiarch, Chairman of the Administratum, and Lord of Terra High Lord. According to the post-investigation report, it took Vandire a full four centuries to accomplish this.

The methods he used included, but were not limited to, bribery, coercion, intimidation, and assassination—his madness brought him equally rich rewards, and for a whole century thereafter, Vandire remained at the center of the Imperium's power.

Even the Sigillites and Lord Regent Sanguinius could not come closer to this position than him. As a matter of course, his already depraved and insane mind became even more terrifying.

Vandire began publicly executing political dissidents, even those who were usually highly respected and charitable. He required all Rogue Trader to abide by Imperium laws and to elect a representative to return to Terra each year to present him with an "account book."

He even dared to send his private army to arrest some of the more renowned teachers or students at the Scholastica Psykana, claiming they had been "contaminated," and their whereabouts remain a mystery to this day.

He was so insane that, strangely enough, when historians enthusiastically traced his origins, they discovered that Gauguin van Vandire had initially been nothing more than a minor acolyte.

How exactly did he become a tyrant right under the noses of the Sigillites and the Lord Regent? What gave him the right to reach this point?

No one knows the answer.

All people know is that after ruling the Sol System and half Imperium in a substantial sense for a century, amassed countless riches, and executed countless people, Gogo van Vandire issued the last order of his life.

He requested to ascend the Terra shard containing the Throne room with his guard, an all-female armed group known as the Daughters of the Emperor, and to meet the Emperor.

After that, no one ever saw them again. History was set in stone, and Vandire became the eternal rebel and ambitious man.

Of course, all of the above are just official statements, fabricated history. Curze has a completely different version of the story.

In this version, Gaugo van Vandire is a devout martyr. Everything he does is at the personal behest of the Sigillites Malcador, and their private correspondence, if not destroyed, could fill an entire vast library.

If anyone reads these letters, they will find that all of Vandire's political maneuvering actually comes from the Sigillites; in other words, he is a good student.

Moreover, they will also discover a vast web of conspiracies woven by the Sigillites himself from the secret letters passed by the Silent Guards.

Yes, Gogo van Vandire was just a pawn.

Every order he issued, every person he executed, was in fact at the behest of the Sigillites. He was merely a sharp knife held in the Sigillites's hand, and since the age of twenty, he had never had any freedom whatsoever.

Except when one is dying.

At that moment, he stood shoulder to shoulder with the predecessors of the current Sisters of Battle, ascending to the Throne Room. The Adeptus Custodes seemed to have anticipated their arrival, and none of them tried to stop them.

They walked into the darkness for months. Only when their last bit of food was consumed and their last drop of water was drunk did they finally reach a rotting corpse.

In that instant, the instant Gauguin van Vandire saw the Emperor with his own eyes, he regained his freedom.

He knelt, kissed the ground, wept bitterly, and recounted his sins and suffering. The rotting corpse on the Throne remained unmoved; only Alicia Dominica, the last surviving nun, heard the Pope's confession.

Then, as ordered, she swung her sword and beheaded him, then cut open his chest and took out his heart. At that moment, the nun's gauntlets were stained with blood, but the heart she held in her hands was as clear as gold.

She delivered the heart to the decaying corpse, and using it as a foundation, along with her devout faith, she constructed a small dream capable of temporarily alleviating someone's suffering.

But why would Gauguin van Vandire have such a heart? And what caused this dream to arise?

That's another story.

A gentle breeze blew, and the temperature was just right. The sun shone brightly overhead, and the dew-laden grass swayed in the wind, the dew reflecting the Radiance. Konrad Curze Curze walked forward expressionlessly, oblivious to this dreamlike scene.

If someone familiar with him were here and saw this expression, they would probably immediately realize that he didn't particularly like this beautiful scenery in the eyes of ordinary people.

"The first group of Nostramo were all poets and painters, Konrad Curze. Even if you don't like it here, there's no need to make that disgusted face, is there?"

Curze stopped and looked in the direction the sound came from. He saw a waist-high grassy area, a downhill slope, a stream, and a figure sitting by the stream fishing.

He walked over there, his expression unchanged, and even his tone of voice was indifferent.

"I'm not putting on this expression simply because it's too bright in here, you know that perfectly well, old man. Why are you giving me that bureaucratic talk?"

The fisherman turned around, his dark profile revealing a sense of helplessness.

Konrad Curze

"No." The Nostramo native, neither poet nor painter, waved his right hand at him and crossed the meadow. "Let's resolve this issue first, and then we can talk about how father and son can reminisce."

"Alright," the fisherman said. "I guess you're here because of Lion?"

"Nonsense, what else?" Curze retorted with a sneer. "After coming all this way, I'll need a lot of rest when I get back."

Suddenly, the fisherman fell silent for a few seconds at those words. The stream flowed as before, and the two fishing rods, trimmed from tree branches, stood firmly in front of him, but the basket beside him was empty, not a single fish in sight.

"I'm sorry," he said suddenly, his voice low.

"Don't apologize," Curze said softly. "Sacrifice is necessary. One more of me won't make a difference, but one less won't do."

The fisherman sighed and slowly stood up. He didn't look tall, but he had broad shoulders and skin as rough as parchment. He turned his head, reached out and grabbed his fishing rods, pulling them out of the river together and holding them in his hand.

"Your words could also be applied to Lion," he said without turning his head.

"I believe in his awareness, but what he's going through now probably has little to do with sacrifice. Ultimately, it's an old story from ten thousand years ago; he's already paid the price, and he shouldn't have to pay any more."

Curze stopped behind him. His voice sounded like a whisper in the wind.

"He has very little left, Father."

"He still has many," the fisherman said, his words sounding like a rebuttal, a statement, and a sigh. "His willpower will lead him to victory."

"But what price will he have to pay?" Curze pressed relentlessly. "I don't want this to continue to affect him."

The fisherman turned around and looked quietly at his son.

After a long pause, he said, "You've crossed the line, Konrad Curze."

The Night Haunter closed his eyes, clenched his fists, and agreed. The fisherman gazed at him and continued his story.

"You've come here to inquire about your brother. And I must tell you, your suspicions are correct; there is indeed Tzeentch force at play behind this."

Curze opened his eyes, and genuine killing intent quickly gathered on his pale face.

"And you can't stop it," he said coldly. "Time has closed its loop; the outcome ten thousand years ago directly affects the present. Caliban will eventually face internal strife; otherwise, the 'future' we know wouldn't exist."

The fisherman laughed, a complex smile. He tacitly agreed with this statement.

The gentle breeze continued to blow, dewdrops slid off the grass blades, seeped into the soil, and disappeared without a trace. Konrad Curze Curze turned to leave. The fisherman did not stop him, but sighed silently, still holding his fishing rod.

He only let go of her hands after Curze had actually stepped into the darkness and left.

The fishing rod fell to the ground.

The world collapsed.

The beautiful scene vanished in an instant, and the collapsed ruins connected illogically, piling up and twisting under the blood-red setting sun into a grotesque and terrifying apocalyptic landscape.

The wonders of Terra from every era are present, including goddesses holding torches, endless city walls, and towering bronze killing machines, driven by witchcraft and flesh, whose seas of blood once threatened to engulf the entire world.

However, besides these, some places that could be called "home" are also mixed in.

There are villages, mud houses, and large rice paddies nestled beside a river. There are also wooden houses, surrounded by snow and needle-like trees, with chimneys still emitting heat—but perhaps the most striking place among these "homes" is a cold laboratory.

It surpassed the simple and egalitarian brick kilns and the magnificent Imperial Palace soaked in the blood and sweat of the people, standing out from this gathering place.

The reason for this was simply because of twenty nutrient tanks containing floating babies.

A man stood in front of them.

The fisherman approached him.

"My masterpiece," the man murmured to himself.

"Yes, your masterpiece," the fisherman silently agreed.

"What am I supposed to do with you all?" the man asked, bewildered. However, the laboratory was empty except for him.

The lit screens and running machines couldn't answer his questions, and his close friends were busy with other important matters and couldn't offer any advice, so he had to make the decision himself.

The twenty-one babies inside the nutrient tanks were completely unaware of the dramatic changes that were about to happen to their lives; they were simply sleeping peacefully.

They had become human, but had not yet opened their eyes. They had been pre-implanted with knowledge about the world; the man had instilled in them everything he could think of that might be helpful.

Whenever danger arises, the corresponding knowledge will surface from the depths of their minds. His feelings were complex; he hoped this knowledge would help them in such situations, but he also hoped they would never have to put it into practice.

The fisherman chuckled to himself.

How complex human nature is.

The man paced back and forth, his brows furrowed. He was contemplating something far more important than implanting knowledge—whether or not to implant emotion.

A person without emotions cannot be called human. Emotions transcend reason; they are an extremely sharp double-edged sword. They can enable humans to push their limits and create miracles they never dared to imagine, or they can transform them into monsters.

And that's exactly what men consider.

He didn't know what to do. Indeed, for the future he had woven, twenty-one superhuman beings with emotions were very likely to disrupt all his arrangements, plans, and preparations.

From a rational perspective, he should take this opportunity to erase their feelings and brainwash them. In this way, he could obtain twenty-one perfect generals, leaders, and kings—completely fair, absolutely excellent, and with their blades turned outwards.

The latter seems a hundred times better than the former, but the problem is that men have acted entirely on their own rationality countless times in the past.

He has learned his lesson far too many times.

The man sighed and stopped in front of the sixteenth nutrient tank. He raised his hand and tapped the tank, trying to wake the sleeping baby inside.

The child ignored him; with the mechanical umbilical cord still attached to his navel, he naturally couldn't react to the man's tapping. The man himself probably realized how strange his behavior was; he chuckled, but his shoulders suddenly slumped.

"It's just twenty-one children," he told himself.

The fisherman nodded.

"A moment of weakness." A voice came from behind him, faint and calm. "And what a result it caused?"

Without turning his head, the fisherman replied, "He has given us the brightest future, Malcador."

The scepter Sigillites walked to his side and stood beside him, gazing at the scene before them, watching the man rush back and forth between data and machinery.

After a long silence, he suddenly spoke, "Fifteen minutes ago, Valdor submitted an urgent report to me—"

The fisherman turned his head.

"--An unusual psionic fluctuation was detected in the Throne room, with a very high energy level," the Sigillites said to himself. "So I immediately dropped everything and rushed over to investigate."

What conclusions did you reach from the examination?

"It's nothing, it's just that our dying emperor met one of his dead sons in a dream."

"Then what?"

"That's all, Your Majesty. By the way, I don't believe your previous disguise of your dreams could have fooled Konrad Curze Curze. He already knows what you're doing, and he won't stand by and watch you bleed to death."

"I'm afraid I still have much to lose," the fisherman said.

He smiled slightly.