"Curze, go capture that magic pony."
"Magic pony? Magnus?"
When he heard Lox's words, Curze tilted his head like a black cat, his brain immediately seeming to crash.
"Huh? Me?"
Lox's face darkened, and Curze gradually turned into a fish-headed freak in his eyes.
He kicked him in irritation, but a primarch's body was so powerful that it felt like he had kicked a hatch door. Konrad did not feel a thing.
"Quit the nonsense. Think about it—what else can you do? After the Battle of Thramas, the Eighth Legion was completely scattered by Lion. How many of your sons can you still gather?"
"Sevatar's final order was for the Night Lords to split into six warbands and flee for their lives. Where are they now?"
"You're all alone. What can you do against the rebels? Are you going to assassinate Horus by yourself?"
Hearing Lox's questions, Curze lowered his head and considered them seriously. Yet he quickly realized in despair that Lox was right.
A dignified primarch like him really could not accomplish anything.
Even though he had decided to return to the Imperium, it seemed as though his presence made no difference at all. He was practically the least noticeable primarch in existence.
The Night Haunter could not command massive armies like Lion, nor did he possess Sanguinius's invincible charisma. As long as the Angel appeared on the battlefield, every loyalist of the Imperium would immediately be filled with morale.
Nor could he employ the hit-and-run guerrilla tactics of a stellar cavalryman like Jaghatai Khan, breaking his forces into small units.
The Eighth Legion excelled at infiltration and terror tactics. They could swiftly reclaim disloyal worlds at minimal cost and through the cruelest methods. They often achieved both efficiency and speed, while causing far less damage to a