40k: Midnight Blade

Leaving the darkness behind, its whispers and the countless requests for revenge that followed, Konrad Curze stood on Terra.

It seemed an unlikely thing to happen, after all, he was gone forever. Although he still enjoyed some small privileges, the fact was unchangeable.

He had shed his mortal body, and his spirit had been tempered by the waves of Chaos, crossing a door that should not exist. In short, he was no longer allowed to appear in the material world unless someone made a great sacrifice.

That scale would have to be unprecedented, otherwise a being like him who was blessed by God would never be allowed to pass through the veil.

If someone really did do this, the scene would surely be beautiful.

Back to the topic, if so, how did he stand on Terra?

The answer goes back many years, to a man named Gorgo Vandir.

This man had unprecedentedly served as the Pope of the State Religion, the Chairman of the Ministry of Political Affairs, and the High Lord of Terra at the same time in the 36th millennium. According to the subsequent investigation report, it took Vandire four centuries to accomplish this.

The means he used included but were not limited to bribery, coercion, intimidation and assassination - his madness brought him equally rich rewards. For a whole century after that, Vandire always stood at the center of power in the Empire.

Even the Sigillite and Regent Sanguinius could not get closer to this position than him. As it should be, his already corrupt and crazy mind became even more terrifying.

Vandire began to publicly execute political dissidents, even if those people were respected and kind on weekdays. He required all Rogue Traders to abide by the laws of the Empire and elect a representative to return to Terra every year to present him with a "book of accounts".

He even dared to send his own troops to capture some of the famous teachers or students in the School of Psychic Powers, claiming that they were "contaminated", and the whereabouts of these people remain a mystery to this day.

He was so crazy that, strangely, when historians traced his roots with enthusiasm, they found that Gorgo Vandire was just a small acolyte at first.

How did he become a tyrant under the noses of the Sigillite and the Regent? What made him reach this point?

No one knows the answer.

People only know that after ruling the Sol System and half of the Empire for a century, accumulating countless wealth and executing countless people, Gorgo Vandire issued the last order of his life.

He asked to ascend the fragment of Terra where the throne room was located with his guard regiment, an armed group of all women called the Emperor's Daughters, and meet the Emperor.

After that, no one saw them again. History is done, and Vandire has become an eternal rebel and ambitious man.

Of course, all of the above are just official rhetoric, a history that was artificially fabricated. Curze has a completely different version of this.

In this version, Gorg Vandire is a devout martyr. Everything he did was personally instructed by the Sigillite Malcador. If they had not been destroyed, the private letters they exchanged could even fill a huge library.

And if anyone reads these letters, they will find that all the political skills Vandire has actually come from the Sigillite. In other words, he is a good student.

Not only that, they will also see a huge conspiracy network woven by the Sigillite himself from the secret letters delivered by the mute guards.

Yes, Gorg Vandire is just a pawn.

Every order he issued and every person he executed was actually instructed by the Sigillite. He is just a sharp knife held in the Sigillite's hand. Since the age of 20, he has no freedom at all.

Except when he is about to die.

He then stood shoulder to shoulder with the predecessors of today's Sisters of Battle, and ascended the throne room. The Custodians seemed to have expected their arrival, and none of them tried to stop them.

They walked into the darkness for months. Until the last bit of food was consumed, the last drop of clean water was drunk, they finally arrived in front of a corpse.

In that moment, the moment when Gorg Vandire saw the Emperor with his own eyes, he was free again.

He knelt, kissed the ground, wept bitterly, and confessed his sins and sufferings. The corpse on the throne was indifferent, and only the last survivor of the Sisters, Alicia Dominica, heard the Pope's confession.

Then, as ordered, she swung her sword to cut off his head, cut open his chest, and took out his heart. At that time, the Sister's gauntlets were stained with blood, but the heart she held in her hands was clear as gold.

She sent the heart to the corpse, and with it as a foundation, she built a small dream that could temporarily relieve someone's pain with her devout faith.

But why did Gogo Vandir have such a heart? What caused this dream?

That's another story.

The breeze blew and the temperature was just right. The sun was shining overhead, and the dew-covered grass swayed in the wind, reflecting the light. Conrad Curz walked forward expressionlessly, ignoring the beautiful scenery in his dream.

If some people who knew him were here and saw this expression, they would probably know immediately that he didn't like the beautiful scenery in the eyes of ordinary people.

"The first group of Nostramo people were all poets and painters, Conrad. Even if you don't like it here, you don't have to put on a disgusting expression, right?"

Kurtz stopped and looked at the direction from which the sound came. He saw a waist-deep grassland, a downhill slope, a creek, and a silhouette sitting by the creek fishing.

He walked over there, but his expression remained unchanged, and even his tone of reply seemed cold.

"I don't put on this expression just because it's too bright here. You know it very well, old guy, why are you talking to me in such a bureaucratic manner?"

The fisherman turned around, his dark profile showing helplessness.

"Conrad"

"No." The Nostramo, who was neither a poet nor a painter, waved his right hand to him and walked across the grass. "Let's solve the problem first, and then we can talk about how father and son reconnect with each other."

"Okay." said the fisherman. "I guess you're here because of Leon's affairs?"

"Nonsense, otherwise?" Cozz asked with a sneer. "Come to your place. I'll have a lot of rest after I go back."

Suddenly, the fisherman was silent for several seconds because of these words. The stream was still the same, and the two fishing rods trimmed from branches were placed in front of him, still stable, but the basket placed beside it was empty, and half of the fish could not be seen.

".I'm sorry." Suddenly, he said this in a low voice.

"Stop apologizing," Curze said softly. "Sacrifice is necessary. One more of me is not enough, but one less of me is not enough."

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

"What you said can also be applied to Leon." He said without looking back.

"I believe in his consciousness, but what he is going through now probably has little to do with sacrifice. Ultimately, it was an old thing that happened ten thousand years ago. He has already paid the price, and he should not have to pay more for it. "

Curze walked behind him and just stopped. In the wind, his voice sounded like a whisper.

"There's not much left of him, Father."

"He still has a lot more," the fisherman said, seeming to be a retort, a statement, or a sigh. "His willpower will allow him to win."

"But what price does that require him to pay?" Coz continued to ask aggressively without giving in. "I don't want to see this continue to affect him."

The fisherman turned back and looked at his son quietly.

After a long moment he said, "You've crossed a line, Conrad."

The Night King closed his eyes, clenched his fists, and agreed with his words. The fisherman stared at him and continued his story.

"You are here to ask me about your brother. And I want to tell you that your guess is not wrong. There is indeed Tzeentch's motivation behind this matter."

Curze opened his eyes, and genuine murderous intent quickly condensed on his pale face.

".And you can't stop it." He said coldly. "Time is closed. The results of thousands of years ago have a direct impact on the present. Caliban will eventually usher in a civil strife, otherwise the 'future' as we know it will not exist."

The fisherman smiled with a complicated smile. He acquiesced to this statement.

The gentle wind was still blowing, and the dewdrops slid off the grass blades, seeped into the soil, and disappeared silently. Conrad Coates turned around and was about to leave. The fisherman did not stop him, but sighed silently, still holding the fishing rod in his hand.

It wasn't until Kurtz really stepped into the darkness and left that he let go of his hands.

The fishing rod fell to the ground.

The world collapses.

The beautiful scene disappeared in an instant, and the collapsed wreckage was connected to each other without logic, stacked and twisted under the blood-red sunset, forming a ridiculous and terrifying apocalyptic scene.

The wonders and scenery of Terra from all eras exist in it. There are goddesses holding torches, city walls that stretch thousands of miles, and bronze killing machines that are 10,000 meters high. Powered by witchcraft and flesh, the sea of ​​​​blood they set off once threatened to flood the entire world.

However, in addition, some places that can be called 'home' are also mixed in.

There are villages, mud houses, and large rice fields, located next to a river. There are also wooden houses, surrounded by snow and long needle-like trees, with hot steam coming out of the chimneys - and among these 'homes', the most eye-catching place is probably a cold laboratory.

It overwhelmed the simple and egalitarian brick kilns and the majestic palace soaked in the blood and sweat of the people, and stood out from this gathering.

The reason is simply because of the twenty nutrition tanks with floating babies.

A man stood before them.

The fisherman walked towards him.

"My masterpiece," the man muttered.

Yes, your masterpiece. The fisherman silently agreed.

"What should I do to you?" the man asked in confusion. However, there was no one in the laboratory except him.

Those bright screens and running machines couldn't answer his questions, and his close friends were dealing with other important things and couldn't provide him with any advice, so he could only make up his own mind.

The twenty-one babies in the nutrition tank had no idea that their fate was about to change dramatically, and they just slept peacefully.

They have become human, but have not yet opened their eyes. They are pre-programmed with knowledge of the world, and the man instills in them whatever knowledge he imagines might be helpful.

Whenever they encounter danger, the corresponding knowledge will emerge from the depths of their minds. He had mixed feelings at the moment. He hoped that this knowledge could help them in that situation, but he also hoped that they would never have to put it into practice.

The fisherman chuckled to himself.

How complex, human nature is.

The man frowned and paced back and forth. He was thinking about something, something far more important than implanting knowledge—should he implant feelings?

A person without emotions cannot be called a human being. Emotions are something that transcends reason and are an extremely sharp double-edged sword. It can not only allow humans to break through their limits and create miracles that they even dare not imagine, but it can also allow them to transform into monsters.

This is what men consider.

He didn't know what he was going to do. Indeed, for the future he was weaving, twenty-one superhuman beings with feelings would most likely disrupt all his arrangements, plans and preparations.

From a rational point of view, he should take advantage of now to erase their feelings and brainwash them. In this way, he would have twenty-one perfect generals, leaders, and kings. Completely fair, absolutely excellent, with the blade facing outward.

The latter looks a hundred times better than the former, but the problem is that men have done things purely based on their own rationality countless times in the past.

He has learned his lesson too many times.

The man sighed and stopped, just in front of the sixteenth nutrient tank. He simply raised his hand and knocked on the jar, trying to wake up the sleeping baby inside.

The child ignored him. There was still a mechanical umbilical cord inserted into his navel, so it was naturally impossible for him to react to the man's tapping. The man himself probably realized how weird this behavior was. He laughed dumbly, but his shoulders suddenly sank.

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

The fisherman nodded.

"A momentary softness of heart." A voice came from behind him, light and very calm. "What was the result?"

The fisherman replied without looking back: "Give us the brightest future, Malcador."

The scepter holding the scepter walked up to him and stood side by side with him, staring at the scene in front of him, watching the man dash back and forth between data and machinery.

After a long time, he suddenly said: "Fifteen minutes ago, Waldo submitted an urgent report to me——"

The fisherman turned his head.

"——Abnormal psychic energy fluctuations were detected in the throne room, and the energy level was very high." The person holding the seal said to himself. "So I immediately dropped what I was doing and rushed over to check."

"What conclusions did you find?"

"Nothing, just that our dying Majesty met one of his dead sons in a dream."

"Then what?"

"No more, Your Majesty. By the way, I don't think the disguise you used to disguise your dream could be hidden from Konrad Curze. He already knows what you are doing, and he will not sit back and watch you bleed dry. ”

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

He smiled.