40k: Midnight Blade.

Chapter 653: Interlude: Eternal Journey

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

This sounds like an unlikely thing to happen. After all, he has left this world forever. Although he still enjoys some small privileges, the fact cannot be changed.

He has shed his mortal body, his spirit has been tempered by the waves of Chaos, and he has crossed a door that should not exist. In short, he is no longer allowed to appear in the material world without a great sacrifice.

The scale must be unprecedented, otherwise, a being as blessed as him would never be allowed to pass through the veil.

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

Let’s get back to the topic. If that’s the case, how did he stand above Terra?
The answer goes back many years, to a man named Gorgo Vandir.

This man had unprecedentedly held three positions simultaneously in the 36th millennium: Pope of the State Religion, Chairman of the Ministry of Political Affairs, and High Lord of Terra. According to subsequent investigation reports, it took Vandir four full 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 the next century, Vandir remained at the center of power in the Empire.

Not even the Sigillite and Regent Sanguinius could get closer to this position than he did. Naturally, his already corrupted and insane mind became even more terrifying.

Vandire began to publicly execute political dissidents, even those who were usually respected and charitable. He required all Rogue Traders to abide by Imperial law 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 soldiers to capture some famous teachers or students in the Psychic Academy, claiming that they were "contaminated". The whereabouts of these people remains a mystery to this day.
So mad was he, that when historians have fervently traced his origins, they have discovered that Gorgo Vandir began as little more than a minor acolyte.

How did he become a tyrant under the eyes of the Scepter and the Regent? What right did he have to get to this point?
No one knows the answer.

All people knew was that after effectively ruling the solar system and half the empire for a century, accumulating countless wealth, and executing countless people, Gorg Vandir issued the last order of his life.

He requested to ascend to the fragment of Terra where the Throne Room was located, along with his own escort, an all-female armed group known as the Emperor's Daughters, and face the Emperor.

After this, no one saw them again. History is done, and Vandire became an eternal traitor and ambitious man.
Of course, all of the above is just official rhetoric, a fabricated history, and Koz has a completely different version of it.

In this version, Gorg Vandir is a devout martyr. Everything he does is ordered by Malcador the Sigillite himself, and their private correspondence would fill a vast library if it had not been destroyed.

And if anyone reads these letters, they will find that all the political skills that Vandiel possesses actually come from the Seal Holder. In other words, he is a good student.

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

Yes, Gorgo Vandir is just a pawn.

Every order he issued and every person he executed was actually ordered by the Master of the Seal. He was just a sharp knife held in the Master's hand. Since he was twenty years old, he no longer had any freedom.
Except when you are about to die.

At that time, he stood side by side with the predecessors of today's Sisters of Battle and ascended to the throne room. The guards seemed to have anticipated 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 and the last drop of water was drunk, and they finally arrived in front of a rotting corpse.

In that instant, the moment Gorgo Vandire saw the Emperor with his own eyes, he was free.

He knelt down, kissed the ground, wept bitterly, and confessed his sins and sufferings. The corpse on the throne was indifferent to this. Only Alicia Dominica, the last surviving nun, heard the Pope's confession.

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

She sent the heart to the corpse, and based on it, with devout faith, she constructed a small dream that could temporarily relieve someone's pain.
But why does Gorg Vandir have such a heart? And what caused this dream to be born?
This is another story.

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

If there were people who knew him well and saw this expression, they would probably know immediately that he did not like this beautiful scenery in the eyes of ordinary people.
"The first Nostramo were all poets and painters, Conrad. Even if you don't like it here, you don't have to look disgusted, right?"

Coz stopped and looked in the direction of the sound. He saw a waist-deep grass, a slope, a stream, and a figure sitting by the stream fishing.

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

"I'm not just making this expression because it's too bright here. You know it very well, old man. Why are you talking to me in official language?"

The fisherman turned around, his dark profile revealing helplessness.

"Conrad"

"No." The Nostramo, who was neither a poet nor a painter, waved his right hand at him and walked across the grass. "Let's solve the problem first, and then we can talk about how fathers and sons can reminisce about the past."

"Okay," the fisherman said. "I guess you're here about Leon?"

"Nonsense, what else?" Koz asked with a sneer. "I'll have to take a lot of rest after I come back from your place."

The fisherman was suddenly silent for a few seconds. The stream was still flowing, and the two fishing rods made of trimmed branches were placed in front of him, still stable, but the basket beside was empty, with no fish to be seen.

".I'm sorry." He suddenly said this in a low voice.

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

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

"You can also apply this to Leon," he said without turning his head.

"I believe in his awareness, but what he is going through now may not be related to sacrifice. After all, it was an old event that happened ten thousand years ago. He has already paid the price and should not pay more for it."

Koz walked behind him and stopped. His voice sounded like whispers in the wind.

"He doesn't have much left, father."

"He still has a lot," the fisherman said, in a way that sounded like a rebuttal, a statement, or a sigh. "His willpower will make him victorious."

"But what will that cost him?" Coates continued to ask, aggressively. "I don't want to see this continue to affect him."

The fisherman turned around and looked at his son quietly.

After a long moment, he said, "You have crossed the line, Conrad." The Night King closed his eyes, clenched his fists, and agreed with him. The fisherman stared at him and continued his story.

"You came here to ask me about your brother. And I want to tell you that your guess is correct. Tzeentch is indeed behind this matter."

Koz opened his eyes, and genuine murderous intent quickly gathered on his pale face.

".And you can't stop it." He said coldly. "Time is closed. The result of ten thousand years ago directly affects the present. Caliban will eventually usher in a civil war, otherwise this 'future' as we know it will not exist."

The fisherman smiled, a complicated smile. He agreed with this statement.

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

He didn't let go of his hands until Koz really stepped into the darkness and left.

The fishing rod fell to the ground.

The world collapses.

The beautiful scene disappeared in an instant. The collapsed debris connected to each other illogically, stacked and twisted under the blood-red setting sun, forming an absurd and terrifying doomsday scene.

The wonders of Terra from every era exist in it, including goddesses holding torches, city walls stretching for thousands of miles, and bronze killing machines as high as 10,000 meters. They are driven by witchcraft and flesh and blood, and the sea of ​​blood they set off once threatened to drown the entire world.
But, in addition to these, some places that are worthy of being called "home" are also mixed in.

There are villages, mud houses, large rice fields, and a river. There are also wooden houses surrounded by snow and needle-like trees, with chimneys still emitting hot steam - and the most eye-catching place among these "homes" is probably a cold laboratory.

It stands out from the crowd, surpassing the simple and equal brick kilns and the towering imperial palace soaked in the blood and sweat of the people.

The reason was nothing more than twenty floating baby nutrition tanks.

A man stood before them.

The fisherman walked towards him.

"My masterpiece." The man muttered to himself.

Yes, your masterpiece. The fisherman agreed silently.

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

The lit screens and running machines could not answer his questions, and his best friend was busy with other important matters and could not offer him any advice, so he had to make up his own mind.

The twenty-one babies in the nutrient tanks had no idea that their fate was about to undergo a drastic change and they just slept soundly and peacefully.

They have become human beings, but they have not yet opened their eyes. They have been pre-implanted with knowledge about the world, and the man has instilled in them all the knowledge he thought might be helpful.

Whenever they encounter danger, the corresponding knowledge will emerge from the depths of their minds. He has mixed feelings at the moment. He hopes that this knowledge can help them in such a situation, but he also hopes that they will never have to put it into practice.
The fisherman laughed secretly.

How complicated is human nature.

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 beyond reason and are an extremely sharp double-edged sword. They can allow humans to break through their limits and create miracles that they dare not even imagine, but they can also turn them into monsters.
This is what men consider.

He didn't know what to do. Indeed, for the future he had woven, twenty-one superhumans with feelings would most likely disrupt all his arrangements, plans and preparations.

From a rational point of view, he should wipe out their feelings now and brainwash them. In this way, he can get twenty-one perfect generals, leaders and kings. Completely fair, absolutely excellent, and with the blade facing outward.

The latter seems a hundred times better than the former, but the problem is that men have done things entirely on their own rationality countless times in the past.
He has learned his lesson too many times.

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

The child ignored him. There was a mechanical umbilical cord in his belly button, so he naturally couldn't 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 kids," he told himself.

The fisherman nodded.

"A moment of weakness." A voice came from behind him, faint and very calm. "What was the result?"

Without turning his head, the fisherman replied: "You have given us a most promising future, Malcador."

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

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

The fisherman turned his head.

"——The throne room detected abnormal psychic fluctuations, and the energy level was very large." The seal holder said to himself. "So I immediately dropped what I was doing and rushed over to check it out."

"What conclusions did you draw from your examination?"

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

"and then?"

"That's all, Your Majesty. By the way, I don't think your disguise of your dream could have fooled Conrad Curze. He already knows what you're doing, and he won't sit idly by and watch you bleed to death."

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

He smiled.

(End of this chapter)