Fourteen days. Have they already passed?
This short period of study had been incredibly intense for him. He was distracted only once, and after that – never again.
Fulgrim even tried to find out if Kariel had said anything to him, assuring Curze that he shouldn't be so serious. But Konrad Curze only denied everything with a smile.
In fact, Kariel never asked about his studies or his academic progress.
He didn't need to ask.
And now...
"It's time for us to leave, brother."
Standing on the deck of the "Emperor Sovnium," the Chemosian said this with special solemnity.
"The galaxy is vast, and several of our brothers are still lost among the stars, just like you. Everyone is looking for them, and neither Father nor we will abandon them in trouble. Therefore, as agreed, we are leaving."
Konrad Curze nodded silently. At such an important moment, he had no idea what to say. He wanted to express so much, but not a single word escaped his lips.
Besides the Primarchs, there was no one on deck. Curze didn't know whose order it was, but he guessed.
Why don't you show yourself even now?
He pursed his lips and nodded. Fulgrim clapped himself on the chest with a smile. He was no longer wearing his favorite purple robes – he was dressed formally, and he held a thick notebook in his hands.
"At our next meeting, I'll tell you what name I gave her, agreed?" Fulgrim asked, winking.
"Alright."
Ferrus Manus stepped forward and smiled.
Over the past few days, Curze had seen his smile many times, but, frankly, for the first time, it was so natural.
"We will definitely meet again, brother. And it won't be long."
Next was Rogal Dorn. The "Rock" calmly approached and nodded to him.
"Take care of yourself, Konrad," he said impassively, but very sincerely and seriously.
"And that's all you wanted to say?" Fulgrim exclaimed incredulously. "We've been discussing this for several days!.."
...He didn't say anything," Rogal Dorn interrupted calmly. "Don't mind him, Konrad. In general..."
He paused and finally placed his right hand on the shoulder of his brother, who was still shorter than him.
"See you, brother. Definitely take care of yourself."
Having said this, he stepped back. Lorgar Aurelian approached with a complex expression. At the sight of him, Curze's face also became complicated.
...I don't know what to say, brother," Lorgar said hoarsely. "But please believe me, I wish you no harm."
Looking into those eyes, Curze nodded quietly.
He knew Lorgar wasn't lying. Perhaps Lorgar Aurelian had said something superfluous to Kariel, but that didn't mean he should reject him himself.
If he did that, Kariel would be the first to express his displeasure.
"I believe you, Lorgar," he said quietly. "But I also ask you not to speak like that about Kariel anymore..."
Instead of an answer, the giant with golden skin merely sighed heavily. Clasping his folio tightly in his hands, he gave his brother a sad, but still warm smile.
"See you, brother. They've wished you to take care of yourself many times already, so I won't repeat myself. But I will pray for you. Every day."
Lorgar Aurelian pursed his lips. "Peace be with you, and peace be with Nostramo."
"Thank you."
The moments of farewell passed imperceptibly. The Primarchs left, and the deck became empty again. But Konrad Curze still stood there, as if waiting for something.
Five minutes later, a tall giant appeared from the other end of the deck. He walked past the huge portholes with an unperturbed air, as if he were born for this place.
"Konrad," he greeted. "How is it?"
...Ten minutes left," Konrad Curze replied quietly. "They will dock with the 'Emperor Sovnium' right here... That ship is called 'Nightfall'."
"'Nightfall'... It sounds very much like Nostramo."
The giant smiled. He was much taller than Konrad Curze, but their faces were equally pale, and their eyes were equally bottomlessly black.
"So, have you decided what you're going to do?" Kariel asked softly. "I remember we discussed this last night."
...Fulgrim said I needed a speech, but without notes.
"Hmm, a speech," Kariel nodded. "Yes, for such an important occasion, a speech is necessary. Improvisation... is also not bad."
"And also... I'm going to remember all their names," Konrad Curze said seriously.
Kariel raised his eyebrows in surprise. "That's not an easy task, Konrad."
"You know there are twenty thousand of them? It's not a lot compared to other Legions, but twenty thousand names... You'll have to connect each name with a face and character. Are you really going to do this?"
"Yes," Konrad Curze replied firmly.
"If this is truly my Legion, then I must do so. I must respect them, shouldn't I, Kariel?"
The giant, to whom he addressed, laughed after a brief silence.
"Yes, you're right. You must respect them. Alright, while there's time, remember what else we discussed yesterday?"
...
"Konrad?"
...
"Come on, Konrad. We agreed."
"You're already good," the Night Haunter hissed.
A strange expression appeared on Kariel's face. He asked quietly, "Yes? And how are you going to explain my presence to them – a giant four meters twenty centimeters tall?"
...I don't know.
"No, no, you can't answer them 'I don't know'."
Kariel laughed again, this time with a hint of despair. "Come on, tell me, how will you introduce me?"
...You're a Nostramian.
"Great, and then?"
...You raised me.
"Just a partner."
"Kariel, can you stop with that word already?"
"Why?"
...Say it one more time, and I'll tell them I don't know.
Kariel raised his hands in an ancient gesture in surprise. "Alright. And then what?"
"You..." The Night Haunter blinked, raised his head, and began to fiddle with the pendant Fulgrim had given him on his chest. "...you were rewarded by the Emperor for this. He changed you, that's why you grew to four meters twenty."
...Inventing a completely implausible story is almost the same as lying, Konrad," Kariel frowned. "I don't remember teaching you to lie. And how will you make them believe that the Emperor's technology can grow a person to four twenty? I'm taller than you!"
"Then what should we do?" the Haunter asked in confusion. "I don't want you to disguise yourself with psychic powers, it's so strange."
"What exactly is strange?"
"It's just strange, that's all," the Haunter repeated stubbornly.
...
Kariel couldn't help but sigh. "Let's put this question aside for now. But I won't appear before them immediately. You'll meet them first, give a speech, take the parade. What do you think?"
"And where are you going?"
"Nowhere," Kariel sighed, touching his temple. Two points of deathly blue light flashed and extinguished, and he dissolved into the air.
The Night Haunter's eyes widened. "Kariel?"
"I'm here," a familiar voice sounded nearby. "That's how we'll do it, Haunter... no, Konrad Curze. Don't speak Nostramian on the ship anymore, understand?"
"Oh..."
"Straighten your back."
"Oh."
...And remember, don't be nervous.
"Alright!"
...
Deep breath.
Deep breath, calm down, Fell Jarost. You've imagined this moment millions of times, haven't you?
Nothing to worry about, keep your composure, coolness, maintain the pride and honor inherent in you as a warrior of the glorious Eighth Legion.
Let your genetic father see you, let him be proud, let him smile...
Deep breath.
Fell Jarost irritably opened his eyes.
A nauseatingly pale face loomed before him, its owner even deliberately tapped his fingers against each other, making a metallic clatter. This sound was the main reason that interrupted his meditation.
"By the genetic father, Adephiman Basli, if you make that annoying noise again, I'll send you to the infirmary for six weeks!" he roared.
"Oh, for six weeks? The medics will kill me."
Although his words sounded concerned, a triumphant smirk played on Adephiman Basli's pale face.
He tapped his chest plate, where the Imperial Aquila stood out so brightly. The MK-II 'Crusader' Power Armour reflected light flawlessly, and the hinges, generously lubricated, had clearly undergone maintenance recently.
He bared his teeth and began to mock openly. "Look at yourself, Lord Jarost. Is there anything left of the warrior of the Eighth Legion in you?"
"We were chosen by the Emperor for redemption, we are judges of crimes, we foiled the conspiracy on Saragorn, we destroyed those heretics who secretly bred psykers! And you're so nervous now?!"
He rolled his eyes and wailed loudly: "Almighty Emperor, help me forget Fell Jarost! He is so far from the reliable man I remember!"
Taking a deep breath, Fell Jarost slowly stood up.
He was also clad in precious MK-II armor. Dark blue and black tones dominated its coloring, a human skull was skillfully painted in white on the faceplate of the helmet, and the sign of the double-headed eagle shone on the right pauldron.
"Will you ever finish? I know why you're acting like this, Adephiman," he asked, suppressing his anger.
"I already said I voted to resign out of duty. Do you even understand the situation, Adephiman? Is all you have in your head this pathetic thirst for power?"
"Power?" Adephiman smirked, but it was a cold smirk. "I don't give a damn about power!"
"I am your second, your second! Sec-ond! Fell Jarost!" he blurted out in High Gothic mixed with Terran slang.
"You are our captain and librarian, what the hell did you decide to resign?! If the genetic father appoints a new captain of the third company, how are our brothers supposed to react? Huh? And never mind what that guy will feel, you tell me, what are we supposed to do?"
Fell Jarost pursed his lips, suppressing his anger. He saw Adephiman's pain and understood its cause perfectly.
But...
"This decision was made jointly by the eight company captains and all the squad sergeants after forty-seven meetings, Adephiman."
"We unanimously decided to resign, retaining only basic ranks and structure so that the Primarch could more easily accept and lead his Legion. Tell me, Adephiman, is this decision unfair?"
Adephiman Basli did not answer.
"Answer me, Adephiman Basli!" Fell Jarost commanded in his usual commanding tone.
And immediately...
...Fair, Captain!" Adephiman replied quietly. "Absolutely fair, no complaints."
Fell Jarost looked at the warrior who had lowered his head, at his brother, and after a brief silence, sighed.
"You really need me to yell at you, to use this power that I've already given up, only then will you be satisfied, right?"
"Only Fell Jarost can be the captain of the third company," Adephiman replied quietly.
"Don't make a saint out of me..." Fel shook his head.
"We are all sons of criminals, our souls are burdened with sin. Every battle we fight is atonement, every second of our lives is stolen time, and only by the Emperor's mercy do we stand here..."
"But you, at least, are better than some," Adephiman said quietly. It didn't sound like an objection, but rather a statement of fact. But his words made Fel frown sharply.
"Better than some what?" Fel looked at him sternly.
"Those very ones. You know who I'm talking about, Captain."
"Call me Fel, or Jarost, or just brother."
...In short, you know who I'm talking about.
"We are all mired in sin, but they don't appreciate this precious chance..." Adephiman said quietly. "They, like their fathers, deserve death."
"Watch your words, Adephiman, they are also our brothers."
Adephiman shook his head, not arguing. He left the quiet meditation room and headed for the bridge, leaving Fell Jarost alone.
Fel stood calmly in place, anxiety reflected on his face. Although he did not agree with Adephiman's words, deep down he knew he was right.
The Eighth Legion was a glorious legion, but few knew that from its very birth, it had already tasted much blood.
Recruits for it were recruited from the underground prisons of Terra, which had effectively turned into a huge Underhive.
No light, no fresh air, eternal darkness was the norm, and any glimmer of light was a gift from heaven.
In such conditions, the prisoners gradually degenerated, becoming cruel, strong, and cunning. At the same time, their skin became deathly pale, and their character – silent and withdrawn.
They called themselves the Night Lords, and those who lived above never interacted with them, leaving them to themselves.
This was the case until the Emperor's arrival.
He chose the sons of prisoners, led them out of the dark prisons, and gave them a new life...
Fell Jarost closed his eyes in pain, interrupting his memories of the Legion's dark past. He didn't understand why the Emperor had chosen them, but he wasn't going to delve into the reasons.
Oh, Emperor, some in Your Legion have forgotten Your mercy and unknowingly followed in the footsteps of their fathers... What should we do?
His question remained unanswered. The floor trembled, a slow hum of mechanisms was heard, a light sound swept through the walls, and then a voice came from above.
"Beginning docking with the 'Emperor Sovnium'," he said solemnly. "Prepare yourselves, Eighth Legion. We will see our genetic father."
Yes.
Fell Jarost sharply lowered his helmet.
We will witness.
...
Straightening his back, Konrad Curze slowly entered the sea of dark figures.
He walked slowly – actually, very slowly.
Maintaining this pace, tensing his muscles, he slowly passed them. The crowd in power armor surrounded him on all sides. Although they had kindly left a wide passage to the main bridge, but...
Calm down, Konrad," he kept telling himself. "You must be calm."
This was the na
The solemn procession continued for a full eight minutes.
At the end of the deck, carpeted in scarlet, stood a dais—unadorned, with sharp edges. Konrad Curze could even tell that this metallic structure had been erected quite recently.
He lowered his head, and when he raised it again, a serious expression had settled on his face. It was like an instinct, one he could employ without much effort, as if it were his own hand.
He stepped onto the dais, and a chilling sensation of cold bloomed on his right wrist.
Below, twenty thousand pairs of eyes awaited him, filled with anticipation.
How to begin? What to say? What could he say?
Konrad Curze took a deep breath.
"Good day, warriors of the Eighth Legion."
In the next moment, a grave and resonant voice rang out. His words echoed across the deck, filled with twenty thousand warriors, each syllable in High Gothic impeccable. His mind was a blank slate, yet he knew with absolute clarity what he had to say, what needed to be said.
However, the sound of his own voice, amplified by the microphones, startled him. Is that my voice? Konrad Curze asked himself. Why does it sound so… alien?
"My name is Konrad Curze."
He ignored the sensation and continued, "Unlike you, I am from Nostramo. It is a planet of eternal night, its current state a result of atmospheric pollution, orbital synchronization, and the dimming of its sun."
"It is cold and merciless. The aristocrats control everything, from industry to the bare necessities—food, clothing, and shelter. They have rewritten all the laws…"
"Sorrow and suffering reign there, warriors of the Eighth Legion, and I will not hide it. Therefore, I will tell you the truth: this planet is imperfect, one might even say it should be destroyed. But it is my home planet."
He paused, awaiting their reaction. But the twenty thousand pairs of eyes below simply watched him calmly and silently through their visors, uttering no sound.
Konrad Curze understood: they were waiting.
He took another deep breath and suddenly looked at the empty space to his right on the dais. No one was there, only a soft light pouring from above, creating a faint blur before his eyes. Gazing there, he slowly raised his right hand.
"...Furthermore, allow me to introduce my adoptive father."
His words landed like a bombshell. The warriors of the Eighth Legion, who had been silently observing him until then, turned in unison towards that direction. Their helmets and visors concealed their emotions, but Konrad Curze remained impassive.
He had to do this.
"We will discuss this later, Konrad…"
With a sigh, a tall giant materialized from nowhere at the other end of the dais. His appearance was so sudden and inexplicable that it seemed impossible.
In that instant, a cacophony of menacing sounds erupted.
The clatter of weapons drawn from holsters, the clicks of safeties disengaged, the dangerous hum, and the sound of activated power fields—their distrust was palpable.
Although many, realizing Konrad Curze's words referred to this very giant, lowered their weapons, nearly half the warriors still held them at the ready.
"Please, lower your weapons," Konrad Curze said gravely. "This is my adoptive father, Kariél Lohars. He raised me; it is thanks to him that I am who I am. Without him, I would not exist."
Silence still reigned below. After a few seconds, the quiet sounds merged into one.
The warriors of the Eighth Legion obeyed their Primarch's request. Even if their hearts were filled with questions.
"Thank you," the pale giant said sincerely. "Otherwise, I wouldn't know what to do… Fourteen days ago, I learned of this."
"I learned of your existence. Twenty thousand warriors who inherited my blood. In terms of law and genetics, you are my sons, and this threw me into utter confusion."
"I didn't know how I should meet you. In my past life, I had never encountered anything like this. And now, seeing you face-to-face, I am still bewildered. This doubt gnaws at my heart, never relenting."
"I still don't know how I should deal with you… I know you must have many questions now, and surely they are all about my adoptive father. But that is not the main point now, because I will explain everything to you."
"Remember, this is my promise."
"I…" the pale giant closed his eyes, then opened them again. "I want to ask you one thing, warriors of the Eighth Legion," he said quietly. "I want you to remove your helmets and let me see your faces."
Below, there was still no answer, only the repeated clatter of mechanisms.
Helmets were removed and tucked under the arms of the superhuman warriors. Their faces were deathly pale, their eyes black, but not with the absolute blackness of the Nostramans.
Now, these twenty thousand pairs of eyes looked at their genetic father with complex expressions. No one spoke, no one made a sound, not even the slightest murmur could be heard.
Silence descended upon the vast square.
Konrad Curze gripped the edge of the dais to keep himself from falling from dizziness.
He gritted his teeth. The shock of the truth he had witnessed tensed his muscles, and an unfamiliar emotion stirred in his heart.
He had never experienced such a feeling in his life, and in the very first second… he had already begun to cherish it.
The giant standing beside him glanced at him subtly. Although his face remained calm, his right hand trembled almost imperceptibly.
"...Thank you. Thank you," Konrad Curze rasped. "Thank you, warriors of the Eighth Legion… It turns out my brother Fulgrim was right. When I see you, I will understand everything…"
"Now I understand. You are my sons. This is an undeniable fact; no one can dispute it, no one can change it. But I still have one last question to ask you."
Leaning on the metal dais, Konrad Curze slowly, cautiously, gently asked:
"...Are you ready to accept me?"
…
Anticipation. Tense anticipation.
So tense that Fel Jarost's fingertips began to tremble.
Before him was a short queue, only one person. But that was only because two Terran hours had already passed. Two Terran hours ago, this queue had been hopelessly long.
And if Fel were to turn around now, he would see another hopelessly long queue.
At the end of that queue was a recently tidied room.
Their genetic Primarch was there. After they had expressed their agreement with a unified cry of "We accept!", their Primarch had issued his first order.
Although Fel Jarost would rather call these words a polite request, everyone, including himself, perceived it as a sacred command.
Their Primarch had said, "Prepare a room for me, warriors of the Eighth Legion. I want to meet each of you personally. I will remember your faces and your names. This is my oath."
Who could refuse?
No one.
Thirty minutes later, it was his turn.
Finally.
Taking a deep breath, Fel slowly pushed the door open and entered. His brothers behind him watched him silently. No one uttered a word; they simply waited quietly.
Beyond the door was a spacious room. It had once been a training hall for close combat recruit training.
On the floor in the center of the hall, there were even traces of training mechanisms that had clearly been dragged. No words were needed to understand the pathetic state in which they had been carried away.
His brothers surely would not have let those machines leave with dignity…
A chandelier hung from the ceiling, softly illuminating the space.
Due to their long lives underground, the warriors of the Eighth Legion tolerated bright light poorly, even after modifications. This was one of their few weaknesses, which was why their helmets were equipped with night vision devices.
But now, Fel was without his helmet. He didn't need it.
Trembling, he approached an iron table, behind which a pale giant sat in a chair.
His black hair was neatly combed; he wore a crisp tunic, and a gleaming rhomboid gold-plated pendant swayed on his chest. Both hands rested on the table, his fingernails perfectly trimmed.
What am I looking at? Fel Jarost thought irritably. Why am I paying attention to such minor details of the Primarch's appearance?
"Sit down, please."
His Primarch spoke softly, his voice very quiet, and his pronunciation in High Gothic impeccable.
"Our conversation will truly begin only when you sit down and speak with me as equals."
Fel sat down, trembling. He pushed his chair back so abruptly that its legs scraped sparks from the floor.
He shamefully lowered his head, expecting a reprimand, but their Primarch merely said gently, "Don't worry. What is your name?"
"...Fel Jarost."
"And mine is Konrad Curze, Fel. It's a pleasure to meet you. Will you allow me to call you that?"
Me? I will allow?
Fel looked at him in bewilderment.
"Father… Father?"
The pale giant smiled gently.
"Call me Konrad or Primarch. You are a Terran, aren't you? You are all Terrans."
"Yes, yes, Primarch."
"And what is Terra like?"
Fel froze. He had not expected to hear such a question from his Primarch.
His heart was already pounding from this special meeting, and now he had completely lost the ability to think. He stood frozen, and only after three seconds did he come to his senses.
"Is something wrong, Fel?"
"...No, no, everything is fine, Primarch. I just didn't expect you to ask me that question."
"Don't use the formal address."
"...What?"
"I said, don't use the formal address, Fel," the pale giant looked at him, his face relaxed and natural. "You don't need to talk to me like that. Don't constrain yourself, don't be too serious. Yes, I am your genetic Primarch, but that doesn't mean I am superior to you. 'Superiority' is a ridiculous word, don't you think, Fel?"
"...I, I don't understand, Primarch."
"May I answer the question about Terra?" Fel Jarost stammered. There was almost a plea in his voice.
Konrad Curze chuckled. This was not the first person to be so flustered in front of him, but each time he saw it, he felt a bittersweet warmth spread through his chest.
Time and again, this feeling flared, leaving an indelible mark on his heart.
Konrad Curze cherished this feeling deep within his soul.
"Of course, you may, Fel. In fact, the right to answer or not is yours," Curze said gently. "If you believe this question touches upon your personal life, you may choose not to answer."
Fel Jarost answered only after careful consideration. He had heard Konrad Curze's words, but he could not afford to answer such a question thoughtlessly.
All current members of the Eighth Legion were Terrans, just like him; how could he answer for all of them?
And even more so, he could not not answer.
"Terra… the cradle of humanity, our homeworld, Primarch," Fel Jarost began quietly.
"But my memories of it have already faded. We grew up in ancient underground prisons. It was almost like another hive, only underground."
"The conditions were harsh, but we were accustomed to them, so no one complained. Until we were pardoned by the Emperor… Only after that, having passed the selection, did I see it with my own eyes."
"Terra is one giant hive, Primarch. There is nothing special about it; nature there is terrible, but for some reason, it holds a very important place in my heart."
"Ah… that's similar to my feelings for Nostramo," Konrad Curze said with a slight sigh. "Your description seemed familiar, Fel. But Nostramo is a little different from Terra, as you described it. It is special."
Fel Jarost saw his Primarch, the pale giant, give a cold smile.
This was the first time he had seen such an emotion on their genetic father's face, and for some reason, it seemed to him that this was how he should be.
"Special?"
"Yes, very special… Its specialty is that it is especially terrible."
Fel looked at Konrad Curze in amazement. He shook his head with a smile and said, "If you wish, I can tell you a little in advance. I planned to do so tomorrow, at the official troop review."
"If it doesn't inconvenience you, Primarch," Fel replied hastily.
What jokes? How could he not want to know?
"Remove the formal address, and I'll tell you," Konrad Curze said with a hint of mischief in his voice. "How about it?"
"...Is this a joke, Primarch?"
"No."
"...I will try."
"Excellent. So, where shall I begin?"
Taking a deep breath, Konrad Curze pursed his lips and, after a short pause, spoke, "I have already described in general terms what Nostramo is. But words… words are so pale. If you don't see it with your own eyes, you might not believe that such places exist."
"Nostramo is a planet divided between aristocrats and gangs, Fel. The only law there is strength; it is violence. Everything else is superfluous."
"People from the lower strata are either workers or miners. And even these words are just a beautified version. It would be more accurate to say 'slaves'… no, perhaps even worse."
"At least slave owners consider slaves their property, value their lives, don't they? But on Nostramo, people from the lower strata… they are food, materials, furniture. They are anything but human."
"They are forbidden to be human."
Fel Jarost froze. He didn't know what to answer to the Primarch's words.
Such a thing was unthinkable even in the darkest and most lawless dungeons of Terra.
The prisoners had rations, and cannibalism was considered an unforgivable crime throughout the underground prison. No one resorted to it. This crowd of sinful people tacitly observed this boundary.
Even among criminals, there was a hierarchy of crimes.
The descendants of the prisoners firmly remembered the sins of their ancestors: war crimes, treason, serial murders, deceiving entire worlds… but there were no cannibals among them.
But…
Looking into the absolutely black eyes of his genetic father, Fel gradually realized: he was serious.
"Surprised, aren't you?" Konrad Curze asked with a smile.
The smile on his ghostly pale face was so calm, so serene, as if he were talking about something that didn't concern him at all.
And at that moment, Fel suddenly remembered: their genetic father had grown up in such an environment.
"You…"
"You," Curze shook his head. "'You,' Fel. I've said it many times, don't use the formal address."
"...You grew up in such conditions, Primarch?"
"Yes," Konrad Curze nodded with a slight smirk.
He explained nothing further, but Fel Jarost suddenly felt a furious anger rising from the depths of his soul. The anger was so sudden that he almost forgot one question.
Why hadn't their Primarch united Nostramo?
"We can help you," Fel Jarost said, suppressing his rage. "We can help you cleanse it, Primarch."
"We will discuss that later."
Konrad Curze smiled. He said nothing more, just stood up and extended his right hand to Fel.
An ancient ritual was revived today. It originated on Terra, but Fel, being a Terran, did not fully understand the meaning of this gesture.
The Eighth Legion had always kept to itself. Their task was punishment—punishment for those who dared to cross the final line. Whenever such individuals appeared, the Emperor of Mankind sent them to unleash his wrath.
Therefore, they had almost no contact with other Legions.
They rarely even communicated with people from the Mechanicus, let alone the Auxilia.
Companies and squads were the primary combat units of the Eighth Legion, but their battlefield had no room for bombardments, vehicle support, or massed attacks.
Their war was the complete opposite of conventional warfare.
Fel Jarost looked at his Primarch in confusion.
"It's a handshake," Konrad Curze explained patiently. "An ancient ritual, used when meeting, when parting. You are from Terra, Fel, don't you know?"
"...I don't know, Primarch," Fel lowered his head in embarrassment. At that moment, someone's hand took his gauntleted right hand.
"A handshake is simple, Fel," Konrad Curze said with a smile. "No strict rules. You just need to do this… look."
A pale hand and grim, dark blue steel clasped tightly.
Fel watched the scene, mesmerized, and his thoughts drifted into unknown realms.
…
"Night's Onslaught" was a Gloriana-class battleship. Each of these vessels was a true giant. Kariél had read about them, but he couldn't imagine a ship being so enormous.
Eighteen kilometers long…
And yet, among all the Gloriana-class battleships, "Night's Onslaught" wasn't even considered particularly large.
The largest of them, "Unwavering Truth," was the first completed battleship of this class and reached twenty-six kilometers in length. It belonged to the Dark Angels Legion.
An interesting name. However, Kariél preferred to call them the First Legion. It was easier to remember that way.
What incredible numbers, he thought, recalling the armament list from the dossier. For Kariél, it was even more astonishing.
This is the combat power of the space age…
With such thoughts, Kariél walked silently down the dimly lit corridor. The lifestyle of the warriors of the Eighth Legion, as it turned out, was strikingly similar to the habits of the Nostramans.
The same fear of light, the same love for darkness.
The difference was that for the former, it was a conscious choice, a habit that persisted even after modifications. The latter were forced to become so through long and arduous generations.
The Nostramans had no choice.
Nevertheless, it was still a strange coincidence.
Just like the deathly pale skin of the Terran warriors of the Eighth Legion and their combat style…
Inquisitors, masters of swift strikes?
This concept perfectly matched Kariél's preferred combat style. Although, to be precise, he was the imitator.
An imitator who had never seen the original.
It was just a pity that with the changes to his body, "swift strike" had become a far cry from reality.
He used to strive for speed because he couldn't prolong the fight, didn't want to engage in open confrontation with gangs. And now… speed was dictated by the fact that gangs couldn't endure for long.
Kill quickly—that was the essence of speed.
He smirked and turned his head. An inexplicable calm settled on his grim, deathly pale face, and his black eyes fixed on the corner of the corridor.
He stood there for a while, then turned and left. Ten minutes after his departure, some shadows flickered in that spot.
"Konrad, you've certainly given me a task," Kariél thought with annoyance. He, of course, knew who these people behind him were.
He had tried to persuade Konrad Curze more than once, but the latter seemed unwilling to listen.
In fact, if everything had gone according to Kariél's plan, he would never have revealed his identity so soon.
But Konrad Curze had already done it.
Before twenty thousand warriors, he had seriously and solemnly introduced Kariél Lohars, forcing him to appear, and called him nothing less than an adoptive father.
A four-meter-tall adoptive father.
An adoptive father capable of appearing out of thin air.
Although Konrad, with uncharacteristic maturity, had promised to explain everything to the Eighth Legion himself afterward…
But Kariél still didn't know how to tell him that the most awkward part of this story wasn't the explanations.
In terms of law and blood, the twenty thousand Astartes of the Eighth Legion were Konrad Curze's sons. Although they had only met today, this fact was undeniable.
And now, some time ago, he had publicly announced before all these twenty thousand warriors that Kariél was his adoptive father.
I should have taught you about kinship earlier, Konrad, Kariél thought with a sigh, continuing his path. His destination was the upper deck of "Night's Onslaught"; he had already inspected the lower deck. He intended to study and memorize all the details of this ship as quickly as possible.
Of course, the warriors of the Eighth Legion regarded him with suspicion, but their Primarch had already given the order: Kariél Lohars could move freely throughout "Night's Onslaught." So, they could only reluctantly follow him.
Kariél himself did not want to take advantage of such privileges, but since Konrad Curze had decided so, he had no choice but to accept it.
One couldn't publicly declare before twenty thousand pairs of eyes filled with doubt: "Konrad Curze, you are wrong."
Or hiss in Nostraman while talking to the Night Ghost—then the situation could have become even worse.
So many problems, Kariél thought grimly. He walked silently through the steel corridors, past humming compartments, and, inhaling the not-so-pleasant air, reached the upper deck.
It was designed as a complex labyrinth of rooms, secret passages, and corridors… Door after door, with servitors shuffling between them.
These hybrids of flesh and steel were a friendly offering from the Mechanicus. Honestly, Kariél knew little about them, but his impression of the Mechanicus was not the best. And the appearance of the servitors was one of the main reasons.
Their bodies were emaciated, clad in red robes with the shining symbol of the Mechanicus.
Their internal organs had been almost completely removed to avoid unnecessary energy loss.
Their brains had also undergone surgery, leaving only programmed reflexes and instincts, without a single independent thought.
Kariél stopped and watched a departing servitor.
A bare tube protruded from the back of its head, inserted directly into its deathly pale spine. Inside, a semi-frozen substance, resembling black blood, slowly flowed. The servitor pushed open a door and disappeared behind it.
Kariél involuntarily sighed again, turned his head slightly, and glanced at the dark corridor behind him. Then he turned back.
"Good evening, gentlemen," he politely addressed the emptiness of the long corridor. "Would you be so kind as to come out?"
No one answered.
"I am sure I am speaking the purest High Gothic."
Still no answer.
"Well…"
Kariél shook his head.
"Two warriors on the ceiling, you can stop torturing your hands.
"Three warriors in the shadows behind the sixth window, this applies to you too. And the one standing a few steps away from me… you are masterfully using the simple tactic of 'not visible under the brightest light'."
When he finished, six Astartes of the Eighth Legion, who had been following him closely, reluctantly emerged from the darkness.
They silently surrounded Kariél. The servitors, as if nothing had happened, continued to scurry back and forth, paying no attention to this minor incident. Perhaps it was their programming, or perhaps they simply didn't care.
"Good evening," Kariél repeated his greeting calmly. "How was your day, gentlemen?"
No one answered. After three minutes of dead silence and intense stares, one of the Astartes, with the Aquila symbol engraved on his helmet, spoke slowly. His grim blue armor gleamed dully.
His voice was distorted by the helmet's built-in vox-caster, becoming hoarse and frightening. Kariél raised an eyebrow, noting this simple but effective intimidation tactic.
However, the Astartes did not answer his greeting or engage in pleasantries, but immediately asked his question:
"Who are you, really?"
"Kariél Lohars."
"We know your name," the Astartes boomed. "But we want to know the truth."
"The truth is these two words: Kariél Lohars," he smiled and, raising his hand, pointed to his pale face. "Remember?"
Instead of an answer—only silent, intense stares.
Six giants, though shorter than him, surrounded him without fear, as if silently interrogating him.
Kariél was not offended by this. On the contrary, he admired their actions.
Such bravery was not possessed by everyone.
Well.
Kariél smirked.
"You are all very interested in me, I presume. And I know that in the entire Eighth Legion, there are not just six like you."
"We are not just interested," said the same Astartes who had spoken first. "Far from it."
"I understand."
Kariél nodded with a smile.
"And I have a solution. There are large training halls on 'Night's Onslaught,' aren't there? As soldiers, you must train a lot. Am I right?"
The six Astartes slowly exchanged glances, their power armor hummed, and then they slowly, as one, nodded.
…
"Go ahead," Kariél said quietly.
He looked at the young, pale face before him and slowly raised his right hand. The furious stabbing blow was easily parried, but Kariél didn't stop there.
He grabbed the attacker by the wrist, pulled him forward easily, and the latter instantly lost his balance.
The world turned upside down, and in the next moment, the attacker was already on the floor, with Kariél's left hand on his throat, his index, middle, and thumb resting calmly on his Adam's apple.
The youth's eyes widened, and only after three seconds did he realize what had happened.
His face quickly turned red—embarrassment and anger were particularly noticeable on his pale skin. But this young face quickly mastered its emotions.
Kariél smiled slightly and released his hand with approval, allowing the youth to stand up.
"Shall we continue?" he asked gently.
Instead of an answer, the youth silently assumed a fighting stance again.
This time, he pulled his right hand back, swaying it slightly, and his left hand was fully lowered, bent at the elbow. Kariél was not familiar with boxing, but he immediately understood the meaning of this stance.
Shoulder protection, and then a backhand strike…
Not a bad tactic; that's exactly how it should be done. After all, I am much taller than him, and my reach is greater…
"Are you sure?" Kariél asked again.
"Yes!" the youth snarled irritably.
"Good."
Without further hesitation, Kariél lunged forward.
His first step was so fast that predicting further actions was almost impossible.
At this moment, the youth's eyes widened again, not from confusion, but from anticipating what was about to happen.
He tried to raise his left hand for defense, but it was too late. Kariél easily grabbed him by the throat, still not using force, just placing his fingers on his neck.
"Shall we continue?" Kariél asked gently.
The youth breathed heavily for a while, then nodded dejectedly and stepped off the ring.
Those who were obviously familiar with him patted him on the shoulder, offering comfort. But most simply rushed towards the only entrance to the ring.
They were without power armor, their torsos bare, their faces and bodies either battle-hardened or still young. But it didn't matter. Kariél calmly watched them, waiting for the next contender.
Although he appeared calm, inwardly he wanted to laugh at himself.
What are you doing? he asked himself with a sigh. Fighting them with bare hands is simply mockery…
But the crowd below didn't let him ponder for long. A new warrior climbed the steps, proudly waved his arms, and entered the iron cage.
The Astartes below the ring roared, chanting his name, proudly and loudly.
"Siani, Siani, Siani!"
"Siani?" Kariél greeted quietly. "It seems you are loved here."
"Not at all," the warrior made a face. "They don't usually do that. They just think I can defeat you. After all, I've been the hand-to-hand combat champion for five consecutive years."
"Really?"
"Naturally!"
Siani laughed.
"I am from Terra, Kariél Lohars. I have no surname, only a name. I am the son of a prisoner, so you can call me Siani of Terra!"
"Alright, Siani of Terra," Kariél nodded with a smile. "How shall we fight?"
"Hand-to-hand, of course! How else?"
Siani made a face again. He wasn't handsome, but he carried himself very naturally and openly.
"Let's go! Lohars!"
"Alright."
Kariél approached with a smile and extended his fist for a greeting. The other hesitated for a moment, but quickly understood that this was a ritual gesture, and immediately bumped his fist against Kariél's fist with a smile.
After that, their fight began. No unnecessary words, no gong strike, just slow footwork and sharpened gazes.
Siani was worthy of his five-year championship title.
Before him, Kariél had fought one hundred and thirty-three fighters, and Siani was undoubtedly the best of them.
In close combat, he possessed a ferocious cunning that gave him instinctive, lightning-fast reactions. Thanks to this, Siani dodged Kariél's stabbing blows time and again.
Moreover, he even managed to counterattack. Three of his side blows whistled past Kariél's nose by mere centimeters.
"Siani of Terra, you are truly strong."
Kariél praised him sincerely, but Siani did not share his opinion.
For the first time, he frowned, broke the distance himself, stopped, and leaning on the cold and grim bars of the black metal cage, shook his head.
"What are you doing?"
He shook his head, saying:
"You are capable of more, Lohars. Just standing before you, I already feel it's hard to breathe, and you pretend we are fighting as equals…"
"Are you insulting me?" Siani of Terra asked sincerely.
He was furious. Looking at this face, Kariél thought so.
"No," he answered calmly.
"Then why aren't you fighting with your full strength?!"
Siani suddenly roared.
"The Primarch called you his adoptive father! I am now fighting face-to-face with the adoptive father of our genetic Primarch, and I am fighting with my full strength, Kariél Lohars! This is a sign of my respect for you! Do you understand what that means?"
...I understand.
Of course, I understand.
"Then show me all your strength!"
Siani bared his teeth. He raised his hand and lunged at Kariél.
It was completely unlike his usual fighting style—rather, it was a desperate, deadly rush. But Kariél saw sincerity behind this reckless attack.
Siani of Terra… he was ready to believe his genetic father's words, to believe that this terrifying Astartes giant, Kariél Lohars, was his adoptive father.
But he didn't want to believe in this status, this name, this person.
Therefore, he had to see the truth for himself.
Kariél clenched his right fist, stepped forward, and struck. In the next moment, a deafening, explosion-like dull sound reverberated throughout the ring. Siani froze in place, and Kariél's right fist stopped next to his right cheek.
For some time, no one spoke a word; even the shouts of the Astartes below the ring fell silent.
Siani's hearing plunged into terrifying silence. He could only hear his own heartbeat transmitted through his bones, but nothing else. He almost decided he had gone deaf until Kariél spoke, quietly asking:
"Did you feel it?" Kariél asked softly.
...I felt it," Siani answered with difficulty.
Sighing, Kariél did not answer this question. He just smiled calmly, and nothing more.
Two minutes later, Siani stepped off the ring. Kariél watched the quiet crowd, waiting for the next contender.
***
Read the story months before public release — early chapters are on my Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/Granulan