My Life as A Death Guard
Chapter 418: Curze Rejoices, Sevatar Grieves
The night could not mask the screams.
Acid rain poured down in torrents, and ghostly shadows danced among the hovels of the slum, waltzing to the rhythm of the raindrops.
Konrad Curze pressed the blood-soaked dagger against his cheek. The acid rain and the demon's ichor made it slick and glistening. The Lord of the Night couldn't resist licking it, the fetid stench making him feel even better.
He hummed a cheerful tune, the three-thousand-five-hundred-and-sixty-seventh, like a diligent factory worker carving bones and separating flesh from skin with his dagger.
The demon pinned beneath him moaned weakly, its jaundiced, ovine eyes fixed on the Primarch, reflecting the true demon of humanity.
The rain continued to fall, washing blood and gore everywhere, only to be blocked by piles of corpses—both demonic and human.
Curze happily savored the melody he hummed:
"You've journeyed through all of hell~"
"You can no longer ascend to heaven!"
He peeled off the skin completely and tossed it absently onto his head. With a thwack, the acid rain stinging his eyes was blocked, replaced by a burning, crimson liquid.
Konrad Curze rose, his gaunt, hunched frame making him resemble an ominous wildcat, the quintessential urban predator.
His armor was long since shattered, and he had deliberately damaged his comms channel during the battle with the Demonic Legions. Now, alone, he moved through the rain-soaked streets of Nostramo.
This reminded Curze of the beginning of his story, when he had been just as unrestrained.
But now, he was even freer, for that last, illusory hope had vanished. This place was hell, and in hell, Curze felt no tormenting guilt or responsibility. For this demon of mankind, hell was his playground, his paradise.
The Primarch moved swiftly through Nostramo's alleys, spotting torn posters with faded, barely legible text.
These were from the literacy classes Sevatar had promoted during his reforms on Nostra. Sevatar had enthusiastically proposed the idea to the Primarch, but what had Konrad Curze been doing at the time? He seemed to have been severing a tendon.
It didn't matter, because it had already failed. Nostramo was destined to become a wasteland, and everything that had come before was nothing more than building sandcastles on the beach by the sea.
Some refused to see the ocean nearby, others believed the tsunami would never return, and some still thought that if the sandcastles were built strong enough, they would withstand the waves.
And Curze, Curze—
Curze hummed a tune:
"I can no longer journey to heaven~"
He continued his trek, passing by the colossal, now-collapsed statue Sevatar had erected for him; by the once-clean, roaring metallurgical factories that had provided employment for the masses; by the public hospital whose garrison had already retreated...
In the abandoned hospital, filled with fresh corpses and flesh, Curze found some needles and thread, allowing him to continue his demonic skin artwork.
Curze crouched on the edge of a hospital bed, its pristine sheets spattered with crimson stains. The patient who had once occupied it lay dead, mouth agape, a blade piercing his chest.
Curze remembered the dead man—a worker Sevatar had commended for his high productivity and voluntary participation in literacy programs. His reward had been a kilogram of fresh meat.
Feeling hungry, Curze ate while stitching together a leather item in his hands. The demons' varied colors added a touch of artistic pleasure to his pursuit.
He stitched quietly and diligently, pouring his entire mind and body into the task. Static crackled from the hospital's broken radio, but the screams had ceased—Curze had killed them all.
Curze was wounded, of course, but physical pain couldn't mask the madness in his soul.
He raised his needle and wrinkled his nose in displeasure. The Primarch abruptly set down the needle, preparing to leave—
"Father!"
Before he could catch up, Curze leaped from the sixth-floor window, glass shards falling with him. The Primarch landed and prepared to flee—
Curze stiffly turned his head. Sevatar stood behind him, as if he had anticipated the Primarch's jump.
"Father,"
Sevatar spoke calmly, wearily:
"I urge you to return to the Nightfall. The Kyroptera has already passed the vote. The Night Lords will launch an Exterminatus upon Nostramo."
The Kyroptera was the small decision-making council of the Night Lords that Sevatar had personally established after Curze delegated his authority to him.
Konrad Curze stared at Sevatar. His Prince of Crows was no longer as sharp-tongued and razor-beaked as before. He had become steadier, more taciturn, and also… older.
Sevatar's face was lined with loose, sagging furrows, and his hair had turned completely white.
Do ravens' feathers also turn white when they grow old and are about to die?
"Do not concern yourself with me, Sev," Curze said. He stood there, surrounded by his unfamiliar sons.
"I will burn to ashes together with hell."
Sevatar let out a long, deep sigh. His brows and eyes had aged as well—aged enough to conceal the complex light flickering within them.
"Father, please do not be stubborn any longer," Sevatar said. "You know this is impossible. The Night Lords cannot lose you."
Curze looked at Sevatar. He bent down and placed a hand on Sevatar's shoulder guard; his disheveled hair brushed against Sevatar's forehead.
"You have already seen all of this, Sev," Curze said in a low voice.
"We have already fallen into hell. No matter how we struggle, this is hell. You cannot crawl out of it."
"We can only die in hell, or become demons and live in hell forever, Sev."
Sevatar trembled. The Prince of Crows extended one hand, trying to grasp the Primarch's, while his other hand hung weakly at his side.
"Father… you saw all of this back then?" Sevatar asked, his voice shaking.
Curze looked into Sevatar's eyes and felt that his most loyal son was on the verge of collapse.
Curze lowered his head. He felt as if sharp blades were spilling from his mouth, stabbing toward Sevatar and cutting open his own throat as well.
"I…" Curze's voice trembled. "If I had said back then that half the Imperium would become hell, that the Night Lords would personally fire an Exterminatus at Nostramo—would you have believed me, or thought I had gone mad?"
"Only… only he could understand, but I already—?!"
Curze's eyes widened. Slowly he turned his head and stared at the syringe Sevatar had thrust forward with his other hand. The needle slipped through the gap in his shattered armor and pierced into him, injecting the toxin.
The familiar sensation of drowsiness rose slowly and overtook Curze.
Sevatar sighed wearily.
"Forgive me, Father," the Prince of Crows said.
"This was taken from the remaining stock the Apothecary extracted from your body that day. I kept it in case it was ever needed."
Sevatar stepped back coldly, signaling the bats beside him to catch the Primarch's collapsing body.
"You have your reasons, and I have mine," Sevatar said.
"But from beginning to end, I have always hoped to make you better, to make the Night Lords better."
Cold, stinging raindrops fell onto Sevatar's face. His eyes were pitch black as he raised his head to look at the once-glorious achievements now crumbling into dust.
The Astronomican went dark. Countless daemonic hosts poured out from every corner of Nostramo. Ten thousand years of chaos and madness upon this land finally found their echo at this moment, as monsters emerged from every patch of shadow.
Having just completed their penitent crusade and gone a long time without new recruitment, the Night Lords simply could not hold Nostramo.
And because of Sevatar's great purge, those who had lurked in the shadows in resentment launched suicidal attacks against him as well.
The defensive lines fell back again and again.
First they withdrew from the newly built metallurgical plants on the outskirts to the food processing facilities Sevatar had ordered constructed.
The last remnants of a dissident family that Sevatar had uprooted shouted praises to the daemons and leapt into the high-temperature furnaces of the food factory. The boiling concentrated syrup exploded, triggering a chain of blasts and chaos.
Then they retreated again, back to the reserve training school Sevatar had established.
They held there for quite a long time. Those whelps who had not yet become Night Lords helped them tremendously. But in the end, when less than five percent of the school's population remained, Sevatar chose to withdraw once more—at least some of the young had to be preserved for the Night Lords.
It was at this moment that the mad Konrad Curze vanished into the streets and alleys of the city.
Then came the plaza where Curze's statue stood, and finally the hospital—they boarded the Night Lords' warship in haste, even though danger still lurked aboard it.
After all personnel had fully withdrawn to the Nightfall, and once it was confirmed that Nostramo had completely lost its value and was better off burned to ash, Sevatar began searching for Konrad Curze.
In the end, he found him.
Inside the Nightfall's private chamber, Sevatar said nothing. In one hand he held the command slate; with the other he pressed down on Curze's arm—the Primarch had already been bound in layer upon layer of iron chains.
Perhaps Sevatar had gone mad as well.
Sevatar pressed [Confirm].
He knew that at this moment, the cyclonic torpedo tubes aboard the Nightfall were glowing with searing light.
There were no windows in the Primarch's chamber. Sevatar silently counted the seconds in his mind—
Boom
He recited it inwardly, imagining Nostramo's crust collapsing beneath a blinding golden flash, breaking apart into vast chunks of useless ruin.
Sevatar thought he ought to cry, but his overworked eyes were now unbearably dry, and within his numb heart there seemed to be no emotion left to squeeze out.
The Night Lords could no longer withstand more blows. Yet in this hell, they needed strength if they were to survive.
Sevatar thought wearily. Listening to Curze's steady breathing beside him, he now almost wished his father would leap up, curse him as a traitor, and shoot him dead—then Sevatar could finally get some damn sleep.
But nothing happened.
Not Lion El'Jonson, Sevatar thought. The First Legion had been sent to monitor them from the beginning.
Horus was out of the question as well. Sevatar could not imagine Horus's reaction upon learning that half the Imperium had fallen into hell.
In a sense, the half of the Imperium now burning was proof of the Warmaster's own catastrophic failure.
That sanctimonious bastard Horus was probably already mad, Sevatar let out a dry, hollow laugh.
Fulgrim… Sevatar thought. Perhaps they could seek refuge with the Phoenician. Fulgrim had once been Curze's teacher; before the quarrel with Dorn, the two Primarchs had been on good terms.
But Sevatar was not certain what Fulgrim was like now. In Sevatar's eyes, in a situation like this, Fulgrim might very well react the same way Horus would.
And finally…
Sevatar drew a circle on the command slate.
Sanguinius.
The Night Lords had never had much contact with the Blood Angels.
The perfect angel, Sevatar thought. Would he take them in?
Beside him, Curze let out a low groan.
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