In that moment, Nyx understood what it meant to be sadder than death.
Outside the bridge viewport, Terra hung suspended in the void. The blue pearl of his memory was now swathed in grey and yellow industrial smog; the continental contours lay buried beneath tumour‑like hive cities, a forest of steel upon the land. The home he had lived in for twenty years now seemed only alien.
He said nothing. He turned and walked towards the orbital drop pod. His back was silent. He made no move to explain. But everyone present could see the weight in Nyx's heart.
"Father... Nyx, he..." Curze's voice carried a rare note of unease. He had never seen Nyx like this.
"Let him go." The Emperor's voice was calm. "This was once his home, too."
Seeing Curze still anxious, the Emperor raised a hand and projected a psychic image — blue oceans, emerald continents, meandering rivers, a faint and hazy cityscape. At a single glance, Curze understood the source of the pain in Nyx's eyes: the grief of a lost homeland.
The drop pod became a meteor, tearing through the polluted atmosphere. Nyx did not activate the grav‑buffer; he let the G‑forces press him into his seat, let physical pressure fill the hollow in his heart.
The hatch opened. A turbid stench of rusted metal, industrial waste, and organic decay hit his face. He stepped onto a plain of ochre‑red cracked earth. The wide, dry riverbed was like a scar upon the land before him. In the distance, the silhouette of a hive city rose like undulating mountains.
He knelt and pressed his fingers into the cold, compacted dust and stone.
"...I can't go back." His whisper was barely audible.
This was home — yet only steel and despair remained. The air was poisoned. Nature was buried. The rivers were dying. Everything in his memory had vanished without trace.
He had never wept when he was cast into Warhammer. He had never flinched before Khorne. But now, faced with this ecologically dead homeland, Nyx could not hold back.
"Why..." His fingers dug deep into the dust. "Why didn't you stand up sooner?! How could you watch your home become like this?!"
His question became a roar. Tears traced down his face, leaving dark stains on the cracked soil and stone. Nyx knew the Emperor could hear him.
"This is not what I wanted."
The Emperor's voice came from behind. He was no longer radiant as before; his gaze swept across the wasteland, and in his eyes flickered an elusive weariness.
Nyx rose slowly. With his back to the Emperor, he stared at the hive spires — those tombstone‑studded peaks.
"I know." His voice was hoarse. "Terra has an old saying... 'A gentleman cares not for deeds, but for the heart.'"
Nyx inhaled deeply, as though recollecting himself through the pain. "You stood up for humanity's survival. You hold a crumbling Imperium together..." He turned and faced the Emperor directly, his gaze complex — pain, inquiry, but no resentment. "I just... in my heart..."
Nyx did not finish. He turned and walked alone along the dead riverbed, faster and faster, towards the river's end — now the seat of Imperial power, the Imperial Palace on Terra.
But after the Emperor and Nyx had departed, from the very ground where Nyx had walked — a fresh green sprout broke through the earth.
"You seem to be in a foul mood."
Curze walked beside Nyx through the majestic corridors of the Imperial Palace. The Custodians leading them marched with metronomic precision; their golden war‑plate emitted a low, harmonious rasp.
"Yeah." Nyx tugged at the corner of his mouth. "If you found out that Nostramo — which you'd brought back to life — had reverted to its old ghostly shell, you wouldn't be happy either."
His gaze swept the surroundings. The hundred‑metre‑high corridor, the colossal pillars ascending to the domed ceiling, were adorned with human epic narratives. The polychromatic glass cupola scattered solemn light and shadow. The art here was a magnificent eruption of humanity under immense pressure — every inch compressed by desperate labour. This was less a palace and more a monument, a fusion of human history and faith.
"At least appreciate the artistic achievement." Nyx gestured at the vast star‑chart‑adorned door before them. His voice carried — deliberately, within earshot of the Custodians. "I bet the Emperor embezzled a fortune in military funds to build this place."
The Custodian's footsteps faltered, almost imperceptibly. The atmosphere tensed, then quickly returned to normal. Nothing happened. The Custodians continued their escort, though the air had grown distinctly cooler.
The Imperial Palace spanned the entire Himalayan perimeter. Nyx and his party pressed deeper into its core; the thick walls were hewn from single blocks of marble, covered in runes that pulsed with psychic scintillations. Modern technology and art from disparate epochs were fused here, and the number of Custodians increased markedly.
"Curze." Nyx stopped at a fork. "Go ahead to the Eighth Legion garrison. I'll head to the Eleventh Legion quarters on my own soon."
Curze's dark eyes studied Nyx. Seeing Nyx on the verge of sweating, he nodded helplessly. "Mind your proportions... This is, after all, my father's palace. Don't make too much of a scene."
Having said his piece, Curze silently departed towards the Eighth Legion's station. The moment he disappeared, Nyx selected a deeper passage.
Nyx chose a remote route, rarely traversed — a path even the Custodians guarding the palace seldom trod. Today, to observe this exceptional Primarch, two Custodians had followed him. At this, Nyx merely curved his lips into an almost beatific smile.
At the thought of what was about to happen, he could not suppress a quiet laugh.
The path ahead terminated in a single stone wall, adorned with intricate frescoes and ancient Imperial maxims. There was no egress. Nyx stood motionless before the wall, surrounded by an invisible, low‑pressure air — a stark contrast to the solemn epic tableau upon the fresco.
"Lord Nyx. There is no passage ahead. Please return with us to the Eleventh Legion garrison."
The two Custodians' voices were cold, measured, and perfectly synchronised — as though issuing from a single mouth. Nyx paid them no mind. He extended a finger and tapped gently upon a certain relief on the wall in a distinct, rhythmic pattern. The tapping echoed clearly through the silent corridor.
"Still pretending...?"
His voice was not loud — it even carried a smile — but it was like a needle, instantly piercing the already taut air.
"Lord Nyx. We do not understand your meaning."
The Custodians' response remained frigid, their tone unchanged, as though Nyx's words had not touched them. But Nyx had clearly lost patience with this role‑playing game.
"Alpha. Omega... My beloved brothers." He turned slowly. The cheerful smile on his face receded like a tide; his expression grew dangerous. "Carrying on like this — it truly grieves your humble brother."
"You know? In my hometown, there's an old saying... 'If you don't fight, you won't come to know each other.'"
The instant the words left his mouth, the air in the corridor seemed to freeze solid.
Perhaps, on another day, Nyx might have indulged in playing along with these two brothers. But today was different.
The desolation of Terra had left him no outlet for his grief. And in this moment, Alpha and Omega — squarely in his crosshairs — became the perfect targets for his wrath.
It is said that after that day, Nyx himself was classified as a 'maximum potential threat' by the Custodian Guard.