“Don’t be in a hurry, my brother.
Soon, you will wail for the Death of another son—a son who dies within the fortress you built with your own hands.”
He looked at Lorgar again: “Do you praise for the purity of faith?”
“You will see.
The gods you believe in will, amidst your most devout prayers, respond with the loudest mockery.”
“And your Legion will, within their so-called ‘blessings,’ become uglier than anything you can imagine.”
Finally, his gaze fell upon every Primarch present, his voice like a final judgment:
“All of you…
all of us…
are merely actors in this play whose script was written long ago.”
“The loyalist faction will embrace despair, and the traitors will devour lies.
We will all walk toward a pre-destined end, darker than Death itself.”
“This war was never about victory, but about making us all lose everything.”
The entire Throne Room fell into a dead silence.
Inside the Viewing Hall, Curze’s words were like a cold dagger, piercing the heart of every Primarch.
After his voice faded, a suffocating silence permeated the air, as if even time had frozen at this moment.
The Black Sword and chainaxe in the projection were still clashing, but the sound of the impact seemed incredibly distant now.
Horus’s gaze moved away from the projection and turned toward the shadows where Curze had disappeared, a flash of undisguisable shock and unease in his eyes.
His fingers unconsciously tapped the armrest of his seat, as if trying to find some answer in this suffocating silence.
“Curze…
what exactly did you see?”
Horus’s voice was low and slow, carrying an indescribable weight.
“If Sigismund’s shattering is only the beginning, then…
what exactly is waiting for us at the end of this war?”
Sanguinius’s wings trembled slightly, the radiance at the tips of his feathers growing dim.
His voice was gentle but carried a hint of a tremor: “Curze’s prophecies have never been wrong…
if he says this is just an appetizer, then the true tragedy is likely far beyond our imagination.”
His gaze swept over every Primarch present, a rare fear showing in his eyes.
Green mist seeped from beneath Mortarion’s mask, his voice raspy and low:
“How ironic…
we thought we were fighting for the Emperor’s glory, yet we have long since become pawns in a greater tragedy.”
His fingers unconsciously stroked the blade of his scythe, as if he were contemplating something.
Lorgar’s scriptural chains clattered, and a complex light flashed in his eyes.
“No…
this is impossible!
The Emperor’s will is absolute, and His plan is perfect!
Curze’s prophecy is nothing but the whispers of Chaos, a lie trying to shake our faith!”
His voice carried a near-insane determination, but his trembling fingers betrayed his inner turmoil.
Fulgrim’s fist clenched tightly, his knuckles turning white from the force.
“If what Curze says is true…
then what is the meaning of our persistence, our duty?”
His voice carried an undisguisable weariness and confusion.
The atmosphere in the Viewing Hall became increasingly heavy, as if even the air had solidified into something tangible.
The Primarchs’ gazes shifted between one another, trying to find some answer in each other’s eyes, only to see the same shock and fear.
Finally, Dorn slowly stood up, his voice low and powerful:
“No matter what Curze saw, no matter how dark the future is, we must face it.”
“We are the sons of the Emperor, the hope of humanity.
We cannot be struck down by fear, nor bound by prophecy.”
Land of Light · Space Garrison Sanctuary
The radiance of the Plasma Spark Tower pierced through the diamond-shaped crystals of the dome, casting fragmented spots of light onto the silver-white metal floor.
The Father of Ultra stood before the Star Map Table in the center of the sanctuary, his crimson cloak moving without wind, the medals on his chest dimming and brightening with his breath.
His gaze was fixed on the duel between Sigismund and the fallen Khârn.
“Captain, what are you looking at?” Seven’s voice came from behind him.
The Father of Ultra did not turn around; his silver-white fingertips lightly flicked the star map, enlarging the image.
The moment Sigismund’s Black Sword pierced Khârn’s breastplate, the image composed of light particles suddenly burst with a blinding blood-light.
“He reminds me of those on Earth who fought for humanity.”
“Without immortal bodies, without powerful technology, relying only on fragile carbon-based life and conviction, they dared to fight enemies far stronger than themselves.”
Seven’s eye lamps flashed: “That’s why they are even more worth protecting, aren’t they?”
“Seven, you are still the same.
You favor humans too much, so you haven’t yet seen clearly what the choice that human made signifies.”
The Father of Ultra looked sadly at the battlefield on the screen.
“Just as the image shows, Sigismund’s will is as hard as steel, and his sense of duty is impeccable.”
“He protected his oath, and he protected the humans behind him.
But…”
He reached out his finger and lightly touched Sigismund’s eyes on the screen, which had become hollow.
“…he also devoured his own last light with his own hands.
A warrior can fight for duty, can fight for glory, but he must not lose hope.”
“When he discarded anger, sadness, and even the instinct for survival for the sake of ‘purity,’ he was no longer ‘alive.’ He became a weapon—a weapon that breathes, but is already dead.”
Seven fell silent.
He understood the profound meaning in the Father of Ultra’s words.
The power of Ultra Warriors stems from the determination to protect, and even more from the love for life and hope.
And Sigismund seemed to be walking on a completely opposite path.
“In our history, there have also been warriors who nearly lost their way for the sake of power.”
The Father of Ultra’s gaze became deep, as if piercing through time and space.
“But in the end, they all found their own light.
But this human civilization…
they seem to be treating this ‘losing one’s way’ as their only’salvation.'”
The Father of Ultra closed the image, turned to face Seven, and posed an incredibly heavy question.
“Seven, if humans lose the ability to shed tears for strangers, are they still considered alive?”
“When the Guardian becomes the nightmare of the protected, when the Guardian himself becomes the deepest nightmare in the eyes of the protected;”
“When the weapon that maintains civilization needs the hope of civilization itself as fuel…
what we should do is destroy that weapon, or kill the hand that holds the sword?”
Facing the Father of Ultra’s questioning, Seven fell into a rare silence.
The images of humans fighting the Nonmalt flashed through his mind—those figures running for peace, those voices admitting their own crimes.
But what about the humans of this World?
Where is their hope?