Curze, the Night Haunter, had his own twisted vision of morality. Unlike the Emperor, his fellow Primarchs, or even Dukel, he had no patience for redemption. Trials and clemency were lies. To Curze, a sinner's wailing was not repentance—it was merely the prelude to punishment.
What truly prevented evil? Fear. Brutal, unrelenting terror. If a man stole, sever his hand and tear out his heart. If he dared speak heresy, rip out his tongue, hang him from the city walls, and let his blood soak the battlements until only dust remained. If he dared think evil—then his head belonged on a pike.
Thought itself could be treason.
Only fear could maintain order.
Curze trembled with anticipation, cloaked in shadow, his presence concealed, his madness restrained. He did not see Lorgar or Horus as equals.
Lorgar was a delusional zealot. Horus—a shade of the godlike being he once was.
This wasn't arrogance. Koz—Konrad Curze—knew his strength.
He alone ruled his home world through sheer force of arms for decades. Under his iron grip, crime vanished. Stability reigned. During the Great Heresy, he clashed with his brothers many times.
Even the Lion—Lion El'Jonson—struck first and grievously wounded him, yet Curze nearly strangled the First to death. Had a Dark Angels whelp not intervened, the Lion would have died on that field.
He infiltrated Macragge, heart of Ultramar, and ran riot for an age, untouchable.
He even brought down Guilliman and the Lion together, entombing them beneath a shattered cathedral.
Even Vulkan, the Deathless, was no match—Curze butchered him again and again.
He should have been proud.
But pride was not his purpose. Death was not enough. Curze wished to break them—make them feel the fear they inspired in others.
On Vigilus, amidst the thunder of war, Political Commissar Cain raised his voice in a defiant battle cry.
As the corrupted demi-gods strode forth, accompanied by warbands of twisted champions, this unassuming commissar surged with courage. In the face of such overwhelming terror, Cain's resolve shone like a sliver of dawn in the heart of midnight.
His presence sparked something impossible: hope.
In this age of eternal war, humanity endured. Across the void, the Imperium had fought for ten thousand years. Even now, on this forsaken world, perhaps the Golden Throne itself would answer their cry.
Within every soldier, a sliver of ancient strength stirred—raw, defiant humanity. They might be cast down. But their hearts carried the most sacred relic of all: conviction.
United in a common ideal, mankind could summon courage vast enough to outshine the stars. They were mortals, yes—but they would never retreat, even if it shattered them utterly.
The blood of warriors was the lifeblood of the Imperium. To die in battle was the highest honor.
Two corrupted Primarchs approached. Cain could surrender—or stand.
The choice was no choice at all.
"For the Golden Throne! Long live the Emperor! Long live the Warmaster!"
The cry echoed. One voice became ten. Then a hundred.
Perhaps they would all perish.
But they would not fall quietly.
The Black Legion hesitated. They hadn't expected such resistance from mortals. The raw defiance stunned them, shamed them. Even through corrupted helms, hoarse growls of frustration could be heard.
Mortals.Defying them.
"Hold the line!" Cain bellowed.
Soldiers hurled incendiary grenades—not at the enemy, but onto the field before them.
A curtain of flame erupted, a molten barrier to stem the tide.
More troops followed. Fire spread in a line of defiance.
The traitor marines paused—just for a breath.
Then, with thunderous steps, the Terminators emerged.
"Victory!" came the vox-distorted roar from one of them.
They strode through the fire, black ceramite untouched, unbreakable. Weapons lashed out, sparks blossomed on armor but did no harm.
"You are nothing—no strength, no resolve—vermin to be crushed!"
One Terminator smashed through the trench wall with brute force, ignoring all fire. He swung a great warhammer, a relic forged in the image of the World Breaker itself.
It crushed men like insects. Blood sprayed like ruptured fruit.
A lone soldier, eyes wide with terror, stabbed his bayonet into the beast's armor—only to scratch its surface.
The warhammer descended.
Another soldier hurled an armor-piercing grenade—but before it hit the ground, a traitor's bolter round detonated it mid-air.
Chaos reigned.
Officers drew mono-molecular blades. Lasguns fired. Yet the corrupted warriors advanced.
One of them—a giant—strode straight for Cain.
He stepped over the trench like a man stepping over a puddle. Las-blasts scorched his armor but didn't slow him. The power pack on his back whined as it surged.
He cast a vast shadow.
Cain looked up—and saw death.
The warrior's helmet had fused grotesquely with his flesh, exposing part of a rotted face. What remained was swollen, pale—a visage of the grave. The traitor laughed—a shrill, broken sound.
Insanity incarnate.
Cain's legs trembled. Fear surged through him. Instinct screamed: run.
The traitor pointed.
"Face me, puppet of your corpse-king."
Even his gauntlet had fused with corrupted flesh. Bolter raised.
Cain leapt aside at the last second—barely dodging the explosive round.
Then he ran.
The traitor laughed again, the sound echoing like breaking bones.
"You can't run forever."
He holstered his launcher and charged.
Astartes speed closed the distance in seconds. He moved to block Cain's path.
The fallen warrior grinned. This mortal, he thought, would stop in panic—easy prey for butchery.
But Cain's actions diverged sharply from what anyone could have predicted. The legendary Commissar—famed in warzones across the Imperium—appeared more like a terrified recruit than a veteran of a hundred campaigns, rushing straight at the towering, corrupted Astartes.
Such an act was tantamount to suicide.
Even the traitor—one of the Heretic Astartes—was visibly stunned.
In that fleeting moment of hesitation, Cain ducked low, sliding beneath the warrior's massive armored frame.
Before the corrupted warrior could turn—
"Crack!"
A sharp, metallic snap echoed across the battlefield. Cain's monomolecular blade struck true, piercing the narrow junction in the Chaos Marine's power armor and severing an energy conduit with surgical precision.
The traitor's limbs faltered. His enhanced body suddenly felt the crushing weight of unsupported ceramite. Still, it wasn't a fatal blow—Astartes are made to endure far worse. He would adapt.
Enraged, the fallen warrior swore vengeance. In mere seconds, he would rise again and personally tear Cain's head from his shoulders, to mount it among the trophies of the damned.
Even now, he didn't believe death possible. After all, what could a mortal possibly do to kill a demigod in armor?
That's when he heard the mortal whisper—not fleeing, not attacking.
"Your Majesty... have mercy once more. Spare this insignificant life. I—I don't wish to die yet."
The traitor's gaze flicked toward the kneeling Commissar, who muttered the prayer with unshaking desperation.
Something about the scene was wrong. It reeked of madness.
A chill crept through the Chaos Marine's corrupted spine. A fear unlike any he had felt since his fall took root.
Then darkness claimed him.
He never understood how the mortal killed him.
Cain kept moving through the chaos. His path was erratic—panicked, disoriented—but wherever he went, soldiers were saved at the last moment.
From the shadows, Curze watched in silence, his expression unreadable.
Even the Night Haunter, Primarch of the VIII Legion, could not discern whether Cain's terror was real… or whether every step was guided by some deeper cunning.
Yet despite these moments of defiance, the tide of battle did not shift. The mortal defenders were simply outmatched. The Black Legion tore through their lines like reapers of old.
A corrupted Astartes impaled a loyal Guardsman with a roaring chainsword, hoisting him aloft.
The soldier screamed as his torso was shredded open—but even through the agony, he managed one last bayonet strike. It bounced off the armor with a sharp clang.
The traitor laughed.
And then, with a gruesome roar, he sliced the Guardsman in half.
Cain witnessed it all. Men butchered by traitors. Heroes dying to stall the advance of the damned.
And worse still—two demigods strode the battlefield. They didn't engage directly, but followed the path of ruin left by their corrupted kin.
Despair gripped the hearts of the defenders. And in Cain's chest, it festered.
He was just a man—flesh and blood—no match for beings of myth in power armor forged in the forges of Mars.
Suddenly, a hand yanked him into the trench.
The battlefield's roar dulled.
Inside the makeshift shelter, a young Guardswoman caught her breath. She was dusty, bloodied—but her eyes burned with resolve.
"Commissar! We've lost! You have to escape! The enemy's surrounding us, but if you move fast, you can make it."
"I don't know who those two giants are, but their presence spells annihilation. You must reach the Warmaster and report this. He needs to know."
"May we meet again under the Throne. And don't carry guilt—you kept us fighting this long."
"You're our hero."
She pulled off her respirator. To Cain's surprise, it was a woman—short-haired, with fierce, beautiful eyes.
In a better world, away from war, Cain imagined she'd be surrounded by stars and songs.
She wiped a tear from his face and gently kissed his cheek.
"Live, Commissar. You matter more than us. The Warmaster walks this world now… he will avenge us."
"If you can… see the future he spoke of. See it for me."
She resealed her mask, her beautiful gaze vanishing behind grim steel.
"That future… is as precious as gold."
"For the Imperium! For the Warmaster!"
She pushed him away and turned back to the fight, laspistol blazing.
High above, Curze—watched with a crooked grin.
"That future is as precious as gold," he repeated in mockery, voice echoing through the shadows.
"Who still believes that? Who still dares believe that?"
But the grin faded.
Even the Night Haunter could not help but feel… something. A flicker of uncertainty.
Cain ran.
Faster. Faster still.
As though wings of fate carried him.
Explosions tore apart the earth around him—but never struck him.
Enemies roared and fired, but their shots missed.
Behind him, Guardsmen died one after another, laying down covering fire to shield his flight.
Around Cain's neck, the icon of the Emperor swung in rhythm with his stride.
Its gaze was deep, mournful, eternal—as though it grieved the fate of mankind.
Cain turned back, once.
He saw her—the woman who kissed him—cornered by traitors.
So close.
So very close.
He wanted to go back. He wanted to fight. But that path led only to death. If he died now, the truth would die with him. The Warmaster would remain blind.
He would die a failure, stripped of all honor.
And Cain knew: he wasn't a hero. He was a coward made lucky. A survivor among the brave. Honors unearned weighed heavy on his chest.
But he ran.
Because someone had to.
And because the future—however slim—was still worth dying for.
He is not a hero.
But some still dared to call him one.
"Frak it all..." Cain muttered under his breath. Without a second thought, he turned back toward the battlefield. His grip tightened around the blood-slick monomolecular blade as he sprinted toward the Chaos-corrupted Astartes poised to slaughter the female Guardsman.
"I'm dead. This is it. Even the Emperor can't save me now."
His voice trembled with dread as he ran, mumbling like a man walking willingly into his grave.
In the rush of noise and adrenaline, he thought he heard laughter—his own shadow, laughing at him.
In saner moments, he might have questioned it. Now, he didn't care.
The gap between him and the traitor Space Marine closed in heartbeats.
Clang!
Steel clashed, and Cain instantly knew: this wasn't just any fallen warrior.
This was a veteran of the Long War—one of the Astartes that had fought in the Great Crusade and the Heresy, surviving ten thousand years of hatred and warfare. His strikes were calculated, effortless, cruel.
He was toying with Cain. A cat toying with a dying rat.
Even so, the fight lasted only moments. Cain was thrown to the dirt, his blade spinning out of reach, blood seeping from his knuckles.
He lay there, body throbbing with pain, tasting dust and blood. He didn't need a sign from the God-Emperor to know—his luck had finally run out.
Cain turned his head slightly, catching sight of the soldier he'd tried to save.
Her expression wasn't gratitude.
It was blame.
Cain smiled bitterly. His lips moved, barely a whisper:
"I am a hero."
The traitor raised his chainsword high, eyes gleaming with bloodlust.
This would be Cain's end.
But then—
Darkness.
It erupted from Cain's shadow like a living tide, swallowing light, choking vision.
The traitor howled—a raw, soul-rending scream that echoed across the battlefield.
Even the two Chaos demigods in the distance—Horus and Lorgar—turned their heads.
What emerged from the shadows froze the blood of every warrior who saw.
A towering figure, pale as moonlight, with ragged black hair and feral eyes, stood amidst the gloom. In one hand, he held the traitor's severed head. In the other, a crackling aura of malice and raw psychic wrath.
His posture—upright, defiant, terrible—matched the stature of the traitor Primarchs.
Curze.
The Night Haunter had returned.
Fear washed over the battlefield like a storm tide.
But Curze's mind was a cauldron of conflicting emotion.
He hadn't planned to intervene. Not yet.
In his cold calculus, the sacrifice of every mortal on the field was acceptable—if it meant he could make his brothers suffer when the time was right.
He despised mankind. Saw in them only weakness, hypocrisy, and cruelty. He had renounced his humanity long ago.
So why… why had he acted?
He glanced down at Cain, broken and shaking, awe and terror tangled in his eyes.
Curze scoffed internally.
Madness, he thought. Or maybe he'd always been mad.
Still, he didn't hate himself in that moment—not as much as he usually did.
That, at least, was something.
His gaze lifted to the horizon, where Horus and Lorgar still loomed like twin towers of ruin.
The madness in Curze's grin deepened.
So be it.
Timing was irrelevant.
It would just take more pain.
…
TN:
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