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Chapter 54: Time Reversal
"Father."
Horus turned toward the Emperor with respectful deference, his voice carrying the weight of his concern. "Do you acknowledge the Raven's promise regarding this card game?"
The other Primarchs also turned their heads, their gene-enhanced minds calculating the implications as they awaited their father's judgment.
The stakes had been set impossibly high: any position within the Imperium for a single victory.
Facing the Raven's seemingly absurd proposition, the Emperor's golden features remained serene as He chose unconditional support and divine trust.
"The Raven possesses authority equal to My own. Everything he promises carries the weight of Imperial decree and shall be honored."
Upon receiving the Emperor's affirmative answer, a slight smile appeared on Curze's perpetually gloomy countenance, the first expression of genuine satisfaction anyone had witnessed from the Night Haunter since his recovery.
"You will regret this decision, Raven," Curze declared with dark satisfaction.
"I certainly hope so," the Raven replied with mysterious confidence. He flapped his wings and took flight, landing gracefully upon Constantin Valdor's ornate shoulder guards.
"Golden Guardian, have someone bring me sustenance, fried potatoes with tomato sauce, seaweed flavoring preferred."
Curze surveyed the assembled throng with predatory calculation, his obsidian eyes finally settling upon a Mechanicus standing in the periphery.
The tech-adept had been idly adjusting his cog-staff with a mechadendrite, clearly bored by the proceedings.
"Him. That one will suffice," Curze indicated with a pale finger.
"As I stated previously, your choice matters not," the Raven preened his dark feathers with his beak, emanating casual indifference.
The Mechanicus was escorted before Curze by Imperial protocol officers. A bewildered expression crossed his augmetic features, flesh and blessed steel merged in the sacred union of the Omnissiah's chosen.
He had been performing routine maintenance checks and had not observed the Primarchs' discussion with proper attention. How had he suddenly been selected for a card game?
And why were these demigods regarding him with such intense scrutiny?
The Raven alighted between Curze and the minor tech-adept with theatrical precision. "Now, permit me to explain the sacred rules of Gwent. There exist five distinct deck configurations from which to choose."
"Each deck contains varying combat values, representing armies, individual warriors, legendary heroes, environmental conditions, and other strategic elements."
"At the commencement of each contest, both participants randomly draw a predetermined number of cards from their selected decks."
"Cards cannot be reshuffled between rounds. The game concludes after three complete rounds, unless one participant actively surrenders or exhausts their hand entirely. Victory belongs to whichever side achieves superior combat points."
After hearing the complete explanation, Curze instantly comprehended the game's mechanics with his superhuman intellect. A chilling smile spread across his pallid features like frost upon a window.
"This contest lacks any suspense whatsoever. Raven, prepare the appropriate documentation for my appointment."
"I find myself particularly interested in the position of Imperial Marshal. It is time to ensure those wretches throughout the galaxy face true fear."
Nostramo, the world where Curze had descended during the Great Scattering, remained a realm of perpetual despair and endless night.
Most of the population struggled through grinding poverty and unrelenting misery that crushed hope from their souls.
The destitute masses were forced to labor endlessly, day after day, yet could barely obtain sufficient nourishment to fill their stomachs or adequate clothing for warmth.
The powerful elites not only lived in obscene abundance but also actively exploited the already suffering workers with sadistic pleasure.
Criminal enterprises ran rampant throughout the planet's sprawling hive cities. Many citizens chose to end their own lives rather than face another day of hopeless existence.
A desperate, oppressive atmosphere enveloped all of Nostramo like a suffocating shroud.
All of this had changed with Curze's violent arrival.
The infant Primarch who landed on Nostramo was not adopted by any family or institution.
He survived by hunting vermin in the underhive sewers and feral animals that roamed the ruins of Nostramo Quintus.
As he matured, he was constantly plagued by dark and terrifying visions of possible futures, a precognitive curse that tormented his developing mind.
This psychic ability proved more burden than blessing, showing him horrors yet to come.
When he reached adolescence, he began systematically hunting down and executing those he deemed guilty according to his own twisted moral code, gradually reshaping Nostramo through terror.
First came the petty thieves and pickpockets. Then, the enforcers and crime lords of the underworld hierarchy. Finally, the corrupt noble houses who ruled from their spire-top palaces.
Every chosen target was subjected to brutal torture by Curze, their punishment carefully calibrated to match their perceived crimes.
Only after he believed they had suffered adequate atonement were they granted the mercy of death.
Within a single solar year, he had dramatically reduced the crime statistics in Nostramo Quintus. The previously stingy elites began redistributing their hoarded wealth, improving welfare conditions for the downtrodden masses.
The common people learned to suppress their self-destructive impulses and criminal inclinations.
The reason for this miraculous transformation was simple: fear of the phantom lurking in the darkness, the terror of hearing his knock upon their doors.
Fear had transformed Nostramo into a model society built upon the foundation of absolute terror.
Curze was already fantasizing about the methods he would employ to torture the guilty throughout the Imperium, spreading his doctrine of fear to every world under Imperial rule.
Should he slice open their abdomens and slowly extract their internal organs while they remained conscious? Or perhaps flay their skin away inch by agonizing inch?
The game of Gwent concluded with unexpected swiftness.
Observing his opponent's vastly superior final score, the confident smile vanished from Curze's features. He clutched at his dark hair with both hands, releasing a sound of pure anguish that echoed through the chamber.
"This is impossible! How could I suffer defeat?"
The Mechanicus seated across from him displayed a wry smile beneath his augmetic enhancements. Clearly, he understood the reason for his unexpected victory, though he dared not speak it aloud.
"It appears you and the position of Imperial Marshal are not destined for union," the Raven observed with philosophical detachment.
"I refuse to accept this outcome! I demand another contest!" Curze declared with desperate intensity.
"Of course. Your request is entirely reasonable," the Raven accepted with gracious magnanimity.
Shortly thereafter, the second game reached its conclusion. Curze had lost again, this time by an even more substantial margin than his previous defeat.
"This cannot be reality! How could I lose so catastrophically?" Curze exclaimed, his voice cracking with disbelief.
He had clearly witnessed his victory in prescient visions. He had followed the foreseen future precisely, completing every calculated move with perfect execution.
Yet somehow, inexplicably, defeat had found him regardless.
"This is indeed reality," the Raven stated with absolute certainty.
"Impossible, absolutely impossible," Curze shook his head violently, attempting to dispel the contradictory visions flooding his tortured mind.
Achieving victory in this simple card game should have been effortless given his supernatural foresight. The question of his defeat defied all logical explanation.
It should not have transpired in this manner.
"Nothing proves impossible in this vast universe," the Raven turned his attention toward the other assembled Primarchs. "The time has come for your attempts."
The Primarchs, who had initially radiated supreme confidence, now wore expressions of solemn concern.
Although Curze's personality remained eccentric and disturbing, he was nonetheless a genuine Primarch with all the superhuman capabilities that entailed.
And he had just suffered defeat at the hands of an ordinary mortal servant.
"I shall serve as the second challenger," Lion El'Jonson stepped forward past his brothers and seated himself at the designated card table with military precision.
Curze remained standing nearby, his eyes wide with obsessive intensity as he scrutinized every move the Mechanicus made, desperately seeking to identify the flaw in the game's construction.
The other Primarchs observed the proceedings without blinking, their enhanced vision cataloging every detail.
The subsequent game concluded with similar swiftness. Lion also tasted defeat, though by a narrower margin than Curze's humiliation.
"Raven, I request, as Curze did before me, the opportunity for a second attempt," Lion stated with controlled dignity.
"Of course. Equality of opportunity shall be maintained," the Raven did not refuse, treating all participants with identical consideration.
Lion's second game ended in an even more decisive defeat than his first attempt.
Lion remained silent, though his jaw tightened with frustrated confusion. Something was fundamentally wrong with this entire situation.
Subsequently, Leman Russ, Angron, Rogal Dorn, and Horus each stepped forward to challenge the mysterious tech-adept.
Despite employing every strategic capability at their disposal, utilizing their superhuman intellects and tactical genius, they could not achieve victory.
Every single Primarch suffered defeat. All had lost to a minor Mechanicus whose greatest responsibility involved maintaining basic mechanical equipment.
The Raven alighted upon Sanguinius's shoulder with gentle grace.
"Angel, you alone remain. You must exert maximum effort; do not bring shame upon your noble lineage."
"Oh~, Raven," Sanguinius displayed a rueful smile that would have moved mortals to tears.
By this point, everyone present could perceive that something was fundamentally wrong with this contest.
Although none could identify the specific problem, the situation was clearly compromised by forces beyond their understanding.
Sanguinius approached the card table and seated himself with angelic dignity.
He played with absolute seriousness, considering every decision with meticulous care, but the final result remained unchanged: defeat.
The assembled Primarchs appeared bewildered and helpless, their superhuman minds unable to comprehend their collective failure. They could not determine where the fundamental flaw lay.
Seven Primarchs had observed every game with perfect attention, eliminating any possibility of conventional cheating.
The Mechanicus possessed no Gene Engine implants or high-computation prosthetics that might provide an unfair advantage.
He was merely an ordinary repair priest responsible for maintaining mechanical equipment throughout the fleet.
Why did they continue suffering defeat against such an unremarkable opponent?
Horus stepped forward as spokesman for his brothers. "Raven, now that we have all experienced defeat, will you reveal the answer to this mystery?"
"Certainly. The reason for your losses is simple, everything occurred according to fate's immutable design."
The Raven returned to his customary perch upon the Emperor's broad shoulder. "Now, permit me to analyze how this fate, which you were destined never to overcome, was carefully constructed."
"Honestly, the process proves simpler than preparing delicious fried potatoes with tomato sauce."
"Consider Curze's final game as our example. He played a total of fourteen million, six hundred and five separate contests. He achieved victory in fourteen million, six hundred and three of those attempts. But every single time he secured triumph, I simply reversed the flow of time itself."
"His chosen opponent could suffer countless defeats, but winning just once proved sufficient for our purposes."
"I needed only to preserve the singular timeline where victory occurred. This is fate, a destiny none of you could ever hope to overcome through conventional means."
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