"So you've spent all this time doing something utterly meaningless."
Perhaps because Fujimaru Ritsuka had made at least some progress on the issue, Conrad Curze's seething fury had cooled slightly. Yet, his mood remained as dark and oppressive as gathering storm clouds, his voice dripping with sharp mockery. "A traveler heading in the wrong direction will never reach the right destination—let alone someone charging headfirst down a dead-end road. I see no point in you wasting effort on these 'unnecessary endeavors.'"
"Including my attempts to change Nostramo?"
"What else did you think I meant? Criticizing you for turning the Nightfall into some sort of classical music capital?" The true master of the Eighth Legion let out a monstrous shriek. "—Though I do have something to say about that: The Eighth Legion should be the iron hammer of justice, the blade of punishment, the executioners who spread fear! And you've made them soft!"
Faced with the censure of a Primarch—especially Conrad Curze—Fujimaru Ritsuka still showed no trace of fear. The only emotion she displayed was a resigned sigh. "It seems we disagree on many things. If events unfold as the Emperor planned, we'll probably need quite some time to adjust to each other."
Conrad Curze knew what that plan was—and from the very beginning, he had doubted it. Yet, even after his unequivocal judgment and death on Tsagualsa, even after the Emperor awakened his soul and drew him into this illusion, he realized that the instincts of his living self were still deeply etched into his now-immaterial existence.
He saw the plan proceeding smoothly to its conclusion—and succeeding. That was why, despite his countless misgivings, he had obediently endured the trials of this illusion. That was why, even though Fujimaru Ritsuka had angered him in many ways, the girl remained unharmed, standing before him and speaking so confidently.
She held a more crucial role in this inevitably successful plan—one even greater than Conrad Curze's. So she had to live.
"Let's return to the original topic: You believe many of my attempts are meaningless because they can't change the predetermined outcome. Is that correct, Lord Curze?"
"Indeed." Though Conrad Curze had countless grievances about her, he could acknowledge her ability to swiftly pinpoint the crux of a discussion. Yet, this very acknowledgment only deepened the disgust and irritation that had festered in his heart since boarding the Nightfall, making his loathing for the entire affair feel… impure.
"And don't think you can sway me with the same rhetoric you used on Sevatar," the awakened dead added with unmistakable malice.
Fujimaru shook her head slightly. "I didn't 'sway' Sevatarion. I merely used my authority as the Eighth Legion's commander to suppress some of his less agreeable inclinations. You know as well as I do that Sevatarion is… stubborn. Or rather, most Astartes are. Convincing them to change their minds requires time and irrefutable proof."
"Then you'll soon discover that a Primarch is far more stubborn than any Astartes."
"And far prouder. I realized that much from the Emperor's records of Imperial history and my interactions with Lord Ferrus. But given that both of us have endured countless harrowing visions of the future, perhaps our discussion on the topic of 'what's to come' might go a little smoother?"
Conrad Curze neither agreed nor disagreed. Though his mind brimmed with scorn, outwardly, he made a "go on" gesture. He was determined to see what argument this mortal—who, by the illusion's premise, had witnessed every prophecy he had seen in his lifetime yet remained unbroken—could possibly offer.
"First, I don't believe that striving for change is meaningless just because the outcome is predetermined." Fujimaru turned her gaze back to Nostramo, suspended alone in the void. "Often, what shapes the future isn't just the result—take this planet, forever doomed to return to its starting point. Perhaps it will always revert to chaos and corruption, but in those first dozen years of each cycle, when order and peace still hold, people still benefit."
A mortal's perspective. Conrad Curze nearly laughed aloud.
"And what does that signify? Some meager achievement to console yourself with?"
"How is that mere consolation? Does a small achievement cease to be an achievement?" Fujimaru shot back in a similar vein. "People who would have frozen or starved on the old Nostramo receive aid. Those who would have been ground to dust on assembly lines earn fair wages and rest. Those destined to serve as noble weapons or cannon fodder find better paths. The illiterate gain education and a chance to rise—even if such order lasts only a few short years, are these not welcome changes? I understand that Primarchs and Astartes care little for the lives of common folk. During the Great Crusade, your eyes were fixed on the stars. Your fleets conquered countless worlds, slaughtered endless xenos, all in pursuit of a radiant future—"
"—A future forced upon us."
"—But can you honestly say you never yearned for it?"
Fujimaru roared the question at him, and for a fleeting moment, Conrad Curze was stunned into silence.
He did not answer. But his silence was an answer.
"It was a future where all of humanity would know happiness." Her voice softened to a whisper. "And human happiness sprouts from the very things you disregard."
"But it's useless." Conrad Curze's reply was just as quiet. "You know these changes on Nostramo are fleeting—pretty bubbles that last a decade or two before bursting, plunging back into the toxic mire below."
"Bubbles may burst, but they existed." Fujimaru countered. "In each cycle, people who know right from wrong, who uphold justice, emerge and grow stronger. As their numbers swell, chaos must expend ever more effort to reclaim dominance—until it can no longer prevail. I have data to prove it."
Naïve, Conrad Curze thought. Yet he found himself unable to decide whether her approach was laughable or admirable.
"Perhaps. But how long would that take?" To his own surprise, his challenge carried far less malice than before. "Will your envisioned utopia arrive first? Or Nostramo's end? Did your prophecies not tell you?"
"...I don't fully understand your relationship with those visions, Lord Curze." Fujimaru sighed. "To me, you seemed utterly trapped by them in life. But because I was wary from the start, I escaped. As someone outside that cage, my answer is simple: I don't care."
That reply struck Conrad Curze harder than any denial of his beliefs ever could. Even a Primarch could only mutter in stunned repetition: "...Don't care?"
"If that utopian future arrives first, wonderful. But if Nostramo's doom comes first, does that mean my efforts to change it must end?"
With infuriating confidence, Fujimaru Ritsuka declared something Conrad Curze found utterly illogical:
"I want to change Nostramo, yes—but what I truly want to change isn't the planet itself. It's the people! By the 30th Millennium, relocating an entire planet's population to another world isn't some fantasy! If Nostramo's destruction can't be stopped, then let it be destroyed. As a Primarch, I can evacuate every last citizen, settle them on a new world, rebuild its culture and architecture, and keep reforming its society!"
Conrad Curze was speechless. Though he had never considered solving the problem this way, the sheer audacity of her logic left him reeling. Before he could respond, Fujimaru pressed on:
"Ultimately, even if we see a future outcome, that outcome is just one stage in an endless continuum. Nostramo may be destroyed—shattered by orbital bombardment—but its debris will linger in this system. Mechanicum ships could still mine its adamantium ore. Extending the logic: The galaxy may burn. Horus may drag the entire Imperium into war. If that's inevitable, shouldn't we stockpile extinguishers—or at least tie a rope to drag the Imperium out of the mire before it sinks?"
"Such feeble efforts are like a mantis trying to stop a chariot. What use is a single Legion against a galaxy aflame?"
"Effort may not always yield results, but effort itself has meaning—no matter how small." She had made this point earlier but seemed happy to reiterate. "'Without accumulating steps, one cannot journey a thousand miles; without gathering streams, there can no rivers or seas.' I believe that even if today's efforts bear no fruit—even if they're swallowed by harsh reality—they'll become stepping stones to a different future."
"And how do you know that unforeseen future will be better?"
"If it's good, we embrace it. If it's bad, we fix it—or overcome it." Fujimaru sounded like a child defiantly insisting on victory in a game. "I refuse to believe in fate!"
Silence followed. For a Primarch, a few minutes were enough to process vast complexities. Fujimaru had no idea what calculations ran through Conrad Curze's mind, but she waited patiently.
Finally, the Primarch of the Eighth Legion did something unexpected: He smiled—a genuine, untainted expression.
"Fujimaru Ritsuka, you've taught me something." Reluctant but honest. "I may need time to consider all your arguments. Until then, I'll withhold judgment—but on your final point, I can agree without reservation."
With a smirk, he added: "If you believed in fate, you'd have died ten thousand times over by now."
"Who's to say I haven't?" She winked at him deliberately.
The tension dissolved. In the Nightfall's near-lightless bridge, they shared a silent, knowing smile.