The Sarmass Crusade
Not long after destroying his home planet, Horus began his rebellion.
By this time, Konrad Curze's schizophrenia had become extremely severe, transforming him completely from the Night Haunter into the fallen Konrad.
He could not accept the atrocities he had committed, and could only immerse himself in self-hypnosis and rationalization, constantly telling himself, "I have no choice, the prophecy has already been set."
Konrad Curze began to frantically bring his prophetic visions to life, even as these actions strayed from the righteous path, including following Horus in rebellion.
It is worth mentioning that the most well-known slogan of the later traitor Space Marines, "Death to the False Emperor," was first shouted by Sevatar during a pre-landing briefing.
One can only say like father, like son; a casual gesture can be passed down for a lifetime.
—
[Terra Imperial Palace · Viewing Hall]
When Sevatar's cry of "Death to the False Emperor!" echoed within the Viewing Hall, the air seemed to freeze.
All eyes, filled with shock, amusement, and schadenfreude, fixed simultaneously on Sevatar among the Night Lords.
Sevatar raised his hands and forced a smile that looked worse than crying:
"My Lords! The Imperium is a place of law, isn't it? You wouldn't find me guilty because of a future slogan, would you? That's all... things that haven't happened yet!"
"Is he mad?" Bjorn of the Space Wolves, the most seasoned warrior by Russ's side, let out a scoff of disbelief. He nudged Corswain of the First Legion beside him. "Hear that? 'Hasn't happened yet'! I'll bet a barrel of Fenrisian Ale that the kid's future has already ended early!"
"The laws of Caliban never show leniency toward treasonous words." Corswain's face was a mirror of his Primarch's, cold and hard as ice. His hand instinctively gripped his sword hilt. "Words are an extension of thought. With such speech and behavior, his heart must be alien to us; he has already defiled the name of loyalty."
Pollux of the Imperial Fists was much calmer. He pointed at Sevatar on the screen, who had been immediately disarmed by the Custodes but still wore a nonchalant smile. "We have no authority to judge a Legion Commander. This matter can only be decided by the Primarchs and His Majesty the Emperor."
"Probability? I bet he'll have to copy the 'Imperial Military Regulations' a thousand times in the brig, using his own blood." Yesugei of the White Scars interjected with the life-and-Death-transcending humor characteristic of the steppe people. "But then again, that slogan is quite... refreshing, isn't it, Khan?"
He turned to look at his Primarch, but Jaghatai Khan only let out a cold snort. His gaze, sharp as a falcon's, pierced through all the clamor and struck directly at Warmaster Horus's seemingly calm profile.
"Refreshing? It's a Death sentence." The Khan's voice wasn't loud, but it was clearly heard by those around him. "To shout about tearing the roof off while in the enemy's home and in front of the Master—one is either a hopelessly stupid brute, or..."
He paused meaningfully, every word like a precision-thrown knife.
"...or has received some kind of tacit permission."
The discussions of the Astartes were like stones thrown into a lake, but what rippled out from the Primarch seats were waves powerful enough to capsize a giant ship.
"Konrad Curze!" Rogal Dorn was the first to break the silence among the Primarchs. His voice sounded like two pieces of granite rubbing together, every syllable filled with unquestionable resolve.
"Your man, in a meeting of the Crusade force, openly incited rebellion against our Father. According to Imperial military law, he should be executed for treason, immediately."
"An out-of-control weapon is more dangerous than an enemy's blade, Konrad Curze."
Lion El'Jonson's gaze moved slowly from Sevatar's face on the screen to his maddened brother. His voice was steady but carried a suffocating weight.
"First you allowed your Legion to degenerate into thugs, and now you have lost basic control over your sons. The destruction of Nostramo was tactical recklessness; this moment, however, is your complete bankruptcy as a Legion Commander."
"Brothers, please, calm yourselves."
Guilliman immediately stepped forward, attempting to use a dam of reason to hold back the bursting flood of anger.
"We have not yet seen the full picture of the event. At this moment, hastily executing a Legion's First Captain over a 'future' slogan will only cause the future we wish to avoid to come true even faster."
"Even the most brutal criminal should undergo a thorough trial; this is the cornerstone of Imperial law."
"Guilliman is right."
Sanguinius softly agreed, his golden wings trembling slightly due to his inner unease,
"We cannot practice tyranny now out of fear of future possibilities. If we do that, what difference is there between us and... and the Konrad Curze on the screen, who has clearly been consumed by madness?"
"Ha! Law? Procedural justice?"
Mortarion's dark, raspy voice, sounding as if it had been soaked in toxic gas, rang out, filled with heartless mockery of Guilliman's idealism.
"My dear Roboute, why are you always so eager to stand up and defend these 'potential' sinners? Are you worried that one day, when your... 'little maneuvers' hidden in the Five Hundred Worlds are exposed to the light, no one will speak for you?"
Guilliman's face flashed with a hint of helplessness and indignation: "Mortarion, I am merely upholding the Order and dignity of the Imperium. This has nothing to do with me personally."
"Oh? Is that so?" Fulgrim chuckled elegantly, as if enjoying a brilliant play.
His slender fingers lightly brushed his cheek, but his gaze coiled around Konrad Curze like a venomous snake.
"My dear Roboute, sometimes overemphasizing procedure instead binds the hands and feet that could truly solve the problem. However... I am more interested in why you, Brother Konrad, do not say a few words in defense of your progeny? Do you also believe that your witty 'Joker' shouted out... some kind of heartfelt sentiment that you dare not speak aloud?"
Everyone's gaze focused on Konrad Curze again. He let out a burst of neurotic, cackling laughter, as if he had heard the funniest joke in the World.
"Defense? Haha... Hahahaha! Why defend? Is a defense needed?"
His trembling finger swept through the air, pointing in turn at Sanguinius, Rogal Dorn, and Guilliman, finally landing on Horus.
"He was just reading lines from a script! Just like my destruction of Nostramo! Just like you, Horus... about to don that glorious Crown of Thorns! Just like you, Sanguinius... who will embrace that magnificent Death!"
"Just like all of you... walking one by one toward an ending already written and unchangeable! We are all actors, and I am the only poor wretch who saw the script in advance! Hahahaha!"
"Enough!"
Horus finally spoke. The Warmaster's authority was like an invisible barrier, instantly suppressing Konrad Curze's mad ramblings and everyone's arguments.
He first looked reassuringly at Rogal Dorn and the Lion: "I share your anger, brothers; discipline is the lifeblood of the Legions." Then he nodded to Guilliman and Sanguinius: "But your caution is equally important; we must not descend into chaos ourselves."
He turned to Konrad Curze, his tone full of unquestionable warning: "Konrad, control your people. This dangerous 'enthusiasm' must be directed toward the true enemies of the Imperium, not toward Terra!"
Finally, his gaze swept across the room, giving a Warmaster-like ruling, smooth yet hiding sharp edges:
"Sevatar will be temporarily held by the First Legion. His remarks will not be officially recorded. But as for the words 'Death to the False Emperor'..."
Horus paused, his lips curling into a subtle, meaningful arc, "...let future results prove whether it is a piece of stupidity or... a bit of foresight."
"Future results? Horus!"
The Lion's voice suddenly turned cold; he could not tolerate this kind of fence-sitting.
"The Warmaster's duty is to maintain military discipline! A treasonous slogan capable of shaking the very foundations of the entire army cannot be answered with mere 'temporary custody'! Your indecisiveness is creating a breeding ground for chaos!"
"Ha!" Perturabo let out a loud, venomous sneer, looking at Horus with disgust.
"Did you hear that? This is why I fucking hate politics! A piece of arrogance enough to send an entire Legion to a court-martial is just passed over with 'not recorded' and a light 'future proof'! Truly efficient, Warmaster!"
Ferrus Manus's iron hands creaked as he clenched them, his voice full of undisguised rage: "A lack of discipline! A lack of decisiveness! Horus, you are condoning this! Weakness will only encourage more betrayal!"
Just as the tension in the Viewing Hall reached a boiling point, a grand, weary, yet absolutely authoritative voice came from the direction of the Golden Throne.
"Do as Horus says."
The Emperor had spoken.
"The Imperium does indeed require the operation of law, even if only... on the surface." No emotion could be heard in his voice, but the latter half of the sentence sent a chill through everyone.
"As for those... rebellions that have not yet been exposed. As long as their ultimate goal is not to betray the human race itself... just keep them under control for now."
The Emperor's final word brought all arguments to an abrupt halt. But a deeper, colder doubt began to take root in the heart of every loyal Primarch.
---
Just as the Viewing Hall fell into an eerie calm following the Emperor's judgment, a psychic ripple—filled with extreme weariness and a hint of playfulness that only the Emperor could perceive—arrived silently.
It was Malcador's voice.
"Congratulations, my old friend."
"It seems you and your sons have finally begun to communicate like a 'normal' family—using threats, compromises, and fence-sitting, plus a poor fellow who was almost executed on the spot, to maintain this precarious surface peace. A truly touching scene."
The Emperor's psychic response was like a ten-thousand-year-old glacier, without a ripple: "Efficiency. On the established trajectory, this is the optimal solution that triggers the smallest chain reaction. Emotional entanglements are useless computational noise."
A hint of a chuckle, almost tangible, entered Malcador's psychic ripples.
"Noise? Yes, a 'family meeting' composed of a prophetic madman, a hard-handed knight, a rigid foreman, an idealistic politician, a saint, a misanthropic pessimist, an artistic criminal, a gladiator driven mad by nails, and an ambitious 'eldest son' trying to balance it all with political maneuvering... it is indeed just some insignificant 'noise'."
He paused, as if flipping through a tragic script filled with jokes.
"You see, Rogal Dorn and the Lion played the strict elder brothers, ready to enforce family law at any moment; Guilliman and Sanguinius were the earnest peacemakers, afraid the family would fall apart; Mortarion and Perturabo were the two angry youths forever complaining about 'unfairness';"
"Fulgrim watched the spectacle without caring if it escalated; and Konrad Curze... he simply claimed to be the author and sole reader of this rotten script. As for the Warmaster,"
Malcador's teasing sharpened a bit, "he played his part best—a perfect 'good son' trying to maintain family harmony, except he seems to have forgotten that the first fire to ignite this house was handed out by himself."
The Emperor's psychic presence was silent for a moment before sounding again, still calm, yet seemingly carrying a bit more of an unspeakable weight than before:
"Keep a record. Focus on observing the energy fluctuations of the Warp under this 'noise', as well as the changes in the mental state of each Primarch. Their emotions are also variables that can be calculated."
An almost imperceptible sigh came from Malcador's psychic ripples, a sigh containing tens of thousands of years of weariness, helplessness, and the deepest understanding and pity for his old friend.
"Understood. Record the signs of rebellion, calibrate Terra's defense network, and by the way... continue to watch your 'children' step by step turn the galactic empire of your dreams into the grandest and most expensive family dispute scene in the history of the Milky Way. Just daily work."
"Oh, by the way," Malcador added one last thing before cutting the communication, his tone carrying a hint of black humor that only the two of them could understand:
"Do I need to prepare some... Painkillers for you? I mean, to deal with the next 'family meeting'."