That day, the denizens of Nostramo's underhive witnessed a miracle — a divine boy, cast from the abyss like a falling star, who kicked a daemon square in its unholy jaw.
Imperial Primarch Primary School Required Reading: The Emperor's Grandson Smote the Ruinous Powers with a Stone.
In the silence, faith in Nyx swelled.
The reality, however, was rather less august—
"Lad! Look at me! I'll make you physically loyal and verbally devoted!"
First strike — teaches gratitude to the Imperium!
Second strike — forces you to stand tall, like a fresh conscript!
Third strike — sends your soul back to the Golden Throne!
...Well, it's not like the Golden Throne accepts traitors anyway.
After three blows, the Night Lord — 'Khan' , who had been enjoying prolonged unauthorised flight — finally crumpled to the ground. The Chaos Space Marine, roused from his stupor by Nyx's iron fist, was dragged back to unwilling consciousness.
The taint of Chaos was utterly suppressed by the electromagnetic force Nyx commanded. Even the Blood God's distant snarl was forcibly severed.
Gazing upon the broken traitor, Nyx prepared to end his accursed existence with a final strike.
"Brother... may I see him?"
Nyx's raised fist hesitated. Curze emerged slowly from the shadows. He had intended to depart and forge his own path — but his foresight had screamed warning, and he had hastened back.
The Night Lord sprawled upon the ground had lost his helm to Nyx's assault. His skin was the same pallid, corpse-white as Curze's own — save that this wretch's flesh was a canvas for the blasphemous symbols of Chaos.
For the first time, father and son — from two divergent timelines — met across the gulf of time and space.
"Father..."
It was the first word the Night Lord had spoken since his beating. He stared at Curze in astonishment.
"This is my future... This is my get..."
Curze stared at the war-plate defiled by the mark of Chaos. He felt his fate sealing shut around him — an inescapable, predestined descent into darkness.
"Don't you dare fall for it, Curze."
"He is a traitor. He deserves neither your pity nor your recognition."
Nyx's tone was uncharacteristically harsh. He would not permit this wretch to sway Curze towards his own damned fate.
"Father... save me..."
Hearing the traitor beg for mercy, Nyx's fists clenched in barely restrained wrath. He did not know if his brother would be moved by this grotesque parody of filial piety — if Curze's heart would soften.
"Curze..."
"I know. Leave him to me."
Curze spoke scarcely a word. He approached his get slowly, deliberately. He saw the desperate will to live in the traitor's eyes — and the faint, hopeful curl of his lips, believing his gambit had succeeded.
"Traitor. Die. "
The Primarch's armoured fist struck like a thunderbolt. Curze pierced his get's final heart — and, with this act, affirmed his loyalty to Nyx and to the Imperium.
"He was a traitor. And one of Nostramo's most grievous criminals."
"The future me... should send Sevatar. Perhaps I... shall slay him myself."
Curze's voice was soft. His eyes held not a trace of sorrow. The slaughter of such a degenerate brought him no pain.
"Keh... Curze... Lord of the Night... I salute you."
In his final moment, the Night Lord shed all pretence. His mocking gaze jeered at Curze — sneered at his naive attempt to defy fate.
With this, the Night Lord fulfilled his last mission. He had known, from the beginning, that he would not leave this place alive.
The Chaos Marine's form grew indistinct. All artefacts of the future flickered, like a distress signal bleeding into static.
"It is finished."
Nyx's electromagnetic field rippled outward across the plaza. Golden current scoured the filth of the Warp from the materium. The lightning claws still lodged in the Captain's chest — the Ovum the Iron Fist leader had become — all flickered, and faded into nothing.
The Iron Fist plaza was utterly silent. Nyx stared at Curze, motionless. He understood his brother needed time to process what he had witnessed.
In that moment, Nyx grasped why Curze had been so reluctant to speak truth. With the Imperium's zero-tolerance policy towards Chaos and its traitors, this incident alone could trigger a full planetary purge — a torpedo-swarm descending from orbit. Were a Primarch implicated in such corruption, the Emperor Himself might descend to deliver judgement in person.
The Emperor: Psychically projectile-vomiting warning!
"Nyx. Do you still believe the future can be changed?" Curze's voice was low. He sought not comfort, but certainty.
"It can, Curze!" Nyx's reply was absolute.
"I have always believed the future is forged by the choices we make now."
"And those bastards in the future — so desperate to drag you back onto the path theyhave paved for you — isn't that proof enough? Your change terrifies them! "
The golden corona behind Nyx blazed brighter. Curze stared at his brother — and his foresight activated of its own accord, the Warp's oppressive influence forced back by Nyx's presence.
He saw a future utterly transformed:
Konrad Curze. Lord of the Night. Justice of the Imperium. And beside him, his loyal Eighth Legion — disciplined, incorruptible, the Emperor's righteous judgement made manifest.
This golden light illuminated Curze's path. For the first time in his life, he gazed upon a future he did not dread.
I think I understand now, Nyx. Why these mortals follow you...
Nyx, still staring intently at Curze, grew increasingly uncomfortable. He could not read his brother's mind; he had no notion what Curze was thinking. He assumed his brother required comfort.
Thus, Nyx spread his arms wide. His expression radiated brotherly affection — or so he believed. As the Eleventh Primarch, he had elected, in this moment, to roleplay as a compassionate sibling.
Come here, Curze.
Let me embrace you. As brothers should.
...
Beat——!
Two Primarchs stood frozen. Neither moved a muscle. Their gazes met; the air between them grew thick with something called 'crippling mutual awkwardness'.
"Nyx. What are you doing?" Curze's foresight had long since receded. He stared, perplexed, at his brother's peculiar posture. Being a Primarch, he did not mock his brother overtly — yet a strange, unfamiliar warmth trickled into his chest.
"Ah... My arm... cramped. Stretching it out. Ha... haha..." Nyx retracted his limb with as much dignity as he could muster, which was none. He was so profoundly embarrassed he could have excavated a three-room apartment in the solid rock with his toes alone.
My godsforsaken self-awareness... Thank the Throne it was only Curze...
Wait! The Captain!
Nyx spun around, abruptly recalling that his 'eldest son' was still lying wounded on the ground. His concern, however, was unnecessary.
The moment the lightning claws and the taint of Chaos had vanished, the Captain's transhuman physiology had already stabilised his wounds. He was back on his feet, his functionality restored.
At this moment, the Captain harboured only one emotion: profound, seething envy towards Curze.
Why is it him standing beside the Space King?! Why not me?!
Observing that his 'offspring' remained 'cognitively suboptimal', Nyx exhaled in relief. Before his transmigration, he had been barely over twenty years old. He had not even enjoyed two full decades of life before being hurled into the Warhammer universe — and now he was expected to be a father. The role transition had been... abrupt.
"Father! Are you unharmed?!"
Techmarine Bryce and Blazing Hatred had arrived at the plaza's perimeter at some point. The moment the Warp's taint had manifested, Blazing Hatred — ever-sensitive to the stench of the traitor — had detected it. Leaving Chestnut behind, he had rushed to support Bryce and hastened to Nyx's side.
"Nyx. I will take my leave."
"Next time... It is unlikely we shall meet again soon."
Watching the scene of 'filial piety' unfolding between Nyx and his 'son', Curze would be lying if he claimed he felt no envy. All Primarchs were, in some sense, abandoned children starved of paternal affection. Few had ever known what it was to possess a family.
This situation had, however, impressed upon Curze the importance of procreation. He was now possessed of a powerful urge to locate Sevatar on this timeline as swiftly as possible.
Curze strongly suspected that, given his brother's apparently magnetic charisma, if he tarried any longer, his 'excellent First Captain' might very well change his surname.