The unspoken implication of those words sent shockwaves through the bridge. Even Fujimaru Ritsuka reeled, turning to scrutinize Sevatar with wide-eyed disbelief.
Amid the brief chaos, Conrad Curze's eyes narrowed in displeasure:
This is not something Jago Sevatarion would say.
Fujimaru Ritsuka's gaze flicked to Conrad—only their third meaningful interaction since acknowledging each other—yet he miraculously understood her silent question. He shook his head minutely:
He did not put these words in Sevatar's mouth.
This was his domain, a phantom woven from his memories, but he held no real control here. He could slip through walls, veil himself from sight, yet alter nothing—for this trial was not his. The Emperor, its true architect, had granted him no authority.
But Sevatar would never say this unprompted.
Conrad knew his First Captain. Yes, in reality, it had been Sevatar who pulled the trigger on Nostramo's destruction at his command. That Sevatar had even concocted his own twisted logic to justify it—but he would never initiate such judgment. Arrogant as he was, Sevatar never presumed himself worthy to decree the fate of a Primarch's homeworld.
His homeworld. Nostramo might have left him scarred, but Conrad knew: Sevatar had always loved that damned planet.
Fujimaru Ritsuka clearly knew it too. Recovering swiftly, she stepped forward, quelling the uproar with a raised hand. The crowd stilled, but tension lingered thick in the air.
"This doesn't sound like you, Sevatar," the girl-Primarch said. "If you're serious, I'd hear your reasoning."
"Nostramo is guilty, my lord." Sevatar's voice was ice. "It has spat on your edicts, defied your laws, corrupted your Legion with liars and filth. It stands condemned."
"That doesn't warrant annihilating an entire world," Fujimaru countered, brow furrowed. "Not all its people are criminals. Punishing the innocent isn't justice."
"There are no innocents left." Sevatar's reply was merciless. "Mothers rejoice when their sons evade conscription; friends celebrate gangmates escaping service; scum slither into the Legion through bribes and lies. The whole society is complicit."
"...That's even less like something you'd say unprompted." Fujimaru's tone sharpened with sudden certainty. "You've been influenced by something outside the Legion."
"No, my lord. I've merely… reflected deeply on this."
"Then you've ignored our prior conclusions—on the scope of enforcement, the limits of retribution, and above all, proportionality." Fujimaru was deflecting, and Conrad saw it. "I won't do it. And it seems you need remedial lessons, First Captain. When time permits, seek out Sigismund."
Sigismund? Conrad's mental scoff was instantaneous. What do the Imperial Fists have to do with this?
But Sevatar, like Conrad, refused to be derailed: "You're evading the issue, my lord. I beg you not to."
"And you are obstinately fixated on an irrational proposal, First Captain Sevatarion." Another voice cut in—unbidden, unapproved, yet utterly normalized here. A warrior in Night Lords livery, though his pauldrons bore an unfamiliar sigil (some pet project of Fujimaru's, no doubt).
In that split-second pause, Conrad's flawless memory twigged: He knew that voice. It didn't belong to any of his sons.
"Our lord has rejected your suggestion and rebuked you with grace," the warrior continued. "Persist, and I'll have no choice but to invoke Chapter III, Supplements CXXII-IV or CXXIV-II of the Legion's penal code."
Conrad's disbelief spiked. This was Sigismund—the Imperial Fists' champion—now inexplicably a Midnight Lord.
Sevatar merely spread his hands, flaunting crimson gauntlets. "Do as you like, you rigid bastard. It wouldn't be my first time in the brig."
The air froze. Sigismund's hand drifted toward his sword—until Fujimaru intervened.
"Plain opposition won't sway you, it seems." Her calm was unshaken. "No matter. Shen's task will take time. Let's talk."
She studied Sevatar, then asked abruptly: "Do you remember what you were before joining the Legion?"
The question caught Sevatar off guard. After a beat, he answered grudgingly: "A gang-thug in Quintus' underhive. Theft, murder, posturing—like every able-bodied Nostraman with half a brain." A pause. "You've always known this."
"I have." Fujimaru nodded. "And now you're an Astartes, First Captain of the Night Lords, my trusted blade. Look around: over eighty percent of your brothers here share similar pasts. Yet they're warriors now. Enforcers of justice."
"...Only because you assembled a Nostraman-heavy force for this operation," Sevatar muttered.
"The ratio isn't the point. The existence of such men is." Fujimaru's voice softened. "I've always hoped you'd remember your origins—not just to recall you weren't born transhuman, but to trace how far you've come."
"...I don't follow, my lord."
"A philosophical tangent, perhaps." She smiled faintly. "But tell me: if you could meet your younger self and describe your life now, would that boy believe you?"
Sevatar's irritation was palpable (Conrad recognized the micro-twitch of his jaw), but he answered: "No. He'd punch any fool peddling such fairy tales."
Fujimaru's smile deepened. "Precisely. The change in you is unthinkable—yet real. Many here would say the same. Shall we ask them?"
"Unnecessary, my lord." Sevatar yielded too quickly—he saw her gambit. "But you must admit: such transformations are rare. Most Nostramans never get the chance. And not all who do… deserve it."
"Yet the possibility exists," Fujimaru pressed. "I wanted Nostramo to offer that chance to all. I failed—repeatedly—because I assumed too much. But while hope remains, I won't give up on it."
Hope? Conrad nearly laughed aloud. Nostramo's creatures loathed light. Give them order, and they'd scuttle back to the shadows, clinging to their filth like parasites. No reform could purge that rot—only fire.
As I proved. The Night Haunter's certainty was absolute. Nostramo had no future.
Yet Fujimaru Ritsuka, despite her failures, still believed otherwise.