"Perhaps." Conrad Curze's response to her mortal claim was oddly ambivalent.
"You're dodging the objective truth," Fujimaru Ritsuka crossed her arms, tilting her head back to meet his gaze without fear. "Personally, I don't care how others see me—but given the circumstances, I'll emphasize: I am an ordinary human. By your standards, unquestionably a 'mortal.'"
Conrad nearly scoffed. This "mortal" had just outmaneuvered him three times over. He had a arsenal of sarcasm ready—three hundred examples of her exceptionality—but he knew debating this would trap them in an endless loop.
So he ignored it entirely, cutting to his true grievance:
"I came for answers. Yet my father, ever fond of riddles, dumped me into this… scene."
Fujimaru obliged the pivot. "Did you find your answers here?"
"No." Irritation crept into his voice. "Your Legion differs from mine. Even familiar faces act differently under you. But I see no… deciding factor."
"Deciding factor?"
"What improved Nostramo. What stayed your hand from judgment. What keeps you sane despite foresight."
Fujimaru's shoulders slumped. "First, I didn't improve Nostramo." She stepped down from her platform, weaving through the wall of Astartes toward the observation window. "This domain is built from your memories. You can 'inspect' the planet's surface from orbit—no matter what I try, crime rates keep fluctuating. Lately, it's been… ugly."
Conrad followed, gazing at the perpetually shadowed world. As she'd said, Nostramo's recent history unfolded before him—not as the violent, uncontrollable visions he knew, but as a gentle stream of data. Compared to boiling oil, this was mere water.
He saw it all: the back-alley murders, the emaciated laborers, the corrupt nobility clinking glasses in opulent ballrooms.
Nostramo. The same festering pit he'd known.
"I've tried. She always reverts." Fujimaru traced a circle on the glass, framing the planet's dim lights. "By Primarch standards, I'm a failure. I can't even secure my 'homeworld.' Some say it's not my fault, but—"
"I understand." To her surprise, Conrad sounded almost… relieved. "Nostramo is… incorrigible."
"Not… entirely." Fujimaru spoke slowly. "That's why I haven't given up. I've seen worse. Unlike the British Lostbelt, Nostramo's people are still human. The rot here stems from environment, not nature. If we can correct that—"
"British Lostbelt?" Conrad seized the unfamiliar term. Somewhere worse than Nostramo?
Fujimaru blinked. "A doomed kingdom built by fairies—you haven't seen it in my memories?"
Conrad's jaw tightened. He'd never ventured beyond the Time Temple, thwarted by Solomon's Demon Gods. Pride barred further questions, though his imagination failed him—what could surpass Nostramo's depravity?
Fujimaru tactfully moved on, detailing her plans: military governance, purging the nobility, education reforms. Conrad listened with half his mind, offering no input. She didn't seem to expect any.
"—If this fails, I'll seriously consider population purges." She sighed. "Sometimes I feel like Sisyphus. But foresight helps—at least I know this struggle ends, one way or another."
"So you do believe that future." Conrad frowned. "Nostramo shattered by orbital bombardment."
"Is that strange? You've always believed your visions must come to pass."
"After your 'live in the present' speech, I assumed you'd ignore them."
"Calling me shortsighted is just a roundabout way of calling me stupid," Fujimaru huffed. "And your strategy for prophecies is so wise?"
The air turned to knives. Conrad's smile was venomous: "By all means, enlighten me—if you can."
A Primarch's wrath was a tangible force, warping light and space. Yet Fujimaru stood unfazed:
"I can't 'teach' you anything. But have you ever wondered how your prophecies work?"
Conrad stilled. In all his years, he'd never questioned it. Visions were as innate as breathing—who studied why breath sustained life?
Fujimaru continued: "For me, it's an 'abnormal' grafted function, so I researched it. In essence, it's a predictive algorithm—your psychic mind subconsciously taps into the Warp's data streams, computing the most probable future. In this universe, 'prediction' and 'certainty' blur… but the output depends on the input data's integrity."
"And?" Conrad's voice dripped skepticism. "How does that help?"
"It means the visions can be wrong! Rare, but possible! Or if you act in ways that leave no Warp reflection—"
Her voice faltered under his stare. She sighed:
"Fine, practically it's useless. You don't need to know how bolter rounds are made to fire one. But it proves fate isn't absolute! There's some room to fight!"
"Has your 'fighting' ever succeeded?"
"Must you poke at sore spots, Mr. Curze?" Fujimaru's frustration was palpable. "This illusion is Warp-based! Where would I find 'Warp-inert' methods to test here?"