Curze was killing.
The corpses of the Bloodclaw Gang littered the ground.
Caelan watched with amusement; his only concern was erasing the evidence.
Rotting corpses bred plague. This territory would soon be theirs, and pollution could not be allowed to take root.
Dorothy had gone somewhere. Curze didn't care, and Caelan didn't ask.
There was only one road into the Bloodclaw territory, and only one road out. Caelan guarded the gate. No one could escape.
"You have only two choices: kill him, or be killed by him."
Caelan waved his hand, slamming a group of fleeing Bloodclaws to the ground.
They had no courage for a last stand. The bat in the shadows had already broken their spirit.
Curze's killing was swift and relentless. Each time he emerged from the darkness, he slit a throat, forcing them to watch as their comrade died in agony. Fear crushed them.
Curze hadn't meant to torment them, but he was too weak.
He couldn't kill them all at once. If they banded together, they might have killed him. So he could only strike from the shadows, one by one.
Standing ankle-deep in blood, Curze felt his hand falter from exhaustion.
The shard he carried wasn't as good as a knife, far less efficient than a gun.
But to Curze, it held ritual significance. It was a fragment from the cradle of his birth, an emblem of hope and new beginnings.
And with hope and new beginnings, he would kill these sinners and bring hope and new beginnings to this world.
"They're all dead here. Let's move on," Caelan said.
Curze nodded, following him, chewing starchy chunks of flesh to restore his strength.
Killing was exhausting. The Bloodclaw Gang had only tens of thousands, but the hive world held hundreds of billions.
And among those billions, there were few innocents. Killing them one by one was too slow. He had to find another way. If he didn't purge them all, he'd never sleep in peace.
As they pushed deeper, Curze left almost no one alive.
"Who are you?" a boy cried, trembling after stumbling to the ground.
Curze studied him in silence. He smelled fear on the boy, and it intoxicated him.
He also smelled sin, and it disgusted him.
But the boy's sin wasn't as heavy as the others'. He was still young, not yet guilty of much.
But was evil something that could be measured in degrees?
Curze gripped the shard. He extended his hand, not in murder, but in redemption.
The boy shook with terror, but seemed to understand. He reached out and grasped Curze's hand.
"You are guilty, but not beyond redemption. I will not kill you. But you must atone for your sins."
The boy nodded frantically. He wanted only to live.
Curze led him toward the right path. Under the influence of kindness and the vision of a better life, more and more killers left the streets.
They, too, were transformed, murderers becoming mentors.
Each reformed soul added its tiny strength to the tide of change. Grain by grain, this strength toppled the old, blood-soaked order and established a new, better one.
The world grew brighter. When the boy grew up, he left Nostramo at Curze's side.
He died in a brutal battle, his descendant, a warrior of honor.
"Have I atoned for my sins, Father?" he asked with his dying breath.
"Yes, Kaz. My son, may your soul rest in peace."
"Goodbye, Father… they've come for me…"
He died smiling.
Curze hesitated. Perhaps sinners did deserve a chance at redemption, rather than a simple execution. A society built on pure oppression was diseased.
Curze reached out his hand to the boy again.
The boy, terrified, reached back, but in his fearful eyes lurked hatred. Hatred drove him to thrust a hidden blade toward Curze's heart.
It could not kill him, but it hurt. And Curze had never known such pain, both physical and spiritual.
The boy fled, following the bloody trail he had left behind.
Caelan could have stopped him. His psychic powers were more than enough.
But for some reason, they failed. The boy became a cornered beast, unleashing desperate strength.
He grabbed a fallen gun and fired a shot through Caelan's heart.
Caelan was no Primarch. He was only a man.
And no man could live without a heart.
Curze wept, holding Caelan's fading body, praying for him to live, but he died anyway.
Died to the ugliness, the filth, the incurable sickness of human nature.
One vision was a distant, shining future. The other was a near, crushing despair. Which was he supposed to believe?
Curze trembled, staggering to his feet, clutching the shard tightly.
His eyes turned cold. He did not extend his hand to the boy, nor did he slit his throat.
"Trash like you doesn't deserve life. But I will give you one chance, your only chance. Pick up your weapon and duel me. Or throw away your defiance, and spend your life in atonement."
He wanted to kill the boy. But he knew that if Caelan's prophecy were true, Caelan would want him to choose otherwise.
He wouldn't gamble. But he could grant one chance.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Father, I'm sorry…"
The boy sobbed in terror, throwing away the knife hidden in his sleeve.
His father had been killed by Curze, right before his eyes. Slain cruelly, to protect him.
But he didn't want to die. He really didn't want to die.
"What did you see this time?" Caelan asked.
"Light and darkness," Curze replied.
"And what did you choose?"
"Neither," Curze said. "I chose to witness."
He did not believe in prophecy, neither the hopeful ones nor the despairing ones.
Indulging in prophecy led to disaster. That was what Caelan had taught him.
He must become a witness, an observer standing apart, steering the course of prophecy.
Caelan didn't quite understand what Curze meant by "witness." After thinking for a moment, he said:
"The world is neither black nor white. It is a refined shade of gray."
Curze lifted his head, as if pondering the meaning of those words.
But he did not stop walking. He continued his slaughter. Few survived his path.
"Am I doing the right thing?" Curze asked.
"Every choice you make leads to a different ending," Caelan said. "But until you reach that end, the road can always be changed. If you realize the path you've chosen isn't what you want, you can still correct it halfway."
"And if it's already too late to turn back, can it still be corrected?"
"I don't know. But even if not, you should choose to try, not to flee. If you know you've done wrong, you must make amends, not repeat the mistake."
Curze nodded. "I'll remember that."
"Come. Let's find Dorothy. Let's see what gift she has prepared for us."
Caelan walked toward Sevitalion's chambers. Dorothy was waiting there.