"Failure," Curze replied.
What he feared was failure. Always.
He had seen countless futures, futures of light, and futures of darkness.
Victory led to the light. Failure sank into the dark.
The Midnight Phantoms were only mortals. They could fail, they could falter, they could even prove useless.
But he was different. He was their king. He would not fail. He could not fail. If even he failed, where would those who placed their faith in him go?
Caelan raised his hand, but quickly realized how ridiculous it was. Curze was far too tall.
Curze crouched down. Even so, the three-meter giant still towered over him, but at least Caelan could reach his head.
"Everyone fails. Even a primarch is human, so you're no exception," Caelan said, ruffling Curze's neglected black hair, smoothing it down with his fingers. "Besides, you haven't failed yet, have you? Failure isn't frightening. What's frightening is being so afraid of failure that you hesitate, hold back, and stop moving forward."
The greatest flaw of the primarchs was that they were born with knowledge. They understood too much, and so were easily devoured by that very knowledge.
They were born superhuman, capable of what no mortal could be, and thus, most of them refused to ever allow themselves to fail.
That was why primarchs were so prone to extremes.
Some twisted themselves inward and never untwisted for a lifetime.
Some believed themselves powerless, and so made themselves powerless.
Some despised the warp and became the very thing they hated most.
A skilled swimmer drowns, a skilled rider falls. Each is undone by what he excels at; it has always been so.
What primarchs needed most wasn't education, but someone to pull them back when they were lost in obsession.
Most had no childhood. So even after living for centuries, deep inside, they were still children.
"You're not weak," Caelan said, patting Curze's head. "Attachments may become your weakness, but they also give you direction and strength. If you had no attachments, I would be worried instead. Don't fear the dark. Don't fear falling into it. We walk in darkness, but we serve the light. Our cause is just."
"I understand." Curze's eyes cleared. He rose to his full height. "Thank you, Caelan."
"But don't touch my head again," Curze added. "I'm not a child. I understand what you're saying. I don't need that kind of comfort."
Caelan extended his hand.
"Know what this is?"
Curze looked at his empty palm in confusion.
Caelan wiped his hand on Curze's cloak and frowned.
"Your hair oil."
"Impossible. I wash my hair every day."
"Then why do you wash it every day?" Caelan asked.
Curze's face went cold. He turned away, silent.
Ding!
The lift arrived at the underhive platform. The gathered Midnight Phantoms stood ready, only to find the elevator packed full of corpses, with the giant standing among them.
The crowd erupted in cheers, celebrating victory, overjoyed.
"The nobles have declared war on us," Curze said. "Phily, gather the troops. Be ready. I will summon you."
The lift rose again. The giant vanished from the Phantoms' sight. He still had many more to kill.
The grand hall was silent, in sharp contrast to the revelry of moments before.
At first, no one cared about this disaster.
It was just another slaughter. Another war. Another rebellious noble girl. Another underhive lost. Until the disaster touched every one of them.
The nobles busied themselves with infighting, scheming, and seizing profits. Few had ever cared about the wretches in the underhive.
They hadn't even bothered collecting taxes there. As long as the rabble stayed out of their way, it was fine.
And yet, in only a few short years, those rabble had seized half the lower hive. The midhive and spire hadn't fallen yet. But how much longer could peace last?
A nobleman smashed his crystal wineglass, his furious roar breaking the silence.
"Whose idiotic plan was this!?"
"It was Scarlawke. You fool! You'll doom us all!"
"Even if I proposed it, didn't all of you agree? Without you, I couldn't have moved those troops! Blaming each other is pointless now. We must kill him. Kill that monster!"
Count Scarlawke's face twisted with rage as he crushed another glass, the shards cutting his palm, blood dripping scarlet.
"The Phantoms are nothing. That giant is the key. Kill him, and this world is still ours!"
The other nobles looked on coldly. One sneered.
"How? Who will kill him?"
They still had millions of troops, yes, but the strike force they had already sent had been the spire's finest, accompanied by a top-tier psyker.
And they were annihilated. Every last one, within minutes.
Before such a monster, who believed numbers mattered?
If he could kill hundreds in minutes, how long would it take to kill millions? Ten days? Twenty?
And besides, they no longer even had numbers. They had severed the link between the lower hive and the spire. The lower hive's masses could not climb upward, but neither could its resources.
The Midnight Phantoms could endlessly arm themselves from those resources. Their numbers would not be fewer than the nobles'.
The nobles were cruel, but not stupid. They understood the true potential of the lower hive even better than the downtrodden wretches who had suffered under them for generations.
"Gentlemen," a young noble spoke up, "the question isn't whether we should kill him. The question is whether he will spare us."
He pointed at the giant screen, displaying the elevator plaza of the spire.
Tens of thousands were gathered, queuing to descend to the underhive.
The nobles' plan had been to expand outward from the reactor, allying with gangs to crush the Phantoms step by step.
But the failure of the vanguard had already sounded the alarm. The Phantoms would never allow them a second chance. The entire plan was finished.
On the screen, they saw a shape emerge from the darkness of the elevator.
A pale giant.
He made sure they saw him. He raised his head toward the glowing red camera, and his lips moved soundlessly.
"I came for you."
He appeared only for an instant. The soldiers in the plaza never even noticed. Then he was gone.
"Find him! Find him now!" Count Scarlawke shouted.
No one had died. Their armies had not yet been slaughtered.
And yet the nobles were more terrified than ever.
Because they all knew the monster was coming for them.
Some froze in panic. More slipped quietly out of the hall.
Thank the Throne, the broadcast was one-way. The monster didn't know who they were. He wouldn't know who had plotted against him.
They had to leave. Quickly. Disassociate themselves.
The plan had been Scarlawke's. Let the blame fall where it should. Hopefully, the monster understood reason.
.....
If you enjoy the story, my p@treon is 30 chapters ahead.
[email protected]/DaoistJinzu