What have you done to my legion?" Corax asked in the dim corridor.
"I trained your legion the same way I trained the Night Lords," Curze replied, his footsteps echoing softly on the metal deck. He tilted his head slightly. "Your sons fought alongside mine, guerrilla warfare, infiltration, raids. Their coordination was seamless. Most importantly, I taught them to protect mortals."
Corax said quietly, "That's what Father taught us, too."
They were powerful, but they were not meant to stand above others.
They were to guide, protect, and serve humanity, not rule or oppress it.
They were man, and no matter how powerful they became, they must never lose their humanity.
Curze stopped walking. His pale face looked especially profound under the bluish glow of the wall lights. "Brother, I gave everything to your legion. I cherished each of them and taught them as I would my own sons. I assure you, they perfectly match your expectations."
"I'm grateful, brother."
A flicker of confusion stirred in Corax's heart. He had already thanked Curze for this.
And from what he knew of Curze, his brother wasn't one to care about such formalities. To bring it up again now felt oddly out of place.
"Brother, are you pleased?"
"I am."
If his sons were truly as excellent as Curze claimed, how could he not be pleased?
A meaningful smile tugged at Curze's lips. This conversation was unfolding exactly as he had foreseen.
He had fulfilled his promise to the 19th Legion.
Boom!
The metal deck thundered as thousands of Astartes warriors moved in perfect unison, dropping to one knee and bowing their helmets in silent loyalty to their gene-father.
Corax's gaze swept across his sons. The entire deck seemed drenched in night. Thousands of jet-black power armors gleamed coldly under the bridge lights.
Only the silver-white raven emblem on their shoulder plates shone like stars piercing eternal darkness.
Corax had long known his destiny from Caelan's words. Even before reuniting with his legion, he often imagined their meeting in the quiet of night.
Amid the rebellion, he had designed new armor schemes and emblems for the legion, every detail infused with the beliefs he wished to pass on.
Now, as thousands of warriors clad in black armor and silver ravens knelt before him, they were even more perfect than he had dreamed.
Corax tried to smile with pride at his sons, but the smile froze on his face.
'Why did they look exactly as I had imagined?'
He suddenly turned, his cold gaze like a blade piercing Curze. A hoarse growl escaped his throat as if to say Is this the perfection you promised?
He didn't lose composure in front of his sons, but his eyes conveyed a piercing question to Curze.
Curze's lips curved faintly. He tilted his head, letting shadows flow across his pale cheek. His gaze clearly asked, Aren't they perfect?
Curze wasn't a perfectionist, but he had given everything to the 19th Legion. He was certain that every detail matched his brother's ideals.
"Rise!"
Corax didn't lash out at his blood or his sons, but his voice was cold as iron.
He had finally uncovered the source of his unease. His brother was not as gentle as he appeared, and his interactions with other Primarchs were not as harmonious as he claimed.
Curze hadn't lied to Caelan, but he had deliberately used anecdotes to stall for time, knowing Caelan would be intrigued.
In front of Corax, he had cleverly hidden truths that could overturn everything, truths as sweet and poisonous as honey.
Corax clenched and unclenched his fists in the shadows. He would never unleash his fury on his loyal sons; they were merely pawns on the board.
But what expression should he wear?
Smile at his sons? He couldn't.
Corax's sharp gaze swept across the legion, finally settling on the warrior at the front.
He lifted his chin slightly, voice low and commanding: "State your name, warrior."
"Calvose, my lord!" The warrior's voice rang like clashing steel, though it trembled slightly at the end.
His gene-father was watching him!
Corax's gaze enveloped the warrior like a shadow. "State your legion."
Calvose's chest heaved, his shout thunderous: "19th Legion! Raven Guard!"
"We are your loyal sons, my lord!"
Every syllable burst with ironclad loyalty, as if branding the vow into the void of eternity.
Leon's gaze was locked on a scratch along the deck seam. 'That scratch was really smooth.'
Corax's body suddenly stiffened. His pale knuckles clenched beneath his black robe. Shadows twisted and surged at his feet like a startled flock of ravens.
His fingertips trembled, not from rage, but from something colder.
His brother had considered everything… so thoroughly.
The Raven Guard's armor scheme perfectly replicated his preferences. Even the legion's name was so precisely chosen.
Beneath this meticulously crafted surface, the unseen organizational structure, tactical systems, and training protocols had surely been sculpted to seamless perfection.
How ironic, someone understood how to shape his sons better than he, their gene-father.
This "gift" was so perfect, it was chilling. Like a tailor-made shackle, lined with velvet for comfort.
What lay before him wasn't a gift; it was a trolley problem with no solution.
To accept meant tacit approval of the shackles his brother had woven.
To reject, how could he reject these loyal sons? How could he cruelly sever their devotion?
What had they done wrong?
They were merely shaped into the image he was supposed to love.
But it was this very perfection that suffocated him. Every armor detail, every tactical doctrine, was soaked in another man's will.
If he accepted them, the Raven Guard would forever live in Curze's shadow. If he abandoned them and rebuilt the legion, that too would be a surrender.
Because no matter how he reshaped them, he couldn't escape Curze's influence.
To deliberately change would be to acknowledge Curze's impact through resistance.
To stay the course would be to walk the path Curze had paved.
His brother had planted the trap in his mind long ago. No matter which path he chose, he would be bowing to Curze.
This game had been lost from the start. His legion bore Curze's mark before it was even born.
Corax's voice echoed like a chasm, each word laced with icy dread: "Tell me, brother… did you offer every brother the same 'generosity'?"
Curze's voice seeped from the shadows. His pale face emerged in the dim light, lips twisted in a smile that hovered between warmth and spasm: "No, brother. Only you."
'Why only me?'
Corax's gaze was bottomless, quietly studying Curze's smile.
Despite Curze's generosity, this wasn't provocation. Nor was it humiliation.
Even if he wanted war, there were more elegant ways to declare it.
What Curze had done was merely to savor Corax's fury, like sipping aged bitter wine, indulging in a near-pathological pleasure.
'But why?'
'Why target me?'
"Heh." A hoarse chuckle escaped Corax's throat. "You've been watching me all along, haven't you?"
"We're brothers. We share the same father."
"It's more than that." Corax's whisper dissolved into the shadows.
They were the most alike among the Primarchs, two sides of the same coin, perhaps even the same side.
Curze grew up in the eternally dark alleys of Nostramo's Quintus.
Corax's childhood was spent in the tunnels and cells of Lycaeus Prison.
Both had witnessed the world enslaved by evil, the weak and poor crushed by the powerful and indulgent.
They should have become completely different people.
In the future, Caelan had shown them, Corax was cared for by empathetic and politically savvy people who gave him compassion and strength. Curze had no such blessings; he became vengeance and fear incarnate.
In the end, they walked opposite paths, like night torn into two extremes,
One sank deeper into shadow, the other chased the faint light of dawn.
Then Caelan arrived.
Before twisted seeds could take root, before surrounding darkness could corrode their souls.
Caelan didn't preach; he acted.
He showed that responsibility wasn't a shackle, but a badge of honor.
He proved that love wasn't weakness, but a source of strength.
He made humanity not a flaw, but the strongest armor.
He taught them everything he knew, from tactics to conduct, like a true father giving everything to his children.
In the cold, cruel galaxy, Caelan gave them the most precious gift, not weapons, not power, but a whole heart.
So they became light.
They didn't fall into darkness. They became the light that pierced it.
Not blind followers, but clear-eyed practitioners.
They were almost the same. Almost.
They both pursued justice. They nearly walked the same path.
But their essence was different. Their personalities were different. Their experiences shaped them into similar yet distinct people.
Corax's voice was calm as a shadowed pool: "Caelan once told me you were a cheerful, sunny boy."
"I know." Curze's lips curved. Curze was cheerful, loved to laugh, that was his humanity. But it also meant he was emotionally impulsive.
Perhaps in a careless moment, when he saw Corax and Caelan's closeness, that unspoken bond stabbed him like a blade.
A twisted impulse seized him. So he asked the Emperor for the Nineteenth Legion to use perfection as revenge against his brother.
And the root of it all was the most primal human emotion, jealousy.
Curze envied all his brothers, but his envy of Corax ran deepest, because they were too alike.
Corax sometimes hated Caelan's gaze. He hated being seen as a shadow of other brothers, even if Caelan never meant it that way; he was just remembering the past.
And Curze? He probably endured the same torment.
He hated Caelan seeing other brothers as his shadow. He hated Caelan, seeing him as theirs.
They both resisted being shadows in Caelan's eyes. Yet they became each other's shadows, because they were too alike.
So they struggled, one through rejection, one through possession, both trying in vain to prove they were the only one.
Even though they always knew, they weren't the only ones. They had twenty brothers.
But none could truly compare. Only they were each other's shadows.
Corax's voice was cold and resolute, "You're mad, brother."
Curze simply tilted his head. His pale face emerged from the shadows with a near-serene expression, "No, I am perfectly sane."
Corax's tone softened, echoing like water in a deep well. "Then perhaps we both are mad, two frogs in the same well, staring at different corners of the same sky."
Curze smirked. "Caelan never believed in structuralism."
Corax laughed. He didn't hate his brother.
His lips lifted slightly, the sharpness in his eyes softening into a weary gentleness.
"We're the same, brother." His voice was light, but carried a sense of release.
Corax couldn't hate Curze, even if his actions had crossed the line.
Because he saw the truth behind the clumsy performance: this was just a neglected child scribbling on his homework, screaming, "Look at me!"
But he didn't dare let Father see his mistakes, so he carefully hid them until Father left the room.
Those meticulously designed legion colors, those sons crafted to perfection, they were no different than carving "I hate you" into a desk.
Corax suddenly found it all laughable.
They were supposed to be the Emperor's perfect creations, yet here they were, acting out the most childish drama, Curze finishing Corax's homework, proudly declaring, "I'm better," and "Father loves me more."
And what about him?
Would Corax become Curze?
They had twenty brothers. Would one of them one day decide twenty was too many?
At that moment, Caelan seemed like his favorite Greek tragic hero; his light created shadows, his love birthed hatred, and his attempt to forge bonds between Primarchs became the blade that severed them.
"I'm not you, and I'll never become you. And you're not me either." Corax slowly extended his hand. "So… are we reconciled?"
Curze tilted his head, raven-black hair falling like feathers, childlike confusion swirling in his eyes: "When did we fall out?"
"Then I was wrong."
"You were very wrong."
Corax stared at him. "So… are we friends?"
"No," Curze suddenly gripped his hand tightly, joints creaking under the pressure. He leaned in, shadows enveloping Corax like raven wings. "We're brothers. Opposite sides of the same coin."
Corax froze in their clasped hands. He suddenly realized, he was more fragile than Curze.
Corax had long envied Curze, always hiding it before their father. The Emperor never suspected, so Corax never realized his own jealousy.
But in Curze's eyes, burning with the same envy, perhaps Corax was just a white lotus pretending to be pure, trying to win their Father's sympathy by mimicking Curze.
If their roles were reversed, what would Corax do?
He would envy. He would go too far, just like Curze.
"No." Corax stared into his brother's eyes, voice low and firm. "We were never opposites. We're the same side of the same coin. Or more accurately, two identical coins, forever showing the same face."
Curze's eyes gleamed. "Similar."
"Yes," Corax said softly. "Similar."
The 19th and 8th Legions stood in utter silence. Over ten thousand legionaries stared at their gene-fathers in confusion. Beneath their helmets, their faces were filled with bewilderment. The faint hum of their power armor's servos was the only sound in the stillness.
No one dared break the silence. Even the most battle-hardened veterans couldn't comprehend what was unfolding between their gene-fathers. They didn't know when the two had become enemies, or if they ever had. Perhaps this was just their formal introduction to one another.
Only Leon bowed his head, deaf to everything around him.
'This pitch-black floor is so white.'
'That narrow seam is so wide.'
He was wrong. So wrong.
The 19th Legion was just as unlucky as he was. All Primarchs were equally heavy burdens.
Leon suddenly envied Philly. He wondered if he should resign. Maybe returning to Nostramo to become a civil servant wouldn't be such a bad fate.
But he knew too much. Curze would never let him go.
"Brother."
Corax smiled. Curze smiled too.
Their fingers interlocked like interlocking fangs, knuckles whitening from the force.
They leaned forward at the exact same angle, like mirrored reflections in perfect sync.
Thud!
Two heads collided with primal fury. The dull crack of skull against skull exploded through the hall.
The legionaries were even more confused now. What were their gene-fathers doing?
Curze's voice spread like a chill: "Disperse."
Corax's tone was cold as obsidian, forming an eerie harmony with his brother: "Surround us."
As the warriors hesitated and formed a loose circle, the two Primarchs spoke in unison, their voices resonating with chilling finality:
"We will duel."
Though no one understood what had just happened, the legionaries erupted in cheers.
So exciting. So thrilling.
A rare chance to witness a battle between titans, worth dying for.
Corax and Curze released each other and began circling on the wide deck, each searching for the other's weakness.
They moved like predators in the shadows, slowly backing away.
Their footsteps traced perfect arcs on the metal floor, eyes locked, sketching an invisible circle of death across the empty battlefield.
Corax said, "The rules are simple. Step out of bounds, and you lose."
Curze added, "Touch any warrior, and you lose."
Before the words had fully left their mouths, two black shadows shot toward each other like arrows loosed from taut strings. The deck erupted with the deafening sound of fists colliding.
They had cast aside their usual weapons, abandoned their most practiced techniques. What remained was raw, primal combat.
No tactics. No finesse. Just pure, unfiltered violence, like two repelling stars crashing together in the void.
Corax bore no hatred for Curze, but his dignity had to be reclaimed. His legion had been molded into perfection by Curze's hand. Only by defeating him could Corax reclaim his honor, for his legion, and for himself.
.....
If you enjoy the story, my p@treon is 30 chapters ahead.
[email protected]/DaoistJinzu