[Then, Konrad Curze led the Night Lords Legion to begin his galaxy-wide manufacture of terror.]
[The Eighth Legion itself was a Legion keen on recruiting thugs and criminals.]
[After Konrad Curze joined, there wasn't actually much of a divide; the two sides merged very quickly.]
[Later, the Night Lords slowly followed Konrad Curze in becoming more and more extreme, adopting a philosophy where fear overrode everything else.]
[In short, Konrad Curze's attitude was that any hatred or resistance simply meant that the fear created wasn't enough.]
[As long as I kill enough people and make it terrifying enough, no one will dare to have a heart of resistance; they can only submit under the yoke of Order.]
[If the tragic Deaths of 1,000 people can achieve the same effect that would otherwise take the Deaths of millions to get another World to submit, doesn't that speak to Konrad Curze's mercy?]
[And Konrad Curze had his own set of discernment methods; to put it bluntly, as long as I attack, it means this World has defied the true Order—the Imperium.]
[Then it is guilty, and anyone on this World, no matter what they do, is helping this World resist and fueling evil.]
[Under the Chaos of evil, no one is innocent, and everyone can be killed; only after the establishment of Order is completed and they submit to the Imperium can they be considered good.]
[More importantly, the Emperor never stopped me, which further proves that my methods are a necessary evil.]
[Relying on this set of logic, Konrad Curze completed the conquest of one World after another.]
[The advantage of his method was that, on one hand, his efficiency was very fast, and on the other, he could make Planets quickly restore productivity like Lorgar and Guilliman.]
[But as time went on, Konrad Curze also discovered that the sources of troops sent from his home World were becoming worse and worse.]
[In Konrad Curze's absence, the Imperium was completely unable to curb the 'simple folk customs' of the Primarch's home World, and the evils of the past returned once more.]
[Originally, noble warriors should have been sent, but now they had become a group of insignificant but heinous Death row inmates, causing Konrad Curze to hate his Legion more and more.]
[And the most amazing part of it all is that Konrad Curze truly had no talent for leading a Legion.]
[Who knows what the Emperor was thinking when he designed Konrad Curze back then?]
[On one hand, you intensified his desire for slaughter, but on the other, why didn't you give him the talent to lead the masses?]
[Does this mean the Emperor intended for Konrad Curze to just go out and vent his frustrations on Orks every day?]
[Thus, the Night Lords became a Legion of many factions that cared only for horrific slaughter, with the management mainly relying on his First Captain, Sevatar.]
[Actually, the difference between the First Captain's management in the Night Lords and the Death Guard was quite large.]
[It's like Mortarion's case, where it was purely a First Captain like Typhus relying on the fact that Mortarion always spoiled him.]
[He tolerated him, so the 'rebellious bone' behind his head was a bit different; Mortarion was truly managing the Legion.]
[So that's why when the Khan later used rhetoric like 'let the true Legion Master come see me,' Mortarion would definitely lose his composure, since he really was managing the Legion.]
[But if you said that to Konrad Curze, his reaction would probably be like this:]
['The true Legion Master? Uh, let me think... Ah, I've got it. Hey, Sevatar, come here, come here. My brother has something to say to you.']
Pfft... Hahahaha! Puh-hahahaha!"
Russ laughed until he was doubled over, his massive frame shaking on the throne as he pounded the armrest with his wolfskin-covered fist.
"By the Allfather's beard! This... this is even more brilliant than the jokes the skalds tell at the feasts in Asaheim!"
"'Sevatar, come here!' Hahahaha!"
The Wolf King's laughter was unrestrained. He grinned, revealing wolf-like fangs, and turned his gaze to the other side of the hall, toward the figure shrouded in a grey hood.
"Hey! Mortarion! Did you hear that? Your First Captain with the rebellious bone is a total goody-two-shoes compared to that!"
"That Sevatar guy is actually certified by a Primarch as the 'true Legion Master'!"
"Do you want me to lend you a few Fenrisian Frost Wolves to take a stroll through your Legion? I guarantee they'll gnaw Typhus's bones into submission!"
"Retract your fangs and your 'kindness' that reeks of wet dog, Beast of Fenris."
Mortarion's voice came from behind his respirator—muffled, raspy, as if issuing from the depths of a mold-ridden tomb.
"Typhus's arrogance is my problem, and the discipline of the Death Guard is my responsibility."
"At the very least, I know the casualty rate of every company in my Legion and the inventory of every toxin. I walk among my warriors, enduring decay and despair alongside them."
His head lifted slightly, and his gaze, hidden in the shadows, swept contemptuously over Konrad Curze's empty throne.
"Unlike a certain self-proclaimed 'Inquisitor' who can't even distinguish whether the warriors of his Legion are dying for his 'justice' or infighting for the right to skin the next victim."
"His Legion... is a puddle of rotting, maggot-infested entrails, and he is merely a self-satisfied vulture circling over that pile of carrion."
"I do not agree with the claim that he 'has no talent'."
A voice rang out, as hard as bedrock and brooks no doubt.
Dorn, the Guardian of the Imperial Fists, had his brow furrowed as if scrutinizing a structural diagram of a wall with a fatal flaw.
"What Father bestowed upon us is potential beyond mortal understanding."
"Konrad Curze did not lack the talent for leadership; he actively abandoned his duties as a Master of a Legion."
There was no mockery in Dorn's voice, only a cold analysis bordering on disappointment.
"He viewed the entire Legion's chain of command, logistics, reinforcements... all the cornerstones that sustain an army's existence, as irrelevant chores."
"He focused only on his pathetic, individualistic 'judgment'. This is an extreme dereliction of duty."
"Correction? Dorn, my brother, you are still thinking with your logic of bricks and mortar."
Perturabo's gloomy voice was filled with a morbid, vengeful pleasure.
He savored the confusion on Dorn's face, as if admiring cracks finally appearing in a fortress he had predicted would collapse.
"This precisely proves my long-standing point: our design was filled with flaws and contradictions from the very root!"
"Look at Konrad Curze, a 'tool' bestowed with the duty of judging the sins of the entire galaxy, yet not given the basic ability to manage a hundred-man company!"
"What a clumsy, what an absurd design!"
The lord of iron's voice was full of an engineer's disdain for a shoddy product.
"That logic of his, 'mercy through the tragic Deaths of a thousand,' is even more laughable!"
"True efficiency stems from exquisite calculation, irrefutable firepower, and the overwhelming art of siege that forces the enemy to admit defeat from the bottom of their hearts!"
"Not like some third-rate butcher, using skinning and slow slicing to frighten a crowd of civilians who are already scared out of their wits!"
"That is not called efficiency; it is called barbarism, a total bankruptcy of art!"
"Enough, Perturabo. Do not apply your obsession with art to the devastation of souls."
A gentle yet heartbreakingly sad voice spoke.
Sanguinius, the great Angel, his white wings drooping powerlessly as if stained by the dust of Nostramo.
"Oh, my poor brother Konrad... he blamed the renewed fall of his home World on the lack of 'fear' after his departure."
"Yet he never considered that it was his fear itself that strangled the last possibility of light emerging on that Planet."
"He hated those fallen warriors from his home World, yet he never reflected."
"It was precisely the 'City of the Sinless' he built—a place of only fear and no hope—that was the root of all corruption."
The Angel's eyes were filled with endless pity:
"He clung to the label of 'necessary evil' as if it were his last piece of clothing to cover his shame."
"But look at his Legion. While he indulged in wailing over his own fate and fearing prophecies, those criminals he viewed as 'tools' had long ago twisted the terror of the 'Night Lords' into a carnival to satisfy their private desires."
"His theory that 'no one is innocent' ultimately dragged him and his Legion together into a true, irrefutable abyss of sin."
"Sin? No, no, my dear Angel brother, you should call it 'beauty'—a twisted, contradictory, tension-filled... morbid beauty."
Fulgrim elegantly crossed his legs, his slender fingers lightly brushing his flawless chin.
His tone carried a hint of banter and mockery, as if he were sampling a low-quality red wine.
"'Showing mercy through the tragic Deaths of a thousand'? Hmm... this rhetorical device, forcing two completely opposite concepts together, does indeed have a bit of a postmodernist poetic flair."
"Unfortunately, the execution was too crude, lacking any sense of beauty. Fear also needs packaging, a sense of ritual; it needs to make the one being frightened understand the meaning of its existence through an extreme sensory experience. Whereas Konrad Curze was simply manufacturing gore and noise."
The Phoenix Primarch's lips curled into a look of distaste: "What I find most unbearable is the degradation of the troop sources. Falling from 'noble warriors' to 'heinous Death row inmates' is simply a desecration of the beauty of the gene-seed!"
"No wonder he would hate his own Legion. any artist who pursues perfection would fall into this kind of self-loathing upon finding they can only create with a pile of low-quality pigments and filthy brushes. What a tragedy, what a... waste."
"Ha!"
A short, sharp laugh rang out like a whistling arrow on the plains. Jaghatai Khan leaned back slightly, his eyes full of wild, unrestrained mockery.
"Fast efficiency? Restoring productivity? Brother Konrad seems to have forgotten that people whose throats are gripped by fear cannot sing loudly."
"Similarly, they cannot sincerely grow the best grain or forge the sharpest blades for you. His method is like riding the fastest wind-steed, yet caring only about using the hooves to trample the flowers by the road to show off speed, completely forgetting that the direction he's headed is the horizon."
The White Scar's gaze swept over the solemnly analyzing Guilliman, and he gave a mischievous wink: "And 'the true Legion Master is Sevatar'? That really is... a wonderful thing that saves a Legion manager a lot of worry and effort, isn't it, my Ultramar brother?"
"You give yourself a headache every day over the tax reports and administrative decrees of the Five Hundred Worlds, while Brother Konrad only needs to be responsible for thinking about whose skin to peel next. In a sense, he's the 'freest' one among us."
Upon hearing this, Guilliman looked up. His face, usually as calm as a marble statue, was now etched with the signature headache of an administrator facing a mess that could neither be quantified nor filed away.
"Analyzing from the perspective of administrative management and Imperial jurisprudence, Konrad Curze's governance model is an absolute disaster." His voice was cold and precise, as if he were reading a liquidation report for a bankrupt Planet.
"Its so-called 'efficiency' only exists in the early stages of conquest. The long-term costs of maintaining stability, the negative assets of public loyalty, and the structural collapse of recruit quality will all become fiscal and military black holes for the Imperium for centuries to come."
"He reduced an incredibly complex social governance issue involving countless variables—economy, culture, rule of law, and livelihood—to a crude matter of 'insufficient fear distribution.' In any primary academy on Macragge, that would be a failing grade."
"Mercy?! Bullshit!!"
Angron's deafening roar shook the air of the entire hall. The Butcher's Nails flashed a frantic red at his temples, and his face, distorted by endless pain, was now filled with a hypocritical, extreme rage.
"Killing is killing! Betrayal is betrayal! Is there a need for so many high-sounding excuses?!"
He glared intensely at Konrad Curze's image, as if he wanted to devour him alive. "That bat-brat, he enjoys the pleasure of slaughter while telling himself it's for 'Order,' for 'Justice'! Hypocritical! Disgusting! He's even more hypocritical than I am!"
"At least I admit I kill because these damn nails make me suffer! Because of rage! Because I want those bastards who locked me up to taste the same thing! I never pretend to be some goddamn 'Inquisitor'!"
There was a hint of sorrowful self-mockery in the World Eaters' roar.
"His 'everyone is guilty' tune—how is it any different from those high-and-mighty slave Masters who watch us kill each other in the arena and claim it's for 'glory' and 'entertainment'?! Bah!"
"Interesting... very interesting." Within Magnus's giant single eye, psychic light flowed like a Nebula. He stroked his chin, his face wearing the investigative excitement of a scholar discovering a brand-new research topic.
"Konrad's 'lack of talent' in macro-leadership is perhaps an inevitable byproduct of his micro 'prophetic ability' and paranoid personality. His psychic vision allows him to clearly see the sin and darkness deep within every individual soul—those tiny, grain-like flaws."
"But he is so focused on them that he completely loses the ability to grasp the operational laws of vast organizations like a Legion, a World, or a civilization from a higher dimension. It's like... a person who can see the microscopic texture of every grain of sand, yet can never appreciate the magnificent sunset over the entire desert."
The Crimson Giant's voice held a hint of wonder at this 'design': "Father's design... is indeed thought-provoking. He gave him a pair of eyes that can see individual sins, yet never gave him the wrist to manage sinful men."
"Is this... a deliberate balance? Or is it a higher-level psychic shackle set to prevent him from seeing 'too much' or becoming 'too strong'?"
"No one is innocent? No... no!" Vulkan's broad face was filled with uncontrollable sorrow, his deep voice sounding like muffled thunder from the core of the earth.
It was filled with the indignation he felt for mortals. "Children, mothers, workers who only want to exchange a piece of bread for their families in the dust of the mines... they shouldn't pay the price of being slowly sliced or flayed for the corruption of rulers and the darkness of the World! They are innocent!"
The Master Artisan who loved humanity stood up from his throne, his massive Warhammer gripped in his hand, his eyes seemingly burning with the lava of a Salamandrian volcano.
"Konrad's 'Order' is built upon the desiccated corpses of the innocent. Such an Order is itself the greatest Chaos, the deepest sin! Seeing his home World sink again, he thought not of how to build, to educate, or to light the sparks of hope, but of more extreme terror and more total destruction!"
"This is too sad. Father, the power you gave us should be a tool for protection and creation, not... a cold butcher's knife used to intimidate and slaughter our own kin."
"Perhaps... this is also a twisted form of piety?" A deep, slow voice spoke, sounding as if it were reciting scripture. Lorgar Aurelian bowed his head piously, hands pressed together.
"Brother Konrad walks a misunderstood, lonely, and difficult path. He interpreted Father's acquiescence as divine approval. He took the concept of 'necessary evil' as his sole dogma and practiced it to the extreme with the posture of a martyr."
"In this, there is certainly a mix of resentment for his own tragic fate and unconditional submission to those dark prophecies. He projected his hatred for his home World's fall indiscriminately onto the entire Legion, and even the entire Galaxy!"
"But wasn't his original intention in doing so to build a 'pure' World in his mind that met Father's expectations?"
The Word Bearer's voice carried a subtle, almost dangerous resonance.
"When the gods are silent and the truth is obscure, the most pious believers often use the most extreme methods to prove their faith. From this perspective, Konrad's madness might just be because he... yearned too much for Father's affirmation."
"Enough, Lorgar. Do not use your theological theories to beautify a disaster."
Horus, the great Warmaster, finally spoke. His voice was deep and powerful, instantly suppressing all arguments. His gaze, like a hawk's, swept deeply across each of his brothers' faces before he slowly said:
"Konrad's efficiency during certain specific stages of the Great Crusade is undeniable. His thunderous methods indeed 'pacified' stubborn Worlds with the greatest speed, saving precious time for following forces. As Warmaster, I must acknowledge this."
"But at what cost? We win a battle, yet might lose the entire war. The total corruption of the Legion's morality, the fragility of the ruling foundation, and his increasingly fractured mental state... these are all fatal liabilities hidden behind 'efficiency'."
"Father did not stop him; perhaps there is a profound meaning we cannot understand, or perhaps... he believed these were 'acceptable side effects' that must be endured to harness Konrad and his uniquely composed Legion."
The Warmaster shook his head, a chill flashing through his eyes that even he didn't notice.
"But seeing the current state of the Eighth Legion, seeing that Konrad relies even on his Captains for the most basic Legion chain of command... this is by no means a long-term solution."
"As Warmaster, my duty is to win the war, but more importantly, to ensure that the fruits of victory we bought with blood do not start rotting from within the next day. Konrad's way... is breeding a plague capable of subverting everything. The hidden dangers are too great."
"Hidden dangers? Horus, you are too mild. This isn't a hidden danger; it's a disgrace!"
Ferrus Manus's Iron Hands, made of living metal, creaked as he clenched them, his voice as cold as freshly quenched steel.
"No discipline! A heap of loose sand! The strength of a Legion lies in its iron will and unified command from top to bottom! Look at what the Night Lords have become? A nest of rats fighting among themselves for scraps in the gutter!"
"Konrad Curze has the power of a Primarch but lacks the ability to lead thousands; this is simply the greatest waste of the Emperor's grand creation! If my Iron Hands were in such a state, I would rather personally melt them all down and reforged them!"
In another corner, the long-silent Lion El'Jonson, the First Knight of Caliban, merely let out a very faint, cold snort.
He whispered to a Blackwing Knight beside him:
"The secrets and loyalty guarded by the Dark Angels are built upon absolute discipline and honor. There is a fundamental difference between that and Konrad's loose alliance built on pure terror and personal cultism."
"Once that 'source of terror' disappears or becomes less fearsome, the entire structure will instantly collapse. He... has taken a wrong path with no future."
Finally, the figure of Corax, Master of the Raven Guard, flickered slightly in the shadows as if about to dissipate. His ethereal voice carried a hint of somber resonance and resolve, as if coming from Konrad Curze's twin brother:
"He... is completely lost in the darkness he created, with no exit. Fear can be a scalpel, precisely excising the tumors of society to create space for freedom and liberation."
"But Konrad, he turned fear into a siege hammer that strikes without distinguishing friend from foe, smashing the tumor, smashing the healthy body, and ultimately smashing himself."
"We have all stared into the abyss, but when the abyss stared back, I chose to spread my wings and fly, while he leaped right in. He himself... has become a slave to the very fear he most wanted to eliminate."
"How can a man enslaved by fear bring true... Order to others?"
The air inside the Throne Room grew thick with the varied accusations, anger, and confusion of the Primarchs. Every gaze, whether filled with loyal grief or rebellious mockery, turned into tangible pressure, all directed toward the supreme Golden Throne and the lone, aged human figure standing beneath it.
The weight of the entire Universe seemed to condense into this single moment, waiting for an explanation. An answer that could provide a rational explanation for Konrad Curze's pain, the Night Lords' fall, and that chillingly extreme 'fear balance sheet'.
After a long while, that grand, weary voice, which seemed to carry tens of thousands of years of human history, finally spoke again.
"You saw cruelty, you saw dereliction of duty, and you saw a poor design."
The Emperor's voice did not attempt to refute a single accusation; he merely stated their collective feelings calmly. There was no divine majesty in that voice, only a deep weariness, like a father facing a group of sons who could not understand his hardships.
"Vulkan, my child, you saw a brother's pain and felt anger for the sacrifice of the innocent. Your flame is pure because it burns with mercy. This is your virtue, and the most precious part of humanity that I bestowed upon you."
"Guilliman, Perturabo, you saw the collapse of logic and the degradation of efficiency. You are the builders and Guardians of the Imperium of Man; your minds are like the most precise blueprints and the sturdiest walls. Any crack, however small, is an unforgivable flaw in your eyes. This is also where your strength lies."
"Horus, you saw a massive strategic risk, a plague quietly festering within the Legion. As Warmaster, you focus on overall stability and the fruits of victory; your foresight is the cornerstone upon which the Imperium of Man expands."
The Emperor's gaze slowly swept over each of his sons, as if re-examining his most prized creations.
"You... are none of you wrong."
This unexpected affirmation left all the Primarchs momentarily stunned.
"But what you see," the Emperor's voice suddenly rose, that sense of power transcending time and space returning once more, as if pulling everyone into a broader, more terrifying dimension, "is merely the tip of the iceberg—a tiny patch of rotting skin upon a massive wound!"
"You question me: why bestow a humanity that brings pain upon Konrad Curze? Why tolerate his crude 'philosophy of fear'? Why sit idly by as his Legion degenerates from warriors into criminals? Why... allow all of this?"
"Now, I shall answer you."
The Emperor's psychic power, like an invisible tide, wrapped around each Primarch gently yet irresistibly. Before their eyes was no longer the Throne Room, but an endless sea of stars composed of possibilities. Countless futures, like flickering stars, each led to a different conclusion.
They saw a Night Lords Legion forcibly 'corrected' by the Emperor. The Emperor dismissed Konrad Curze and appointed other Primarchs, attempting to use the Codex of Macragge to reform those criminals of Nostramo.
"As a result, the entire Legion's violence was suppressed to the extreme. Then, during a brutal battle against Aeldari pirates, that repressed bloodlust instantly exploded. They tore apart the enemy, and they tore apart all their allies. Ultimately, in despair and madness, they collectively swore fealty to Khorne, becoming a horrific force in the The Galaxy / Milky Way that delighted in torture and spreading despair."
They saw... dozens, hundreds of futures that became even worse because of the Emperor's 'mercy' and 'intervention'. Each led to a different hell.
The visions faded, leaving the Primarchs pale and breathing heavily.
"What you see is a single move on the chessboard, but what I see, beyond the board, are those four unspeakable entities grinning at the game."
The Emperor's voice was filled with endless weariness. "You think I am playing a game against your brothers? No, I am playing against 'Fate' itself, against those four dark wills that seek to devour us all."
"Konrad, he is my son, and more importantly, my weapon. A weapon born with cracks, highly susceptible to the whispers of the Warp."
"I gave him 'humanity'—that empathy and self-reflection that causes him pain—not to torture him, but because it was the only anchor I could find to make him 'doubt' when he is completely consumed by prophecy! That pain is the most agonizing vaccine I injected into him to combat the infection of Chaos!"
"I allow his 'philosophy of fear' and permit that logic which you find so crude, not because I approve of it. It is because his theory of 'necessary evil' is the only 'firewall' he could find for himself to barely maintain his sanity!"
"The moment I personally denounce him, that wall will instantly collapse. He will immediately fall into the ultimate nihilism of 'everything I have done is evil,' which would be the most perfect entrance for Chaos!"
"Only by finding his own way out regarding himself can he save himself; otherwise, it will be another classic Aeldari prophecy."
"As for his Legion... yes, they have fallen. They have turned from warriors into criminals."
For the first time, a trace of pain entered the Emperor's voice:
"But have you ever wondered, in my Imperium, where those hundreds of millions of irredeemable criminals, killers, and thugs should go?"
"Rather than letting them spread Chaos across thousands of Worlds, it is better to concentrate them and hand them over to the only 'vessel' who can understand them, harness them, and let them unleash their violence upon the enemies of the Imperium!"
"The Night Lords are less a Legion and more a... necessary 'sewage pipe' I built for the Imperium. Konrad is the only valve that can hold down this pipe."
"And Sevatar is the maintenance worker I permit to exist, ensuring this pipe does not burst prematurely due to excessive internal pressure."
The Emperor's explanation, like the sharpest scalpel, stripped away all the warm and tender disguises, revealing the bloody, absolutely utilitarian, yet sacrificial skeleton beneath.
"This is not a perfect design, Perturabo. This is a raft cobbled together on a storm-tossed ship using whatever leaking planks were at hand—the only thing that keeps us from sinking immediately. Its price is Konrad's pain, the sacrifice of Nostramo, and the honor of the Eighth Legion. And I..."
The Emperor's voice grew low, as if speaking to himself.
"I had no choice."
A dead silence filled the hall. The Primarchs' anger was replaced by a deeper, more complex coldness. They could not agree with this approach, yet they could not refute the desperate logic behind it.
Just then, Malcador the Sigillite, the Regent of the Imperium, who had been standing silently beneath the throne—that old, frail human who looked as if a gust of wind could knock him over—took a small step forward. His voice was raspy, yet it reached the ears of every Primarch clearly.
"My Lords, please allow me to add a few words from a mortal's perspective."
The gazes of all the Primarchs turned toward him. In this council of demigods, the very existence of this mortal Regent was an anomaly.
"What His Majesty the Emperor faces is the ultimate war for human survival. And I am responsible for handling the... accounts of this war that are not so glorious, yet are indispensable." A self-deprecating smile touched Malcador's face, like an old butler handling the dirty work for his Master.
"Lord Roboute Guilliman, you say that Lord Konrad Curze's mode of governance is a disaster."
"From the perspective of the Codex of Ultramar, that is indeed true. But the Imperium is more than just the Five Hundred Worlds. In certain corners of the galaxy, the flames of civilization have long since been extinguished, leaving only savagery and bestiality."
"There, the Codex of Macragge is as useless as waste paper, while the flayed corpses left by the Night Lords are the only 'Imperial Law' the locals can understand."
"Lord Konrad Curze is not a builder; he is a Warhammer. His mission, before a great architect like yourself arrives, is to raze to the ground those dilapidated buildings that are already irredeemably rotten. His 'efficiency' lies not in construction, but in clearing obstacles."
"Lord Vulkan, you grieve for the passing of the innocent. His Majesty and I feel the same. But please consider: in the grand blueprint of the Great Crusade, time is the primary factor."
"Lord Konrad Curze uses the tragic Deaths of a thousand people to take a Planet within a week, thereby allowing the subsequent expedition fleet to arrive at the next system a month early, to save the hundreds of millions of humans there who were about to be enslaved or slaughtered by Xenos."
"How... should this account be calculated? Did the sacrifice of these thousand people buy the survival of more innocents? I do not know the answer, My Lords. I only know that this is a choice that must be made, one stained with blood."
Malcador coughed twice; his body seemed even more hunched, but his eyes grew sharper.
"As for the command of the Legion... Lord Jaghatai Khan said that Lord Konrad Curze is the 'freest' one. In a sense, you are right. His Majesty needs a Primarch whose eyes see only one thing: 'Judgment'."
"A 'beacon' who will not be bound by the internal affairs, logistics, or glory of a Legion, and can execute the concept of 'fear' to its purest and most extreme. If he were as skilled in management as Lord Guilliman, or as focused on honor as Lord Lion, he would no longer be the 'the midnight shade'."
"His 'incompetence' in administration is precisely another set of shackles to ensure he can focus on his own 'function'."
The old man's gaze swept over Horus, Sanguinius, Dorn... those loyal sons whose faces showed their internal struggle.
"My Lords, please do not misunderstand. We have never believed any of this to be 'right'. It is not right; it is horrific, filled with pain and sacrifice."
"But we are walking a dark path filled with traps, leading toward a cliff. To the left is the bottomless abyss of falling into Chaos; to the right is the boundless sea of suffering from Xenos enslavement."
Malcador bowed deeply, his voice filled with endless exhaustion and entreaty.
"His Majesty is not choosing a bright and easy road. He is simply using every means possible, even at the cost of his own reputation, even letting his most beloved sons bear heavy shackles and pain, to find for this storm-tossed vessel of humanity... the least-bad course that can lead to 'tomorrow'."
"Everything he does is to prevent that worst-case future you saw—the one sitting upon the Golden Throne—from coming true. And I shall bear witness to this, and carry all the sins arising from it, until I turn to dust."
The defense ended. There were no impassioned speeches, no inspiring promises. Only two suffocatingly heavy statements regarding 'necessary evil'.
The Emperor and Malcador, these two lonely islands supporting the Imperium of Man, had for the first time revealed to the Primarchs the cold and solid foundation beneath the sea's surface, built from heaps of bones and endless sacrifice.