Just as the Primarchs were debating the future, two names surfaced on the hololith.
The air in the entire hall seemed to freeze.
Every gaze snapped to the flickering letters; gene-detectors prickled in unison.
[Konrad Curze, King of Bats, the midnight shade]
[Jago Sevatar, Night Lord, First Captain—pinnacle of the 30-K Astartes.]
[One of the few Commanders who could match a Primarch on campaign, true Master of the Eighth Legion.]
Leman Russ was first to break the silence, his Fenrisian laughter rolling through the chamber:
"Pfft—hahaha! Look at that review! Our midnight-shade brother lost command of his own Legion to a son!"
The Wolf King's fangs glinted. "Makes the Horus Heresy look like small talk!"
A deathly smile touched Curze's pallid face; he spread his hands with courtly grace:
"Dear wolf-brother, you should feel proud for Sevatar."
"He accomplished what even the Black Knights never could—he won the Legion's heart by sheer talent."
the midnight shade's voice hissed like a serpent.
"After all… we all know the sons of Fenris prefer brawn to brains."
Dorn's granite features twitched.
"A textbook break in the chain of command. Sevatar didn't seize authority; it slipped through Curze's crazed fingers."
"When a Primarch is busy with flaying art, someone has to tally ammunition for the Eighth."
Shen suddenly elbowed Sevatar's plate with a sharp clang: "Prince of Crows!"
His tone was pure tease.
"The Black Knights never took the Legion from a Primarch, yet you've done what we Astartes wouldn't dare dream!"
Sevatar traced the scar along his jaw, showing a dangerous grin.
"Keep calling me that if you want your face adorning my armour."
His gaze swept the gathered gene-fathers.
"But really—who cares for titles? A son of Nostramo only asks who can lead him to victory."
Curze burst into chilling laughter. "Well said, my boy!"
the midnight shade flickered half-seen among the shadows.
"Power is like moonlight on Nostramo—visible, yet forever beyond your grasp."
[Curze's Nostramo was a star of eternal night; no Sun ever shone, barely habitable.]
[Its only bounty rich Adamantine lodes. Most civilians lived in abject poverty, toiling in mines that scarred the Planet like rotting flesh.]
[Crime ran rampant—murder, theft, extortion were daily fare.]
[The mineral-fattened rulers ignored it all, hiring thugs to keep the poor crushed.]
[People had two choices: be a bullied good-citizen, or join the wicked.]
[Thus Nostramo's crime and suicide rates soared.]
[When Curze arrived he spent the first years simply watching the criminal hive.]
[His conclusion: humanity needed a herd of tamed beasts.]
[The senseless evil could be stopped only one way—make those beasts feel fear.]
[Year One: certain criminals vanished from the streets; then whole gangs melted away. Their Masters needn't search—Curze would return them soon enough, in pieces.]
[An arm nailed to a wall, a head a mile away, skin flayed—half terror, half promise.]
[He gained a new name: the midnight shade, a vengeful ghost, a blind Angel, a killer feared by killers.]
[His titles spread; people dreaded even to speak, choking on their own trembling syllables.]
[All thought he would become just another murderer; they were wrong. He meant to give the World a just verdict.]
[Year One ended with gang-nobles and enforcers hunting him—he sent the few survivors back as messengers to Nostramo's courts.]
[They had no eyes, no arms, only tongues left, and through broken sobs delivered a simple message:]
[I am coming for you.]
[First mere thugs, then gang-lords, then negligent officials.]
[At last any law-breaker received Curze's single sentence: death.]
[Mothers hushed children with his name; no one dreamed of defiance.]
[The World bowed to his law. He had saved Nostramo; his code was fear.]
[People no longer dreaded crime—they need only dread the midnight shade.]
[He alone was the source of terror.]
[Curze offered the surviving nobles a choice: share your wealth, share your fear.]
[Beneath his kingship his creed became eternal.]
[Mining output soared; folk grew neat, efficient, silent. Refineries sprawled across the globe.]
[Curze had remade his Planet from violence into a city without crime—on the surface.]
[To outward eyes folk toiled, then cities sank into dead stillness; oppressor and oppressed alike were gone.]
[A peaceful, prosperous World whose only crime was Curze himself.]
[Yet he never built a true legal system; every judgment was his alone.]
[Take a citizen who, desperate, tried to end his life—Curze appeared.]
[Suicide was a crime; each weakened society, so its penalty was death.]
[the midnight shade flayed the man alive, screams echoing across Nostramo's night.]
As Nostramo's dark history unfolded across the Quantum Projection, the entire observatory sank into uncanny silence.
Observers from every civilization adjusted their translation systems in unison, desperate to confirm they hadn't misunderstood this horrifying chronicle of civilizational remaking.
In the command center of the Juxia, General Du Kao slammed his fist on the console—not at the tyrant on the screen.
"Madman… but he succeeded."
The war-lover's voice carried a rasp he himself hadn't noticed.
"He used the most extreme method to purge a Planet of 'crime' in the shortest possible time. That efficiency… is chilling."
"That isn't efficiency, General."
Lian Feng, pale-faced, retorted, "Our super-computer simulations show Nostramo's societal index has dropped to absolute zero."
There's no innovation, no art, no thought—hardly any genuine emotion."
That isn't a civilization; it's a living tomb ruled by terror."
In the City of Angels, upon Queen Kaisha's holy throne, the radiance of Silver Wings seemed to dim.
"A wrong Order is more terrifying than chaos," she ruled with unprecedented gravity.
"Liang Bing's fall and freedom still left life the right to choose."
But this 'midnight shade' has stripped life of its most fundamental quality—will. He has taken his own trauma and held an entire civilization hostage."
Within the Demon's Pair of Wings, Morgana did not laugh.
She merely folded her arms, gazing at Curze's shadow-shrouded face on the screen, a mocking smile tugging at her lips.
"The queen big-sis finally spoke sense. This guy's more extreme than me, but way more boring."
She yawned.
"I guide you to indulge your desires; this poor fool castrated everyone's desires—his own included."
He's no demon—just a pitiful jailer who locked himself in a cage and dragged everyone else inside."
Aboard Sky-Blade VII, Yan's Flaming Sword hummed, her Holy Guardian eyes blazing with pure wrath.
"If justice must be achieved by stripping someone of the right to seek peace and using ultimate suffering as punishment—"
"—then such 'justice' is the greatest evil. Queen Kaisha, I request authorization: if I find such a civilization in the known Universe, I shall carry out Sky-Blade Judgment myself."
"No, Yan."
Hexi's voice came from the side; she closed her data panel, eyes conflicted.
"Kill him and you'll only make him a martyr in people's hearts. The only antidote to fear-rooted Order is hope."
A hope for a better future—stronger than his terror. That… is far harder than judgment."
On Earth, Ge Xiaolun of the Xiong Bing Company gripped his greatsword tighter as he stared at the screen.
"We… we can't become like that."
He muttered to himself—and to everyone.
"Power is for protecting, not for… creating fear."
DC Universe
Gotham City, Justice League's Watchtower theater—so silent the air felt crushed.
"Ha… haha… hahaha!"
Joker's mad cackle shattered the silence; he clutched his stomach, rolled on the floor, tears streaming.
"Look! Batsy! Look! He did it! What you dream of but never dare—he actually made FEAR the god of this city!"
He sprang up, thrusting his painted grin inches from Batman's cowl, the smile twisted yet sincere:
"Seriously, we should invite him to Gotham for a lecture tour—title: 'How to Dispose of Trash Efficiently.'"
You catch, he disposes, I provide the soundtrack—perfect triangle!"
Batman ignored him, voice rising from the abyss:
"He failed."
"What?" The Joker's grin froze.
"I use fear to make criminals hesitate for a heartbeat."
In that heartbeat, justice has a chance to intervene."
Bruce Wayne's tone was icy and clear:
"He used fear to erase 'possibility' itself. He turned the whole city into a vast Arkham Asylum."
He became its sole patient—and its sole warden. That isn't governance; it's sadism."
"Ooh, sadism—I love that word!"
The Joker perked up again.
"But admit it—haven't you thought about it?"
String up all the scum like wind-chimes on Wayne Tower; the sound would beat Gotham's police sirens any day!"
"Clark," Batman called without turning.
"I'm here, Bruce."
Superman descended slowly, sorrow rather than anger in his eyes.
"I can't understand."
With power like his, he could have become that Planet's Sun—bringing light and hope."
Instead he chose to be the deepest night."
He watched the citizen on screen flayed alive for attempting suicide:
"He punishes not crime, but despair. A World where even despair is forbidden… that is true hell."
"By Hera's name!"
Diana rose; the Lasso of Truth glowed soft gold in her hand.
"This is no different from Ares' war-mongering! Ares makes men take up swords through hatred; he makes them lay down thought through fear."
Both desecrate the human soul. His 'peace' is built on everyone becoming a spiritual corpse."
In the corner, John Constantine stubbed out his cigarette, exhaling the last ring of smoke.
"You spandex brigade overthink things."
He drawled, half-mockery, half-pity.
"That kid's no tyrant, no judge."
He tapped Konrad Curze's profile on the screen.
"He's just a frightened little boy."
He saw the worst of humanity in Nostramo's darkness, and he's been stuck in the same nightmare ever since."
He isn't punishing criminals—he's killing the ghost from his past that still scares him."
Constantine shrugged, fishing a crumpled pack from his trench coat.
"He thinks he's saving the World, but he's just drowning out the scream inside with a louder one. Poor bastard."