Half a year — a span both long and short. Yet beneath the relentless labour of Nyx and Curze, the planet once cursed with eternal night — Nostramo — had, in just six months, quite literally bloomed with impossible vitality.
The most immediate change was the climate. The entire world seemed to stir slowly from a ten-thousand-year cold sleep; the atmospheric temperature rose steadily, incrementally. The desperate shroud of night that had cloaked the heavens like an iron curtain was, for the first time, truly pierced by the light of distant stars.
The cycle of day and night — a concept universal on other worlds — was now inscribed into Nostramo's cognition. Though they could not yet live fully beneath the sun, the people of Nostramo had already begun to anticipate tomorrow's dawn.
With Nyx's outrageous biotechnology, miracles followed. Pioneer vegetation, its genes specially edited to endure shifting light and temperature, took root in experimental zones across the planet and grew with tenacity. Soon after, faster-growing edible crops were sown on a massive scale.
Nostramo's planetary ecology — once little different from a dead world — at last resonated with a faint, but resolute, heartbeat.
The promises Nyx had made then had now become a visible, tangible reality. To follow him, to join the Resistance — this was the currency that had bought a future of food and warmth. A future now clearly shown to every Resistance member in less than two years since the old regime fell.
Of course, reconstruction was not without hardship. With order restored, refugees returning, and mouths to feed, the sudden surge in food demand had once given Nyx a considerable headache.
Even his miraculous biotechnology could not make an entire continent's harvest ripen overnight. Just as he was agonising over grain distribution, he suddenly remembered: the 'legacy' left behind by the spire nobility had yet to be properly inventoried.
He immediately led his men straight to the noble quarter and threw open the doors of the colossal storage centres — once heavily guarded, symbols of privilege and isolation. The sight beyond stunned even the well-informed Nyx for over ten seconds.
The warehouse interior was astonishingly vast, its sophisticated preservation systems still humming silently, maintaining constant low temperature and humidity within. And the stockpiles contained within were truly suffocating: mountains of premium synthetic foodstuffs, high‑energy nutrient blocks, and countless luxury provisions Nostramans had never even heard of — all meticulously sorted.
Rough estimates suggested these ready reserves could comfortably feed the entire existing population for several years.
With this food stockpile secured, the Resistance could calmly construct large‑scale farms and synthetic food factories, transitioning smoothly toward full self‑sufficiency.
With the food problem solved, only the military remained. Nostramo now lacked neither weapons nor ammunition — seized from noble armouries in abundance. What it truly lacked were powerful warriors, skilled in their use and sworn to defend this nascent land.
On this matter, Nyx had assured Curze: "Brother, don't worry. The soldiers are on me! When I transfigure them, no one can outdo their own brother!"
At that moment, Curze had indeed felt a warmth in his chest. That feeling lasted exactly until he saw Nyx enthusiastically produce... a gigantic extraction syringe, almost as long as his three‑metre Primarch frame, glinting coldly.
Curze's perpetually pale, expressionless face gradually adopted a distinct shade of fear. His steps retreated almost imperceptibly. "...Nyx? What... What are you doing?"
"Oh, making Saint Eggs... You know!" Nyx beamed, striving to make his tone gentle — which, in Curze's eyes, was nothing more than daemonic dissimulation.
"Don't worry, it's just a little extraction. Really, just a little!"
With his brother's 'generous assistance', Nyx was able to devote himself to Saint Egg transformation with near‑obsessive fervour. That day, Nyx conducted his 'Symphony of Fate', orchestrating the transferees' cries, and Curze — watching from the sidelines — remarked that he would not be surprised if Nyx were one day elevated by the touch of the Dark Prince.
Of course, soldier selection criteria were extremely stringent. Quality and absolute loyalty were non‑negotiable. Every fortunate aspirant chosen had to present themselves before Curze and be personally judged by the Primarch's gaze — a gaze capable of piercing any mask the soul might wear.
In the end, under Nyx's sleepless transfiguration efforts, a full hundred newly inducted Night Lords recruits successfully completed their training.
As for why a hundred — that round number... let it only be said that when Nyx drew blood from Curze on the basis of 'one last time, I promise this is the last time', the Primarch known as the Night Haunter completely and utterly 'vanished' from Nyx's laboratory.
According to eyewitnesses, for a week afterwards, Nyx carried his terrifying syringe through every corner of the base — and failed to catch so much as a scrap of Curze's cloak.
The day of departure would, sooner or later, arrive.
When Nostramo's skies were fully engulfed in resplendent golden light, the entire planet bore witness to a miracle. Amid the crowd's thunderous cheers and reverent cries of 'The Space King has come!', the Emperor descended — but his expression stood in stark contrast to his divine radiance. It was so dark it almost dripped ink.
"Nyx. Stop laughing." Curze murmured, his voice audible only to the two of them.
"Can't you see your father is restraining himself from beating you..."
"Sorry... But I really can't help... Pfft!" Nyx only laughed harder.
Fortunately, the Emperor elected to turn a blind eye and refrained from striking Nyx senseless before the gaze of ten thousand Nostramans.
However, when the people of Nostramo realised that this golden giant was not the 'Space King' in whom they placed their faith, their interest cooled markedly. The Emperor distinctly felt that his 'charisma aura' — sufficient to inspire worship in mortals — seemed to have... considerably diminished efficacy here.
"The Legio Custodes. The Silent Sisters. The Fabricator General..." Nyx surveyed the entourage behind the Emperor. His gaze finally settled on the old man in black robes. He made absolutely no effort to moderate his volume, as though he had discovered something fascinating. "...And the 'Wizened Old Nag'."
The instant the words left his mouth, Malcador — who had stood at the Emperor's side since his arrival — went rigid. His expression darkened considerably.
The Emperor, by contrast, allowed the corners of his lips the faintest, tiniest upward twitch.
"Father!"
Curze, no longer 'fouling' alongside Nyx, stepped forward swiftly. He knelt solemnly on one knee before the Emperor, his head bowed.
In that moment, Nyx, standing beside him, was conspicuously — notably — still upright.
Everyone present understood: this was Curze's brother. Since Curze had knelt, should not Nyx also...?
Kneel? Kneel and make eggs!
In his heart, Nyx felt entirely justified. With the value he currently demonstrated, even if the Emperor knelt to him... well, that would be pushing it. Ahem. Enough said.
These rebellious thoughts would remain strictly internal. In short — kneeling was absolutely out of the question.
His serene irreverence immediately drew sidelong glances from the Custodian and the Silent Sister. The Custodian took half a step forward; his golden war‑plate emitted a low rasp. His voice issued through the magnificent helm:
"Lord Nyx. You should pay your respects — to your father, the Master of Mankind — as Lord Curze has done."
"That will not be necessary."
The Emperor's voice was calm. It cut across the Custodian's words.
His profound gaze rested upon Nyx.
"Nyx and I are equals."