She would not oppose any order, nor would she be found to have any covert defiance. She always moved in silence, hunted mercilessly, or, at irrelevant moments, expressed her thoughts with an undisguised lazy tone.
Lion El'Jonson always knew she had problems.
But he never had enough reason or motivation to eliminate this hidden danger.
This silver-haired woman had always silently followed him. She never showed true awe, but she also never let her value fall below the red line of being purged. Her abilities and achievements grew with the spread of war, and even the most stubborn Dark Angels would show respect and understanding for her presence on the Invincible Truth.
Many times, as the Lion's fingers gently brushed the patterns on his sword hilt, he would envision the scene: the sword drawn, tearing through the air, slicing open that snowy neck,
allowing the cold blade and even colder air to rush into those hot veins, like an unforgiving flood breaking through a delicate dam, sweeping fields, cities, and lives into a helpless vortex, devouring all vitality and sorrow.
She might die of blood loss, or perhaps from a pulmonary embolism caused by an obstructed airway. If his power were a little greater, her beautiful head would fall like an abandoned crown, but such a scene would be too barbaric and remind him of unpleasant memories.
But without a doubt, and unavoidably, there would be blood, much blood. The proud long neck of the white swan would be tainted by a crimson viper. Her face, always filled with indolence and deliberation, might turn a faint purple, just like the rows of mellow wine she brewed.
Finally, that slender body would fall, not even a speck of dust would rise. She might accept it calmly, struggle in anger, curse viciously, question unwillingly, or use small sorcerous tricks, and other methods beyond his expectation, to confirm her untrue identity.
No matter what, everything would end.
As long as he truly swung that sword.
Everything would end, leading to the correct conclusion.
His sentimentality, his instincts, the side of him that was a human, the opulent armor he donned to squeeze into the Empire's cage, all roared and pleaded thus. They longed for his sword to be swung, for wanton blood to splash on the walls amidst everyone's shock, for this ill-intentioned masked lady to die with a gasp of surprise.
The Primarch's fingers caressed the patterns on the sword hilt, feeling the bloody sweetness soaked in blood and death.
The next moment, his fingers brushed past all of this, patted his other shoulder guard, and brushed away the ashes drifting with the fishy smell wind.
He didn't need to do that.
That was a waste, a shameful waste, a mistaken judgment, a cowardly hesitation, the most foolish act of putting effort far exceeding benefit.
Look at this silent mortal. She could do many things, solve many hardships, allowing him to confidently take her to the most dangerous front lines, the harshest battlefields, the most extreme regions, the bloodiest missions. Her abilities were evident, her attitude commendable, and her death would not cause any particular grief. It would merely add a few more threads to his brothers' narrow-minded prejudice.
And more importantly, above all these reasons: she was controlled.
Her dwelling was in his fleet. Her comrades were his most loyal sons. Her neck, her head, her fragile little life, were all tightly clutched in his palm. He didn't even need to act himself; the hidden devices of Corswain and Alajos were enough to render even the most insane psyker as helpless as a lamb.
He had no reason not to make good use of all this, freely issuing commands, freely wielding this sword, until she was completely broken, or until he no longer needed her.
What reason did he have to refuse all of this?
His rationality, his savagery, the phantom he left in the depths of Caliban's forest, the true Lion El'Jonson hidden deep within his heart, all earnestly proclaimed this truth.
This silver-haired masked woman still possessed untapped value. She was still under his control. She had not yet touched his bottom line due to ambition or foolishness.
So, she could keep her life, for now.
But when he no longer needed her, she would have to get out of his legion, or remain silent forever.
That wouldn't be long. Perhaps a month from now, or after this campaign ended. He would soon drive her away, this hidden danger.
——————
Three years ago, Lion El'Jonson thought the same.
——————
[Something is wrong.]
When they were within a stone's throw of the Rhandan command center, Morgana finally spoke again.
[With all due respect, Lord Lion El'Jonson, don't you think everything has been far too smooth?]
[It is smooth.]
No unexpected opponents, no truly desperate struggles. This core area, controlling four million Rhandan warriors and hundreds of millions of slaves, seemed to place all its fate on vague concealment. The Rhandans had never been such a weak race.
The Primarch nodded. Then, he let out a chuckle. Through the Lion Helmet, this laugh became a resounding boom oscillating between metal.
[So?]
[So...]
Before Morgana could finish speaking, Alajos rushed up from behind them.
"My Lord, Corswain reports that a massive surge of Warp energy suddenly appeared on our right flank..."
[I already see it.]
Following the Lion's words, in the endless fierce winds on the right flank of the Dark Angels' formation, a deep blue psychic gate, like a giant beast's gaping maw, suddenly ripped open from the storm. And from here alone, behind them, to their left and front, portals opened simultaneously.
They were so tall, dozens of meters high, silently proclaiming the terror of what lay beyond the gates.
[What do you think this is?]
Morgana heard Lion El'Jonson's slow inquiry.
She didn't even need to think.
[If it's a counterattack, it's too late.]
[If it's a struggle, it's too early.]
[But if this is an ambush, a trap, a gamble using the glorious Rhandan Warlord as bait, to kill the Lion and the Soul Drinkers that plague them, then it is indeed a well-timed calculation.]
[I see some familiar memories. It seems they have guessed what happened in the Sabis system. They guessed how you hunted their kin before, and so they have begun a clumsy imitation, though it is quite a failure.]
[They believe that so-called hunting only requires carefully placed bait, and then traps and hunters. These Xenos will never understand that what truly makes a hunt successful is a noble, savage, and cunning heart.]
Through the steel helmet, the Lion's lips curled slightly. He spoke.
[Indeed, it is a gamble.]
[But I have no reason not to take it.]
[Alajos, recall all the forces from behind.]
He uttered the command, then cast his gaze back to Morgana, watching this mortal woman tilt her head slightly, putting on an innocent expression.
[Behind my Ninth Knight Company and my five hundred, there is an army of about a thousand men. They are veterans brought from Terra or Caliban. Until I return, these thousand men will follow your command.]
[Stop those things from the portals. I don't care what they are. Stop them, or destroy them.]
[They are not enough for me to abandon a hunt.]
Morgana smiled, her pupils like icy blue suns standing in a storm.
[As you command, Your Excellency.]
——————
War is the most ruthless competition, and the greatest teacher.
It is fair, savage, merciless, and orderly.
Fail to learn, and you fall behind.
Fail to advance, and you suffer blows.
Fail to win, and you perish.
In the face of war, no one dares to be a lazy student. A delayed plan could lead to the collapse of a front line. A technique not spread in time could cause thousands of deaths. And even if you learn the fundamentals, perhaps in a few years, or even a few months, everything will change, and you can only learn, continue to learn, desperately learn, and improve.
Because in war, no one gets a second chance.
As the Imperium and the Rhandans fought in the endless stars and worlds, they also engaged in a silent contest in this greatest school of the galaxy.
On Mars and countless forge worlds, tech-priests and adepts loyal to the Emperor risked the greatest dangers, collecting Rhandan weapons at all costs and deciphering their secrets.
In trenches and camps, countless pamphlets and meetings were held. All veterans passed on their experience without reservation, just so others would have even a slight chance of winning when facing those twisted Xenos.
On Terra's council, in front-line command posts, countless plans were drafted on scrolls, proposed, refuted, modified, approved, or discarded. The most terrifying Rhandan individuals were frequently mentioned, and how to assassinate them became one of the most important components of the war.
No one considered any of this unnecessary, because everyone knew that the Rhandans were also doing the same: deciphering Imperial technology, stealing Imperial intelligence, and listing the Empire's most excellent commanders and generals in assassination lists.
Both sides were learning, stealing, and improving. They dared not do otherwise, because the only stake in this contest was what they could never abandon: the eternal fate of their respective races. Who would die, who would be eternal, who would be nameless, and who would embrace hegemony.
The Tanith First and Only and even every weapon in the hands of the Dark Angels became increasingly lethal to the Rhandans, and among the Xenos' great armies, never-before-seen but more terrifying sacrilegious weapons continuously emerged. Rhandan warriors began to wield Astartes weapons, and Land Raiders walked by their side, with brutal blades...
Even...
"Titans!"
A dry roar was carried away by the wind, but everyone knew what he was going to say, because they had already seen those behemoths with their own eyes, heard their dull footsteps, and personally felt the earth tremble.
Titans, machines of the gods, pillars of the Imperium, the most powerful battlefield beasts that every legion longed to possess.
This was what they used to be like.
But now, everything had changed.
What appeared before Morgana and a thousand Dark Angels were the most sacrilegious creations, capable of instantly making a Tech-Priest's skull smoke or even explode from anger and madness.
These giant beasts, magnificent giant beasts, had been completely defiled by Rhandan creations. Their bodies were battered and broken. Huge frontal armor on their chests and leg armor were still covered in hideous scars, telling of the brutal battles in which they fell.
And in those fatal wounds, at the joints and connections of mechanical arms, countless flesh and sinews were filled, combined with the Xenos' sacrilegious technology, allowing these dead giant beasts to stand up once again, becoming sinful weapons loyal to the Rhandans.
Morgana looked at the mobile disasters before her: Warhound, Reaver, Warlord... she even saw an ancient Mars-Alpha pattern, its twin triple-barreled laser destructors now emitting ominous shadows.
Driving these dead giant beasts was not mechanical or energy power, but a ruthless exploitation: within these Titans, imprisoned were psykers, drained to the point of exhaustion,
tortured to complete madness by Rhandan torments. They only screamed chaotically, and under the coercion of torturous instruments, they squeezed out every last bit of psychic energy, and these massive beasts, accompanied by screams that echoed through the soul sea, surrounded Morgana and a thousand Dark Angels.
And the moment they stepped out of the portals, the attack began. Invisible waves of energy shot out from the flesh of these giant beasts, splitting into four angles, howling towards Morgana's position.
But Morgana merely raised her staff.
The [Spear] once again gathered.
But this time, her incantation seemed different.
She whispered, her voice torn to shreds by the wind. The wind was then immediately pushed down to the ground by those sacrilegious weapons marching forward, trampled into dust in the endless yellow sand.
[Ah...]
[Banshee.]
——————
Lion El'Jonson's hunt lasted approximately one Terran standard hour.
When he brushed away the blood and returned to this battlefield, the hunt here had also concluded.
The Primarch raised his head and scanned his surroundings. His pupils sharply constricted as he witnessed everything. Then, he moved with somewhat stiff steps, leaving the five hundred who were still stunned behind him.
A thousand Dark Angels, most of them were still alive, but they were clearly caught in some strange oppression. These survivors stood in neat ranks, forming a circle, welcoming their Gene-Father.
And in the center of the circle, Morgana sat there, seated on a hill made of ruins and steel.
She was smiling.
And the Dark Angels kept their distance.
They stayed far away from her, as if she were a terrifying beast that could absolutely not be defeated.
Lion El'Jonson walked up. He looked at the usually subservient mortal advisor. She sat there, a rare, distinct smile on her lips. That smile clearly wasn't for any sweet emotion.
[What have you done?]
The Primarch looked up and asked.
She opened her mouth, seemingly feeling the hoarseness in her throat, and then mumbled, uttering a few letters.
[Rage.]
[...Rage?]
[That's quite evident.]
Lion El'Jonson turned around. He once again looked at the now completely different wasteland: the wind had entirely disappeared, as if swallowed by a barbaric god. And at this moment, the scenery had changed.
Torches, everywhere were torches. Blazing torches were scattered wantonly across this endless wasteland. Everywhere were towering columns of smoke reaching the sky. Each torch symbolized a completely scrapped piece of metal. Each plume of smoke symbolized a completely dead war beast.
Lion El'Jonson looked at them, his expression unprecedentedly grim.
Then, he turned around and gathered his troops. And behind him, on the wasteland, seventeen fiercely burning torches were left behind by everyone.
Well, starting today, this book will be renamed "Warhammer: In the Name of Rebirth." As for why the name was changed... according to my extensive research, the name "Imperial Disaster Star" seems to be overly detrimental to general reader appeal, making many readers have a bad first impression.
So I decided to trick them in and then kill them (not really).
Additionally, today, for the first time in my life, I'm recommending a book!
The book is titled "Warhammer: I Don't Want to Be a Stinky Can!" and it's on Qidian.
You can tell at a glance that it's about Mortarion's kids.
The author, like me, is a newcomer to Qidian (though his collections completely overshadow mine), but his grasp of the story's rhythm is excellent, and the plot progression is very steady. The protagonist's inner monologue is occasionally lively, but the overall Warhammer style is well maintained. And Death Guard, indeed, needs a more lively character.
In short, I'm doing a friendly exchange with him here, hoping both our books progress well.
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