Logan Grimnar had wondered countless times about one thing—what would it feel like to fight beside Leman Russ?
He wanted to know the answer, but he could not imagine it out of thin air. He was already among the most senior Chapter Masters in the Empire; perhaps only Dante, Chapter Master of the Blood Angels, could surpass him in that regard.
You had to understand: Logan Grimnar had fought for the Empire for more than seven hundred years.
Over those seven hundred years, he had killed countless enemies filled with malice toward humanity. He had killed Orks, xenos, traitors, Demons. He had even killed some Inquisitors and Grey Knights.
So we could put it this way: Logan Grimnar was a warrior whose combat experience exceeded the limits of ordinary imagination, and yet he was utterly unable to picture Leman Russ in battle. He could not arrive at an answer to that question, but he was fortunate.
Where did his fortune lie?
Well, now, he knew. He had seen it with his own eyes.
For the past ten thousand years, the Space Wolves had always pursued and unearthed the savagery within their bodies. They knew it, controlled it, used it—and after seeing Leman Russ fight, Logan Grimnar had only one thought.
No. We were only trying to imitate him.
Leman Russ laughed without stopping, his golden hair whipping wildly in the air thick with the scent of blood. He held a sword in his right hand, and the frost-cold blade Mjolnir swung as swift as lightning at his will, every stroke tearing apart any demon that tried to approach the Primarch.
His strength made the sharpness of the sword itself an afterthought. Wherever the edge swept, shredded flesh flew. He charged into the enemy formation like a whirlwind and began slaughtering