153 Terra (24)

Lion Alderson watched as Leman Russ Russ breathed his last. ♤🎃 ♥😳

He removed his gauntlets—or rather, ripped them off. This was difficult, and his Power Armour protested, with a burst of high-temperature steam inexplicably erupting from the connection point.

He immediately raised his hands, preventing them from touching Leman Russ Russ. The Lion El'Jonson set his gauntlets aside and gently touched Russ's face with his fingers.

It felt cold to the touch, like touching frost.

The Lion El'Jonson withdrew his hand expressionlessly, looking into those eyes, which were filled with pure emptiness. After a few seconds, he suddenly bent down, pulled up Leman Russ Russ, and began to carefully examine the wounds on his body.

Russ's injuries were extremely severe; warmth was escaping from his body, yet blood continued to gush out. Four brutal wounds piercing his chest cavity made it impossible to stop the bleeding, and fragments of organs, flesh, and bone gushed out together.

Through the collapsed skin, the Lion El'Jonson discovered that the Fenrisian was covered in fractures—no, perhaps not fractures, but rather bone fragments, like in his left hand.

The muscles beneath the skin of his forearm were being propped up by shattered bone, revealing a horrifying sight at the wound site—a mixture of red and white, like a gruesome painting. Not a single patch of his body was intact, just like his armor, so tattered that its former glory was unrecognizable.

The Lion El'Jonson gently set his brother down.

An old knight limped up behind him.

"What do we do?" he asked, the patch of white beard now a faded, dark red, as if he'd coughed up blood. "We're all here, Lion."

"How many people?" the Lion El'Jonson asked without looking up.

The Lion Sword lay quietly across his lap. It was still gleaming; the honor of severing a piece of Horus Lupercal's shoulder armor hadn't changed the sword in the slightest.

Lion Aljonsen stared intently at its mirror-like blade, peering into his own eyes through its reflection.

They have crossed the river, they have reached Terra —but that is not the goal, reaching Terra is not the goal, victory is.

The question is, how do we win?

The Lion El'Jonson gripped his sword and slowly stood up.

"It's impossible to count. A conservative estimate is around 140,000. Who can say for sure about these bizarre things?"

The old knight spoke, letting out a hoarse laugh. He didn't seem tired at all; in fact, he appeared quite confident.

The Lion El'Jonson looked at him with a hint of unfamiliarity, but Luther brought up something else with a pointed tone.

"And—" he blinked—"—"Maybe even more people will follow the path you left behind, Lion. I'm glad you didn't let Caliban destroy it."

"I told you I wouldn't do such a thing." The Lion El'Jonson calmly turned around. "It's my home. But I must remind you of one thing, Luther, there are things that aren't being dealt with right now, simply because I don't have the time."

"Do you still want to destroy it?"

"I will execute all the masterminds and accomplices behind this in the name of law and justice, and then we'll see what happens next," the Lion El'Jonson said slowly. "And, if possible, I will have a Midnight Blade document this Judgment."

Why not invite Konrad Curze Curze himself?

The Lion El'Jonson did not answer the question; he simply shook his head slightly.

After a few seconds, he asked another question, "How are you?"

Luther didn't answer; he simply shook his head like Lion El'Jonson, and extended his prosthetic arm from beneath his cloak. It was no longer shiny; instead, it was mottled, with several dangerous sword marks glaringly proclaiming its presence—quite conspicuous.

Lion El-Jonson narrowed his eyes and asked again, "Who fired the first shot?"

"I don't know," Luther said. "But after the gunfire came the orbital bombardment and the massed assaults of armored divisions, as if they'd known all along that we were there to kill them."

"The next time we meet, it will truly be like this," the Lion El'Jonson said in a softer voice.

Luther nodded without speaking. He knew the First Army Commander had more to say.

"But I still want the truth—or at least part of it. I killed a lot of people, Luther. Some of them died confused and disoriented, as if fighting us wasn't their choice. Some even yelled that I betrayed them, and clearly, they really thought so. So, whatever the truth may be, some people were forced to fight us."

"You're going to forgive them?"

"Never," said the Lion El'Jonson, then paused. "Because some laid down their weapons and were forgiven, while they were not, so they died. I will offer them the blood of the true culprit."

"So," Luther asked again, "How do you plan to attack?"

Do you have a map?

"No."

"Communication?"

"No."

"Remote sensing mapping? Radar scanning?" the Lion El'Jonson pressed on relentlessly. To this, Luther's answer was very simple: he just shook his head and then explained.

→

"Nothing, Lion. Need I remind you we have no fleet? They're still stuck in Caliban's orbit. So, this is a war without air superiority, without reinforcements, and without any intelligence."

"Just what I wanted," the Lion El'Jonson said coldly. "Judging by the power that thing has demonstrated, I have no doubt it could easily take control of our fleet. I will not allow our own weapons to be pointed at any loyalist."

Luther sensed a veiled indignation, but he said nothing. He simply walked up to the dead Fenrisian and slowly knelt down.

He sighed, a long, drawn-out sigh filled with unmistakable sorrow. He was certainly not acquainted with Leman Russ Russ, but if even a Primarch could be killed, and in such a brutal manner, what else could the killer possibly be capable of?

Or, to put it another way, could the murderer easily replicate this event in someone else?

"Do you think you could defeat him?" Luther asked. "Forgive me, though both the Emperor and the Sigillites have used the term, I still don't believe it. That such a thing could happen."

"It is." The Lion El'Jonson corrected, his expression serious, his eyes gleaming faintly in the darkness.

The sound of artillery fire echoed overhead, the massive, distant reverberations making everything seem absurd, like the dull scene screamed in a dream by the most incompetent novelist.

"So, can you beat it?"

"No," said the Lion El'Jonson. "You don't understand, Luther. Standing before it, fighting it, is like fighting—"

He paused, then didn't continue.

"What are you talking about?"

The Lion El'Jonson remained silent, only uttering a name in its heart.

The Emperor.

But how could that be? Lion Aljonson was shocked by his own answer, but then the memories that surfaced proved his point.

The feeling he had at that moment overwhelmed him once again, Lion El'Jonson painfully realized that even wielding his sword in front of that thing required the support of willpower.

Without sufficient resolve, he couldn't even raise a weapon against that thing—was it fear? The First Army Commander asked himself this question, then immediately denied it.

No, it was definitely not fear. But if not fear, then what was it that made him instinctively want to avoid fighting it? Like refusing to raise a sword against the Emperor?

His thoughts began to drift into an unpredictable abyss, and Luther interrupted him. Very timely, just right, as always.

"What should we do with Lord Russ?" the old knight muttered to himself. "He deserves a proper burial, but we should hand him over to the wolves first."

The Lion El'Jonson looked down at him, unable to determine whether Luther's words were intentional or unintentional. He couldn't see any evidence on that aged face that could reveal the truth, because Luther had no expression at all.

He simply knelt beside Leman Russ Russ, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Bloodstains, not yet fully visible, still clung to his cloak and armor, and several unsightly bullet holes remained on his right shoulder plate, obscuring a mark that Lion had personally painted on it.

The Lion El'Jonson squinted, revealing a rare displeasure.

"We need to find his wolf pack first," Lion said. "At least some of the Space Wolves that boarded the ship with him are still alive. These wild Fenrisian possess a terrifying vitality; I don't believe they're all dead—and besides, Russ is dead."

"What's the meaning?"

The Lion El'Jonson finally showed a hint of sadness. He slowly bent down, picked up his right gauntlet from the ground, and hung it on his waist.

"There's some kind of connection between the Astartes and their respective Primarch, Luther. And Leman Russ Russ is dead, so that connection starts to tremble, it sends out warnings."

"Lion Aljonson said in a low voice, his words tightly intertwined," Luther said. He looked up into his adopted son's eyes and suddenly had a comical thought—he felt that Lion El'Jonson was singing.

A vast lament he himself was unaware of, a ballad devoid of any mourning, remembrance, sorrow, or anger, like the howl of a wild beast under the moonlight.

No one would know that it was simply mourning the loss of a member of its community.

"That connection is stronger than blood ties; it's a call from the depths of our genes. So, if something happens to Russ, the wolf pack will know, perhaps even before we do. Under these circumstances..."

Lion Al-Jonson bent down again and reached out to draw the Dionysian Spear from Leman Russ Russ's hand.

He held it in his hand and pressed the spearhead against his forehead. Russ's blood, which seemed never to dry, stained his face, dripping slowly from his eyebrows down, eventually dividing his face in two.

Finding them will be by no means difficult.

One hour and twenty-two minutes later, he was proven right, but this was not good news, because the warriors of the First Legion also discovered traces of the Word Bearers.

Above Terra.

There may be one more chapter, or two more chapters, or three more chapters (it's uncertain).