188 Terra (Forty-Six, Steel, Stubborn Stone, Wolf Pack,

"Don't believe a truth that can't exist," Lion Alderson heard his Ghost say. "I don't want you to go mad; losing your mind is painful."

He didn't answer, but simply gripped the spear in his left hand. The Legacy of Leman Russ Russ gleamed coldly, its tip pointing straight at the dark sky. Dozens of White Scars combat motorcycles roared past to his right, beginning their intelligence gathering.

No one is better suited for this role than them; they come and go as swiftly as the wind and lightning, always free to move about. Moreover, vehicles like combat motorcycles are already quite valuable in their current military.

The battle to open the Astronomican Gate had cost them most of their vehicles, and now even a tin can like the Leman Russ Russ was highly sought after. After considering various factors, Lion El'Jonson finally agreed to their volunteer request.

He initially didn't want the White Scars to leave; who knew what the shattered Terra would bring them? But looking into White Scars eyes, he ultimately couldn't bring himself to refuse.

"You've softened," Russ sneered in his ear. "You weren't like this before, Lion, you used to—"

" --Lion!" someone called him urgently.

The Lion El'Jonson turned his head and saw his brother Sanguinius, whose body was covered in wounds. The cruel scars showed no signs of healing, and many were still bleeding. Even the Primarch's self-healing ability could not make them heal quickly.

The lion frowned, and his expression became a little gloomy. The ferocious face of the devil flashed before his eyes, and his murderous intent flashed away.

"I'm here." The Lion El'Jonson nodded steadily. "What is it, brother?"

"I saw something," Sanguinius said, his face pale. "My talent."

Here we go again.

Russ sighed in his ear: Why is it always like this, Lion? Why do the kindest of us always have to face the worst things?

"That's just how the world is," the Lion El'Jonson thought to himself.

He stopped, loosened his grip slightly, and plunged the spear deep into the muddy ground.

A deafeningly loud Warlord Titan passed by them, followed closely by assault craft carrying Dark Angels radiating murderous intent. Amidst the surging crowd, two Primarch met each other against the flow of people, their eyes locked.

A moment later, the Lion El'Jonson raised its left paw and placed it on Sanguinius' shoulder.

"What did you see?" he asked, his voice still calm.

A cold draft escaped Sanguinius's lips; he was clearly suppressing his anger, and he uttered a single word from his throat. "It."

The Lion El'Jonson's two hearts suddenly stopped beating for a moment, and when they began to beat again, his heartbeat was as violent and turbulent as continuous thunder. Beneath his ebony armor, a bloodthirsty symphony played wildly in his chest.

"Calm down, Lion," Russ pleaded in his ear.

Haven't you already figured out how to stay rational at all times? Don't let all your previous efforts go to waste now, and don't try to do the impossible.

"Don't follow in my footsteps," he said, his words stained with anguish.

Lion Alderson began to take a deep breath.

"What's wrong with it?" he asked in a slightly hoarse voice. "What blasphemous thing has it done this time?"

"I saw it driving the black wolves," Sanguinius replied in the same hoarse voice. "They were gnawing at a piece of steel and a stone, beneath a broken high wall. Corpses were everywhere, Lion. Iron Warriors, Imperial Fists."

The high wall Lion El'Jonson quickly grasped this key phrase.

He turned and drew his spear, its hilt spotless. Then he began to stride forward, his Lion Sword perfectly sheathed on his back.

The forest appeared before him once more. He breathed in the familiar scent of damp earth and easily made his way out of the forest, finding his other brothers who were in the midst of battle.

Ferrus Manus, Fulgrim, Jaghatai —they assembled silently and swiftly, and, relying on the power of the Lion El'Jonson, issued several commands.

The ancient profession of messenger has returned, but this time, they must first learn how to find a path through the forest. Twelve minutes later, the army came to a slow stop; with the communication system out of service, this was the limit of what they could do.

Looking at his brothers, Lion El-Jonson described in detail what Sanguinius had seen. He did not choose to have the archangel do it.

Ferrus Manus was the first to succinctly and concisely pinpoint the crux of the problem.

"If there's any high wall on Terra that's worth the so-called wolf packs attacking so fiercely, and even having a joint garrison of Iron Warriors and Imperial Fists, I think it can only be the Imperial Palace."

Iron Hands gently weighed his Forgebreaker, tapping it repeatedly with his fingers, producing a slightly dull echo. Since the start of the war, he had become increasingly taciturn, while his anger had gradually become the opposite extreme.

The fewer words he spoke, the more pronounced his ferocious anger became.

Fulgrim covered his forehead in worry, not wanting to think about the reasons behind this, but instead focusing his attention on the prophecy of Sanguinius.

As he spoke, black flames raged in his eyes, and his shadowy cloak draped down his back, writhing as if alive. No matter how you looked at him, he was completely different from the person he used to be.

"But how will we get to the Imperial Palace?" he asked the fatal question. "The situation is chaotic, and without guidance, we'll likely be caught up in multiple wars along the way."

"I can try," said the Lion El'Jonson. "My talent can—"

"You won't get through, brother." Leman Russ Russ shook his head among his surviving brothers. "The master of the Vengeful Spirit won't let you get there so easily."

The Lion El'Jonson shut its mouth, its eyes blazing with fury.

Jaghatai Khan glanced at him thoughtfully, his gaze fleeting from Dionysian Spear. He smiled slightly, as if he understood something, and suddenly said, "Why don't you look up at the sky, brothers?"

With a sharp clang, the White Tiger Dao was drawn from its sheath, its cold light flashing as it pointed straight at the sky. Deep within the dark clouds, a golden Radiance, far too intense for it to bear, was surging.

"The light of the Astronomican." Sanguinius murmured to himself.

"Yes, Astronomican." The Eagle of Chogoris shrugged and sheathed his longsword with a backhand motion. He rested his left hand on the hilt, squinting as he began to rub it.

"The Astronomican's greatest function is to guide Imperium ships in the Warp. With its Radiance, navigators can see where the road ahead leads and where Terra is located. So, from a mystical perspective, does it possess the attribute of 'the correct path'?"

When did he start studying the occult? Russ's eyes widened. "Ask him, Lion!"

The Lion El'Jonson reluctantly spoke, knowing that if he didn't, Russ would keep bothering him.

"When did you start studying the occult, Khan?"

"About a few hours ago," Jaghatai replied casually. "While I'm not particularly interested in these feudal superstitions, considering what we're going through right now, I think there might be a lot of truth hidden within these things that the Imperial Truth has dismissed as lies."

He smiled slightly.

"In short, we're out of options now, so why don't we try this somewhat mystical method?"

"What if it doesn't work?" Ferrus asked emotionlessly.

"Trying it won't cost you anything," Jaghatai replied with a smile. "Do you expect it to come wobbling over like one of those country witches, carrying a clay pot and demanding money from us?"

"That's true," Fulgrim said.

He almost laughed at the Khan's words; for a brief moment, the radiance made it seem as if he had returned to the past—but the truth was ultimately cruel, and the phoenix's mane continued to burn persistently.

The Lion El'Jonson sighed. "Well then, it seems we need to reconvene the Librarian."

"That's against the rules of Nikaea, brother." Russ winked at him with a grin. "But I forgive you. Don't forget to bring my priests too."

The Lion El'Jonson glared at him, but his innate talent was already kicking in. He didn't want to waste a single moment; he just wanted to get to the high wall as quickly as possible to support the loyalists who were fighting there. Of course, he had another desire, but he wouldn't say it aloud.

Otherwise, that annoying Space Wolves will hear him and then keep bothering him.

"You should know that I can hear you too, right?" Russ asked quietly.

The Lion El'Jonson ignored him, but Sanguinius spoke up in a worried voice, "But what if what I'm seeing is wrong?"

He looked at his brothers, scanning each of their faces in turn, and made brief but long eye contact with them.

"What if this is a trap?" he asked softly. "What if what I see is what it wants me to see? We all know what it can do."

Ferrus Manus said coldly, "Even if that's the case, even if it's just an open conspiracy, we must go to their aid."

"Yes," Phoenix said softly. "In any case, resistance is meaningful, Sanguinius. Even if the resistance brings no results, it is far better than helpless escape."

He raised his hand, his five fingers slowly clenching, a flash of fire disappeared in an instant, and the Sword of Wrathful Flame reappeared.

"I can't wait to see it again," Jaghatai said coldly, his hand still resting on the long sword at his waist.

Baal's angel took a deep breath and nodded silently and heavily. He understood that his brothers' minds were made up. And if this was the end, if that thing awaited him beneath the high walls.

My blood will bring a new dawn.

--

Ezekyle Abaddon gritted his teeth.

This is meaningless, utterly meaningless. He exhaled a cold breath and looked down at a cold corpse, tightly wrapped in bluish-gray tentacles, its face throbbing with veins. After a while, it actually spoke human language.

"We're engaging the enemy!" it screamed, spewing out the battle report from the front lines in a disgusting manner. "We're engaging the enemy, Ezekyle!"

This makes no sense. He stared at the thing and thought.

Then he spoke, feigning a return to reason. "I don't care what methods you use, the Warmaster has given the order; he wants to see the head of every Iron Warriors and Imperial Fists severed."

The dead creature remained silent for a long while, then suddenly burst into laughter. It wasn't a message from the front lines, but its own laughter. Abaddon keenly sensed that it was mocking itself.

Anger slowly surfaced, forcing him to tighten his grip on the Mourn-it-all that was deep in the soil.

"Then you'd better send me more men!" the corpse suddenly roared again. "These damned bastards have planted explosives and traps at every corner of their trenches. For every three meters I advance, at least two lives are lost!"

"I'll send four more companies to attack from the flank," Abaddon said. "And then the three Word Bearers— "

"--Damn it, get them out of here!" the corpse suddenly roared in Cthonia, his voice thick with gangsterism. "I'd rather die at the hands of the enemy than be stabbed in the back by those lunatics!"

Abaddon turned back grimly to Cole Fallon, the First Company Commander of the Word Bearers: "I recall we've already discussed discipline, Commander Fallon. You must keep your men in check."

"I'll try my best," Cole Fallon replied dryly and nonchalantly. "But what's the point?"

Abaddon clenched his fists and growled in his imagination.

The significance lies in victory! The significance lies in the fact that we are fighting against the combined forces of the damned Imperial Fists and the Iron Warriors!

We can bombard their positions with artillery, and we can use tanks to quickly advance our troops, but in any case, this war will ultimately become a protracted war, a giant grinder of flesh! Because we are facing them, do you understand?

But he didn't say those words aloud. Under Cole Fallon's intriguing gaze, Abaddon nodded.

"Warmaster will not be pleased to see an undisciplined army," the Sons of Horus said with an almost numb calm. "How many men can you send?"

The Word Bearers smiled, a glint of black teeth flashing in the distance. "How many people do you need?"

There was not a trace of pride in his tone.

"What do you mean?" Abaddon asked instinctively, though for some reason he felt a sense of unease.

"You need as many men as you want, and I can give you as many men as you need, Lord Abaddon."

Cole Fallon suddenly burst into laughter, laughing so hard he could barely breathe.

"I can give you Cultists to use as cannon fodder, I can give you elite Blessed Sons, or I can give you a large number of core troops. Whatever kind of troops you want, I can find them for you, do you understand?"

He laughed so hard he bent over.

"What's so funny?" Abaddon asked, clenching his fists, as the corpses roared and urged him on.

"Because, because—" Cole Fallon laughed maniacally, clutching his own throat. "—Our fate is sealed! We are nothing but slaves of the gods! They can have us endlessly if they so desire!"

Abaddon stared coldly at him, once again suppressing the urge to kill him. He turned to the corpse and said, "I'll give you twenty thousand men."

The corpse roared in response, "What?"

"Twenty thousand Word Bearers," Abaddon said. "You have no choice but to fight for the Warmaster and alongside them."

"Fuck you, Ezekyle, you madman!" the Sons of Horus cursed. "Fuck you!"

Abaddon his sword and decapitated the corpse.

(End of this chapter)

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