4 Lions and Wolves (I)

Karyl had to admit one thing—Banjo-1 was absolutely the most harmonious Hive City he had seen in the past four years. Or rather, a near -Hive City.

Its resources have not yet been exhausted. According to Imperium law, turning such a world into Hive City a waste of resources, but foresight is essential.

Sooner or later, Banjo-1's natural environment will be completely destroyed, the land will become desert, the sea will dry up, and the air will become highly toxic enough to kill people. When that time comes, it will have to find another way out, and transforming into Hive City is obviously the best option.

First, it is a mining world with a considerable degree of cooperation with the Mechanicum. Second, as a world that produces minerals, its rulers must have used their political skills and mineral resources to gain many friendships.

If he wanted to maintain these hard-won and precious friendships, he had to preserve the value of Banjo-1. Turning it into Hive City after the mineral resources were depleted, serving as a transit point and rest stop on the route, would be a risk-free and highly profitable business.

Yes, it's highly profitable with no initial investment.

Karyl knew those nobles well; whether lords or ladies, they didn't care about the lives of others, or rather, they never considered the other inhabitants of the Hive City to be their "own."

A system that desperately needs reform, yet cannot be reformed.

He was deep in thought.

Of course, to onlookers, this was merely him examining his reflection in the mirror: a thick black overcoat with a high collar, made of high-quality materials, costing fifty universal coins; a synthetic fleece sweater, costing fifteen universal coins; and a pair of warm and comfortable deerskin gloves, costing five universal coins.

A complete set of clothing, excluding the scarf and boots, cost a whopping seventy universal coins, which was equivalent to the old sailor Haide's wages for a whole day as a tour guide.

That's why, while the shop owner, who worked as a part-time tailor, stood by with an expectant smile, Haide's face was full of embarrassment and unease.

He hadn't bought himself any new clothes in so long that he had completely forgotten about the soaring prices, but Karyl still didn't say anything; he simply took out his money and paid the bill.

The moment a hundred-dollar bill fell into the shopkeeper's hand, Haide sighed deeply, while the shopkeeper's smile grew even brighter.

"Thank you for your patronage, handsome sir!" he said, quickly making change and then seeing them out of the store.

In the cold wind, the two began to walk in silence. Karyl was deep in thought, but Haide was different; his face began to turn increasingly red, and his gray beard and rough skin could no longer conceal it.

Finally, unable to bear it any longer, he spoke up, "Sir!"

"Um?"

"Indeed"

"Don't apologize," Karyl interjected. "Believe me, Haide, this price is fair—the overall price level in the Misty Sector is probably beyond your comprehension."

"But--"

Karyl sighed, looking down at the old sailor who was only slightly shorter than him. A sense of déjà vu washed over him, along with a strange thought: Was that what they felt back then?

He laughed, patted Haide on the shoulder, and led him onward.

Hovercrafts sped across the middle of the road. The six-meter height restriction meant they were all flying at low altitudes, one after another, moving at breakneck speed. Some carried people, others cargo. They didn't just stir up dust; the buzzing noise they emitted made their conversation extremely difficult to keep quiet.

"I don't think you have anything to apologize for, Haide. But I must point out one thing: how did someone like you survive on a Banjo-1?"

The old sailor paused in his steps.

At first, he was a little confused about the question. However, the moment he looked into Karyl's eyes, his doubts vanished.

From those pitch-black eyes, which he wondered if they were the result of a mutation, Haide saw his own face—an old and ravaged face.

He felt a little dazed, and the memories that flooded his mind only intensified this dazedness. Somehow, in front of his employer, whom he had only known for a day, Haide suddenly felt an urge to talk.

He couldn't stop it.

"That's how I live, sir," the old man replied with a wrinkled smile. "But it's certainly been a difficult life, that's for sure, I won't lie."

Karyl looked at him with concern, saying nothing, but encouraging him with a gaze.

Haide lowered his head, looking completely bewildered, and murmured something.

"I guess I just don't understand. They said I was too traumatized, that the severe psychological blows I suffered made it impossible for me to continue serving, so they sent me here. This isn't my home, sir. I'm not from the Banjo System, not even from the Misty system."

"I understand," Karyl said.

He raised his head and continued walking, this time actually walking in front of Haide.

Instead of focusing on the passing hovercars or the miners who had just finished their shift, his gaze drifted towards the towering chimneys rising and falling in the distance. These terrifying, hill-like structures would release thick smoke year-round, polluting the skies above Banjo-1.

Centuries later, these factories will be expanded, and the Mechanicum priests will use their reason to merge the factories and the entire city into Underhive.

The workers will live here for generations, unless they are lucky enough to make it to the Upper Hive. The underground mines will not be spared either, becoming the Underhive, for the scum and the unfortunate to fend for themselves.

But that future probably will never come.

Karyl withdrew his gaze and smiled at the old sailor, whose spirits had improved somewhat. "Speaking of which, Haide, do you know where the government building or something similar is?"

--

With hurried steps, Azrael entered a secluded room. The Order's medals, pinned to his collar, gleamed with a dull light.

This was the only ornament he wore. He was still in a period of asceticism, so he had to keep his body and mind pure and flawless in order to prepare for the next battle. In fact, if it weren't for the fact that he was here to see someone, he wouldn't even be wearing that medal.

Azrael stopped in his tracks.

Before him stood a stone door, its surface covered with cracks and moss. It appeared frail, but beneath the stone gleamed Adamantium luster.

Azrael solemnly raised his right hand and placed it on the stone door. With a deep hum, the ancient gears embedded in the wall began to turn and creak.

The stone door slowly opened, and a cold airflow, like swords, rushed out from within, piercing Azrael's face and pressing against his neck, rendering him speechless. The prepared speech was thus silently swallowed back into his throat.

Inside the secret chamber, a giant slowly opened his eyes.

He was surrounded by ancient stones from Caliban, and his knight's robes were worn and old. A faint beam of white light shone down from a crack above his head, illuminating the stones and him, and highlighting his thick, faded blond hair.

The giant stood up and walked towards him.

"Azrael," he said in a low voice, "What brings you here?"

"Lion El'Jonson, I have no intention of disturbing your meditation."

"Of course you have no intention," the giant known as the Lion El'Jonson replied calmly. "But tell me, what is it?"

Azrael's apple bobbed, clearly unsure where to begin. Ten minutes later, they entered a conference room.

The ornately decorated ceiling is covered with sculpted paintings depicting black-armored knights wielding swords as they confront monsters. Beneath these paintings, another group of black-armored knights stand silently.

Even the arrival of the Lion El'Jonson did not break the silence; in fact, it could be said that his arrival only intensified the silence.

The Lion El'Jonson ignored them, simply reaching for a Dataslate on the round conference table. After sliding it up and down a few times, he fully understood what had happened.

But instead of speaking immediately, he threw the Dataslate back onto the round table, then pulled out a chair and sat down.

His expression was hidden between his beard and his long, unkempt hair cascaded down his neck and back like Lion's mane.

At this moment, the only window through which the people present could observe his emotions was his pair of deep green eyes. However, only a few of them dared to meet his gaze and probe his true feelings.

The Lion El'Jonson gave a nonchalant snort.

"Here we go again," he said suddenly. "Every time these old secrets come up, you all keep quiet and act weak and incompetent. Azrael, come here."

The young sergeant stiffly stepped out of the crowd and came to his side.

"Read aloud the information and inferences on this Dataslate," the Lion El'Jonson said expressionlessly. "Read it louder."

"Yes, my lord," Azrael said hoarsely, then picked up the Dataslate and spoke in a loud voice.

The message was actually very simple, just a key sent directly by the Adeptus Arbites of Banjo-1, but it actually came from ten thousand years ago, from the Legion era of the Dark Angels.

In that complex era of layered organizations, this key and its tens of thousands of counterparts were widely used within the Dark Angels, each with its own unique function and designation. This particular key, however, only received its answer after seeking help from the Dreadnought elder Anteros, allowing the Dark Angels to obtain it before the Lion El'Jonson arrived.

Time has passed, and they no longer use these keys. Even the codes and organization have been updated. Today, perhaps only the Dreadnought elders and the Lion El'Jonson within the Chapter still remember them and the glory of the past.

But shame is different.

"In conclusion, this key most likely came from a Fallen who knew of our arrival."

Azrael said he put down the Dataslate. He had finished reading the inferences and was now standing silently beside the Lion El'Jonson, eyes downcast.

The Lion El'Jonson couldn't help but let out a low chuckle. Then, he slowly stood up and calmly denied the inferences on the Dataslate.

"No, this key wasn't given to us by the Fallen."

Upon hearing this, the members of the Order exchanged bewildered glances. One of them frowned and raised a crucial question, "But, sir, if not, who else could know these secrets of the past?"

"Fallen," the Lion El'Jonson said. "But after issuing this key, he was no longer Fallen."

"Full speed ahead now. I need to reach Banjo-1 in four Terra hours. Let's meet this traitor who surrendered—and tell Asmodai to calm down."

He left those words behind and turned to go. Ten minutes later, in his private armory, he reached out and grasped a spear.

The next second, the world changed, and unparalleled cold replaced the calm in the armory. A knife-like wind rushed in, blowing the Lion El'Jonson's golden hair into disarray, but he paid no attention and just walked silently in the cold wind.

"I say, isn't it too early, Lion? Or are you dissatisfied with the outcome last time?"

"Shut up," Lion El-Jonson snapped helplessly.

He appeared annoyed, but his eyes held a hint of amusement. The blizzard in Fenris was still raging, and this winter seemed even more unbearable than in previous years. He keenly realized this, so he quickened his pace and hurried toward his destination.

"Oh, now I know what you're going to do." The voice rang out again, slow and leisurely, with a hint of amusement.

"I told you to shut up," Lion snapped again. "Don't bother me anymore. Do you know how difficult it is to find tracks in this damn snow?"

"That's easy for me, Lion. So, do you need help? Come on, just say the word and you'll get help from Leman Russ Russ. I'm a seasoned hunter; I've done this kind of thing tens of thousands of times."

"Am I not a hunter too?" Lion retorted coldly.

With a fierce brow and angry eyes, he began to venture deeper into this snowfield that had been abandoned for a long time.

This is an absolute forbidden zone; no beast that lives on Fenris will ever set foot here. The same applies to the Space Wolves. For millennia, only the Lion El'Jonson has come here faithfully once a year.

Russ burst into laughter in his ear.

Lion Alderson took a deep breath.

"Yes, yes, you are certainly a hunter, but your hunting environment is vastly different from here. You are Lion of the forest, and I am a wolf of the snow, so speak up, brother, let me help you."

"You don't have many hours left. There are things waiting for you to handle on the Banjo-1, am I right?"

"Shut up!" Lion growled. "It's nothing! You bastard! If you look down on me again, I'll beat you so badly you won't be able to stand up!"

"Then you'll have to dig me out of my grave first, brother."

Russ chuckled softly, and suddenly, Lion effortlessly raised the spear in his right hand, piercing through the wind and snow, and precisely embedding it into the thick fur of a giant wolf.

A gaping maw pierced through the fierce snowstorm, lunging at Lion El-Jonson, then bit his shoulder and gently pinned him to the ground. Another giant wolf followed closely behind, bursting out of the snowstorm and pressing down on the Lion El'Jonson's chest amidst Russ's uncontrollable laughter.

"Let me go!" the Lion El'Jonson roared. "Damn it, I'm not Leman Russ Russ!"

The wolves didn't listen; they simply dragged him towards their the Nest. Their figures gradually disappeared into the snowstorm.