Soviet's Past (II, Memory Fragments, 8k)

The Lion El'Jonson has never entered anyone else's memory.

Indeed, he had heard of similar things—a Psyker taking the consciousness of others into their own memories and conversing, teaching, and answering questions within them. This person could do this anytime, anywhere, without any aftereffects or risks.

He was known as the Emperor.

Ten thousand years ago, the Emperor had already done something similar. But today, if such a thing were to happen again, it would probably only be called a "miracle," and in the past ten thousand years, no Psyker has ever set foot in this realm.

The Lion El'Jonson had been saddened by this, realizing that the Imperium had become a stagnant corpse, stagnating in many ways, even among the Psyker.

The gears inside this massive machine were so stiff they could barely turn; they had to be slicked with lubricant made from crushed corpses to keep turning for even a short, bloody moment.

In only one respect, the Imperium has made progress.

Violence.

"Take a deep breath," Karyl said, interrupting his thoughts.

The Lion El'Jonson looked at him and suddenly blurted out, "Do you do this kind of thing often?"

What kind of thing?

"To solve problems that others cannot solve."

Karyl looked up in surprise, the blue light in his eyes still intense, making his pale skin appear almost transparent, revealing his blue veins and bones.

The Lion El'Jonson stared at him, a stare that was anything but polite; it was clearly pressuring Karyl for an answer. However, just as he was about to get an answer, he gave up.

The Lion El'Jonson crossed his arms, pulled the incandescent light bulb that was still shining on Haide, and pushed it to the other side, then asked, "So, how do we get into his memories?"

Karyl placed his hands on Haide's temples, and the blue light continued to spread. He didn't answer, but the Lion El'Jonson felt a sudden wave of drowsiness.

This was strange; he had almost never felt this way before.

The knights of Caliban were devout believers in meditation. As early as their apprenticeship, they were taught how to enter a deep meditative state to examine their own spirit and flesh, thereby achieving true peace and wielding their swords with a fluid, tranquil grace.

The Lion El'Jonson learned to meditate on the third day after joining the Order, but he never entered a deep meditative state. Luther asked him why, but he never received an answer.

Looking back now, it was probably just because he was afraid of being ostracized—others meditated to find peace, but he meditated to visualize the carnage in his mind in order to better prepare for the next battle.

How can such a reason be considered that of a noble knight?

However, by now, Lion Aljonson has long since accepted it and come to terms with it: if his nature is to kill and be violent, then so be it. He will wield his sword with both hands and kill the innocent before they can harm them.

However, he did not expect that he would enter this state at this moment—before he could even speak, he was drawn into a green hell by the blue light in a deep drowsiness.

--

Flies were buzzing.

High above, green leaves hung in the air, and a few rays of sunlight slid down through the dense, thick foliage with a condescending air. Birds chirped, and flies were everywhere, along with other brightly colored insects.

The air was hot and humid, the jungle like a sauna, baking the body. Along with the sweat, not only water was released, but also the willpower to withstand the harsh environment.

Lion Alderson suddenly woke up.

Where am I?

Before he could even ask the question, someone shoved him into the mud with tremendous force. The impact even caused him pain, a pain so intense it almost made him breathless.

The closer it got to this point, the calmer Lion became. He propped himself up on his elbow and saw a stone under his stomach. The strange pain must have come from there.

A surge of anger instantly rose within him, propelling him to his feet— Lion, burning with rage, wanted to settle scores, but was shoved to the ground again. This shove seemed different from before; Lion felt no pain, only a sudden burst of complex sounds in his ears.

He heard roars, cannon fire, gunfire, and laughter—he heard them all with absolute certainty. These sounds were like a key from another world, easily unlocking a tightly closed door in his mind.

The person who pushed the door open used tremendous force, enough to give Lion Alderson a splitting headache.

He raised his hand to touch his forehead and saw bright red blood on his fingertips. He froze, momentarily confused about how he had been injured, but the world around him suddenly changed after the blood came into view.

Flames redder than blood raged, killing all the insects, which fell into the fire and turned to ash. The sultry heat turned into scorching heat, and the omnipresent flames burned the skin.

The most crucial thing was that he heard the roar of the Orks.

Lion Aljonsen scrambled to his feet—or rather, he tried to scramble to his feet.

He couldn't do it because, somehow, his strength and speed had become extremely slow, and the Orks seemed to have grown larger. At least, that was the case with the Orks beast that was pouncing on him just a few steps away.

It was enormous, and incredibly fast. Lion suddenly felt a chill run down his spine: What was happening? Was I cursed? Karyl?

Karyl Lohars did not respond to him; instead, another person, or rather, a crimson beam of light, did.

The beam of light shot from the side, blasting half of the Orks's head away. Then, two more shots struck the remaining half of the skull and the chest, respectively. Immediately afterward, a powerful hand pulled Lion behind him.

"Are you fucking insane?!" someone roared at him. "Stand still and wait for those Orks to chop you to pieces? Shoot, you idiot! Open fire!"

Fire.

Lion Aljonson looked down at his hand and noticed a light gun hanging around his neck with a rough canvas strap.

He instinctively raised his gun, then aimed; a certain instinct immediately surged up and helped him complete the shot. He felt alienated because this wasn't his instinct, absolutely not.

He knocked down an Orks who was swinging a crude machete over the corpse of his companion. A smoking gash appeared on its chest, but Lion knew that it was not a fatal wound for them.

He raised his gun again to aim, but the man who had pulled him over suddenly roared, "Retreat! Retreat!"

Retreat? What? Isn't this a chance to counterattack? They're attacking across the Phosphex flames; a few volleys will be enough to teach these reckless Orks a lesson. Why did you issue this order?

Lion Al-Jonson frowned in annoyance and confusion, only to receive a heavy slap on the back, followed by the man's angry roar at him again.

"Tiers, you stinking Grak! Did you spit your brain out while smoking this morning? Get out of here!"

Lion flew into a rage: "You—"

Before he could finish speaking, the man pulled him back quickly. He tried to resist, but found that he was no match for the man's strength.

Low growls echoed continuously from all around, and amidst the flames and burning jungle, the Orks' violent nature was given a chance to be unleashed.

They laughed loudly, slaughtering indiscriminately, completely ignoring everything. Amidst this complex battle, Lion realized the true reason for the "retreat" order: a faint howling sound could be heard from the sky.

He instinctively looked up and saw several Shadow flashing across the horizon, as well as shells whistling down.

One of them landed not far behind him, and the devastating explosion turned them into flying fragments. The ensuing violent shockwave caused him and the person who was holding him to fall to the ground.

Lion felt the pain again in disbelief.

"--What happened?!"

He roared, and then received another roar, "Fire, Tiers!"

Tiers? Who is Tiers? Before he could think, Lion found his arm had risen on its own, the butt of the gun against his shoulder, and his finger had spontaneously pulled the trigger, beginning to fire in bursts.

One after another, the mutilated Orks who ran out from the explosion site were knocked to the ground by the crimson beam of light. Their bodies were engulfed in flames, their limbs were missing, and most of them were even dragging their own internal organs as they ran, but they showed no fear.

Those fierce, ugly green faces bore only a thirst for killing. Lion, however, was different. He could hardly breathe; he didn't know if it was from the high temperature or the smoke, but he felt dizzy.

This is utterly humiliating, he thought furiously. I actually ended up in battle.

"Run, Tiers!" the man shouted again.

Instinctively, he stood up, grabbed his gun, and ran alongside the man.

Dozens of meters, hundreds of meters, crossing one thicket after another, my body covered in bloody scratches from the branches. My feet ached, my knees were numb, my ribs burned, my respiratory tract felt like it was on fire, and sweat trickled into my eyes.

Lion was almost completely exhausted by all of this—no, not almost, he was utterly exhausted. His legs felt like lead, and the gun hanging around his neck felt as heavy as a block of Adamantium.

But he kept running, and kept running.

He wouldn't allow himself to stop; he needed to figure out what was going on. But amidst the sweat, the pounding heart, and the pain of exhaustion, he lost his footing and fell.

For several seconds, he tried to stand up, but his trembling legs wouldn't obey him.

Lion felt a deep sense of shame: How could this be? Am I really so weak?

He cursed himself and tried to stand up, but then he heard the shouts of the Orks behind him. So he grabbed his gun, turned around, and intended to kill them, but how could he possibly do that?

His hands were trembling uncontrollably, unlike before, making it impossible for him to aim.

His breathing was extremely rapid, and his vision was inexplicably impaired. The world before him was now incredibly blurry, and he couldn't distinguish which of the moving colored blocks was the enemy.

But he still resolutely pulled the trigger.

This time, however, the light gun did not produce a faint echo; instead, it produced only an awkward, hollow sound.

Lion froze. What did this mean? It took him two or three seconds for a thought to flash through his mind, which had somehow become incredibly sluggish. "Out of ammo, and you haven't reloaded." This was a light gun; there wouldn't be an ammo indicator for Power Armour.

"Damn it! Tiers's fallen behind! Nails, stumps, cover me!"

An anxious curse came from behind him, followed by a sudden burst of gunfire. It sounded like someone was firing, and Lion saw several blurry red figures pass before his eyes.

Immediately afterwards, a pair of hands forcefully pulled him up from the ground, and the culprit groaned as he hoisted him onto his shoulder and ran off while panting.

"Hold on, Tiers! We'll be alright, just a few steps to the line!"

What defensive line?

Lion tried to speak, but only a few muffled coughs escaped his lips; his throat still hurt. The burning sensation combined with his attempt to speak caused him to cough violently.

The pain intensified, and he began to cough violently, gasping for breath, his limbs flailing instinctively. But the person carrying him ignored all his struggles without uttering a sound, and simply continued running with him.

More sounds reached his ears: the roar of engines, the sound of tracks and wheels grinding through mud and vegetation, different gunshots, and the voices of many people talking to each other.

Lion coughed, struggling to open his eyes. He tried rubbing his eyelids with the back of his hand, and a burning pain quickly subsided. He then realized that blood from his forehead had gotten into his eyes and, along with sweat, had stuck his eyelids together, causing the vision impairment.

"Doctor! A doctor needs to be called!"

A pair of hands placed him on the ground, then shook him roughly. Lion coughed up bloody saliva, looked up at his rescuer, and suddenly froze.

Those faces, just like his own now, covered in blood and sweat, felt strangely familiar to him.

He wanted to say something, but the man patted his forehead with concern. "In the name of the Emperor, pull yourself together, Tiers."

Damn it.

Lion gritted his teeth and grabbed him, a cough bursting from his throat—who was Tiers anyway? But the man misunderstood him and began calling for the doctor in an even louder voice.

And they did indeed come.

Soon, Lion saw two medics in dirty green uniforms. One of them cut open his clothes and began to examine whether the bloodstains on his body were from wounds. The other, without saying a word, injected an unidentified substance into his forearm.

A deep sleepiness washed over him again, and Lion Aljonson opened his mouth, his eyelids beginning to tremble.

He ultimately failed to say what he wanted to say and fell into a deep sleep. When he awoke, the world had changed.

It was raining; the damp air proved it. He felt incredibly heavy, his clothes now an obstacle, while the jungle became eerily quiet—at least, the jungle he was in was.

Lion looked around and found himself crouching in a grove of trees with dozens of other people. For some reason, he felt cold and hungry. He could feel the water in his shoes, but he had lost most of his sense of touch.

Raindrops streaked down my cheeks, bringing an even stronger chill.

This time, having learned from his previous experience, he didn't shout or act rashly; instead, he remained still and began to examine himself.

First, there's the weapon: a light gun. I can't tell the specific model, but I know it's a short assault rifle with six interchangeable magazines.

A combat dagger, well-maintained, with a dark blue waterproof cloth wrapped around the handle, providing a comfortable grip. However, he wore no armor, only a dark green camouflage military uniform and a helmet offering negligible protection.

"Tiers," a voice called softly.

Lion turned his head and saw a wet face, etched with exhaustion.

This was a middle-aged man, no longer young. He had gray eyes, deep-set eye sockets, a hooked nose, and lips that habitually turned downwards, making him look like the kind of person who would argue with anyone's opinion.

Lion Alderson knew him, or rather, he knew his future self.

"What is it?" Lion replied calmly.

The questioner did not answer, but instead raised a finger and pointed to his ear, indicating that he should listen.

Lion frowned and did as he was told. He had initially intended to do it in an instant, as he always had, but now it was proving difficult.

Cold and hunger were the number one enemies, and wet clothes were the number two enemy. The howling wind and the incessant rain were also very annoying. He had to take several deep breaths to calm himself down and relieve his irritability.

After several minutes of trying, he succeeded. From the sound of the wind and rain, he heard a different kind of sound, a vague cry that seemed to come from afar. It was quite savage, yet it ignited Lion's anger while being repulsive.

Orks.

He was acutely aware of this, and instinctively, he picked up the light gun. But a hand reached out from the side and pressed down on the muzzle.

Lion looked up and saw the middle-aged man smiling, with several soldiers around him cheering. "Corporal won, Tiers, you owe him a whole pack of cigarettes now."

Laughter immediately erupted, and many people laughed. Suddenly, the torment the jungle had inflicted on them vanished, and a simple joy spread through the group of dirty, drowned dogs.

"What's this about winning or losing?" Lion frowned again, wanting to say something, but the corporal raised his hand to signal them to be quiet.

In an instant, the soldiers' faint laughter vanished completely. At the same time, he withdrew his right hand, which had been pressing down on the light gun in Lion's hand, and instead gripped a semi-automatic light gun that appeared to have a scope.

He lifted it up, and a soldier immediately crawled over, crouched in front of him, and rested the gun on his shoulder. Everything happened smoothly, without any communication.

Lion watched as the corporal brought his right eye close to the scope and squinted. A full half minute later, the muzzle suddenly rose, and a beam of light shot out.

The soldiers stood up as if on cue, raising their weapons and firing wildly in the direction the beam of light had traveled. Lion had initially refused to waste ammunition, but he had realized the difference in his current situation.

He is no longer Primarch Lion Aljonson, Lord of the First Army, and Knight King of Caliban. Now, he is just a tired, hungry, and cold mortal soldier named Tiers's, serving in the 23rd Company of the 77th Doomsday Guard Third Company.

Therefore, he should do what Tiers comrades do.

This decision made him hesitate for only a second before raising his light gun and firing. Crimson beams flew into the seemingly still depths of the jungle, one after another, like raindrops flying horizontally.

The soldiers were shouting, and their actions would only give them more exposure, but Lion could miraculously understand their purpose: to vent their frustrations.

Yes, venting.

The cold, hunger, discomfort, and fear were finally relieved by the shouts and the slight recoil after pulling the trigger, but Lion could only sigh.

He thought he already knew enough about the miserable plight of ordinary people, but now, after experiencing it firsthand, he understood why Vulkan and Roboute Guilliman valued the joys and sorrows of ordinary people so much.

It wasn't just because of their innate goodness, or the enlightenment they gained from being true politicians who cared about the people's plight. They did it simply because they understood what ordinary people really are.

They are not genetically modified superhumans with two hearts and three lungs, and in most cases they do not have Boltgun at their disposal. Power Armour, it is even more unthinkable that they would feel hot or cold, tired or fearful. But no matter what, they still stand here, at the forefront of danger.

Lion crouched down and changed the magazine. Raindrops dripped onto the barrel, emitting white smoke and hissing. His hands were no longer trembling, and he steadily and quickly changed to a brand new magazine.

When he peeked out of the bushes again, the Orks were already roaring and charging towards him.

Their numbers are unknown, but their green skin provides a natural camouflage effect in the jungle, making it difficult to distinguish the enemy. The soldiers, however, chose not to try to identify them; they simply kept firing.

It doesn't matter whether the shots are accurate or not; as long as the firepower is strong enough, the Orks won't be able to break through.

This is a very simple strategy, but Lion has rarely used it in the past, neither he nor his descendants.

For the Astartes, suppressing fire simply means firing one or two explosive rounds; their accuracy and the fire control system directly connected to their helmet visors ensure that these two rounds will hit the enemy directly most of the time.

If a tactical objective can be achieved with minimal ammunition, why unleash a barrage of firepower?

But now, the situation is different. In just a few minutes, Lion emptied four magazines and showed no sign of stopping.

The Orks were charging under heavy fire from the soldiers, using the corpses of their fallen comrades as shields. Their thick muscles and crudely made armor prevented the light guns from exerting their full power; clearly, they had recovered from the sudden attack.

The situation quickly became tense. After all, the Orks also had guns. Their guns might look ridiculous, but their power was far from insignificant. Although their accuracy was extremely poor, a bullet was still a bullet.

Casualties began to appear, and Lion's magazine was empty. Without realizing it, he even forgot that he was now merely in a past memory.

"Retreat, Corporal!" he suddenly shouted. "We can't hold out any longer!"

"You all heard that!" the corporal responded immediately, pulling three stun grenades from his waist and throwing them into the jungle.

Flames soared into the sky, the ground trembled, and swirling flames mingled with the carcasses of the Orks, splashing in the rain. A howling wind blew as Lion, gun in hand, turned and began to run, dragging his completely numb legs.

It was another long march, and this time, he gritted his teeth and persevered to the end without falling. The Orks didn't chase after him like last time; they seemed to have difficulty finding the few dozen people in the rainy jungle.

However, things did not end there. Instead of returning to the camp, they went back to a battlefield surrounded by Phosphex flames, a battlefield in the midst of battle.

The earth trembled from the artillery fire. Lion spat out the rainwater that had slipped into his mouth and watched as the corporal walked up to an officer and saluted.

They stood in a deep trench, not far from the fire crew urgently cooling down the machine gun. Everything was so noisy and so dirty.

"The breakout plan can be put aside for now, Company Commander!"

Amid the sound of shells falling, the corporal roared at the officer.

"Damn Orks bastards are everywhere! There's no way we can find a way around them in the jungle!"

The officer nodded and opened his mouth to say something, but Lion could barely hear it. The shell exploded, and he had to hold onto the mud to steady himself. Whatever the officer said to the corporal, Lion could only make out a few words.

"Hold on, Armored Company. Dark Angels!"

"Just a little longer, and the armored company and the Dark Angels will be here soon?" Lion wondered to himself, his brows furrowing again. He hadn't forgotten what Haide had said; if the armored company and the Dark Angels were about to arrive, then—

Lion raised his head and looked up at the sky in the drizzle. His sudden gaze was quickly imitated by many others. They didn't know what Lion El-Jonson knew; they only heard a strange and terrifying sound.

Seconds later, a large group of Orks flying machines painted red appeared erratically from both ends of the forest, blocking their view. They then swooped down, dropping bombs, stirring up dirt, and setting things ablaze.

Lion felt a sharp pain, and then he knew nothing more.

--

The Lion El'Jonson slowly awoke, drenched in sweat, his fists clenched. He instinctively took a deep breath, feeling a strange surge of energy. The familiar power returned, coursing through his body. He had become the Lion El'Jonson once more, the Lord of the Dark Angels.

But the first thing he said was quite strange.

"Send me back," the Lion El'Jonson said, his face pale, his deep green eyes burning like flames.

"I want--"

"--There's nothing you can do," Karyl said.

He stood with his arms crossed, leaning against the wall, a thoughtful expression on his pale face.

The Lion El'Jonson was almost stung by that expression; he understood what it meant. It meant that Karyl Lohars had learned something he didn't know, and was about to use it to teach him a lesson.

God knows how he does it; that pale bastard always seems to find a way to teach himself and his brothers something new.

The Lion El'Jonson took another deep breath, suppressing his emotions, and tried to argue logically. "No, you don't understand, Karyl. I have to go back; I was so close to the truth."

"Do you remember what Haide said? He passed out before the armored company and my sons arrived, and I just happened to be at that point. We—no, they—were attacked by Orks aircraft on the position. You have to send me back."

Karyl glanced at him, shook his head again, and the blue light in his eyes gradually faded.

He spoke slowly, "Yes, but that would mean Haide's death."

"What?"

"He's just an ordinary person, Lion. There's a limit to what he can handle, from every angle."

"What you just experienced, I call a memory replay. In other words, I first made him recall a memory he least wanted to face, and then you were able to enter into it and experience that memory with him."

"Unfortunately, this is his limit; he doesn't want to remember anything more. His subconscious is resisting, and forcing him would likely have very bad consequences."

The Lion El'Jonson clenched his teeth and exhaled a chilling breath. He seemed to still be caught in the jungle of Soviet; it all felt too real, so real that he genuinely wished he could turn things around.

No.

The Lion El'Jonson suddenly released its paws and unexpectedly felt a sense of peace.

Did he not leave the jungles of Soviet? Of course he left; what he truly never left was another jungle. So, what did he hope to reverse? Was it the bombing of the Orks flying machines, or the internal strife within Caliban?

Was he doing this to seek justice for Haide, or for his own selfish reasons, trying to erase some past regret through this similar incident?

The Lion El'Jonson laughed, shook his head, closed his eyes, and sighed softly. The flowing state of mind the Calibanite Knights had attained through meditation flooded his heart at that moment, and an answer emerged.

That is one of the virtues of knights: upholding justice.

The Lion El'Jonson opened his eyes and looked at Karyl. For some reason, he felt that Karyl already knew his answer.

Lion.

"What's up?"

Karyl smiled at him, a smile full of approval that made Khalil's teeth itch.

"Actually, I did find something about the monster that Haide. He didn't want to think about it, but people often unconsciously think about things the more they try to avoid them. I saw it, though only for a fleeting glimpse."

The Lion El'Jonson narrowed its eyes.

Karyl's smile faded, and he said seriously, "And I think we shouldn't call it a monster. But what exactly is the situation—"

He looked down at Haide was still unconscious.

"--Let's wait," the Lion El'Jonson said firmly. "When that Inquisitor comes to visit, everything will become clear."