Delayed Judgment (VII): The Knight Who Stood By and Watched Them Die

"How did things turn out like this?" he asked, puzzled. "Why are we fighting each other?"

Seraphax dragged himself toward a pile of ruins.

Whatever magnificent its walls may have once been, now only ruins remain. Flames burn the wood, and the charred marks left by the explosion are clearly visible on the broken bricks. Shrapnel scattered everywhere still bears traces of human tissue.

And there were still some people—some who hadn't died in the bombing—who were emitting barely audible screams from beneath the rubble.

Seraphax could have saved them, but he didn't, even though it wouldn't have been difficult for him. He could have easily saved them from death with just a little attention and a few simple tricks.

But he didn't do that.

He won't do that.

This is meaningless. A voice in some corner of his heart warned him.

They were going to die no matter what. The bombing continued, and they could be blown to pieces at any moment. Even if they managed to escape into a bunker, how could they guarantee they wouldn't fall victim to tank and artillery fire?

The civil war within the Caliban has begun, and all participants are armed with deadly force. They are a deadly legion, possessing many forbidden secrets, and all their weaponry is of the highest standard.

The Emperor granted them this power to slaughter humanity's enemies, but it has resulted in such bitter consequences.

Seraphax wondered if he had ever considered this day—or rather, if he had foreseen it.

The wizard could not find the answer.

He walked in silence, the screams from the ruins incredibly clear to him. The blessing of the Tzeentch had not altered his inner self; his hearing remained sharp.

This is why Seraphax was even able to deduce the location, condition, and even gender and age of these survivors at that moment.

He heard several children shouting.

"The suffering lamb," a voice said to him. "Shouldn't you exercise chivalry? You should save them; that is the right way."

"A Daemon dares to discuss virtue with me?" Seraphax retorted coldly.

"A knight standing before me to my death?" the Daemon chuckled and whispered.

It was provoking him, Seraphax realized it, quickening his pace in barely concealed indignation—but the Daemon didn't let him off so easily.

It drew out its words, then began to mock with sharp, sarcastic remarks. "Please open your eyes and see reality, Master of Thousand Eyes."

"You're not much different from the scum in your gang. You despise them, but you're not much better than them. They'll drag everyone out of these ruins and kill them, while you'll stand by and watch everyone die."

"In this respect, you are not even as good as them. At least they dared to confront their desires. They knew why they killed, while you only use a great and noble goal to cover up all the darkness in your heart and convince yourself that it is all necessary."

Seraphax stepped unmoved into a burning forest.

"I thought you were here to help me," he said calmly. "I don't understand what good it would do you to laugh at me."

The Daemon sighed very gently.

"Help is a very general term. My temporary friend, there are countless ways to help someone. The help you see and the help I see are two completely different concepts."

"But I want to correct you on one point. I'm not mocking you; I just want to tell you that if a person doesn't even dare to face their own true thoughts, then what they seek is destined to fail."

Seraphax ignored it.

He raised his hands, and the wildfire, which had spread far and wide, spontaneously dispersed, almost bowing down and cowering in his path. And so, he silently stepped into this fiery path.

Ashes and charcoal from the vegetation erupted and scattered beneath his feet, vanishing into nothingness, as Tzeentch's destructive power surged and boiled within him.

He looked up and gazed into the distance, where he saw a fortress.

It sits amidst a burning forest, its outer walls weathered and broken in many places. The glory it once held has long since vanished, but the unique emblem of the Order is still clearly visible, standing firmly atop the fortress gate.

The former site of the Grand the Order.

Before Caliban returned to the Imperium, countless knights and young apprentices had trained in this fortress. The Lion El'Jonson himself ordered its abandonment and its relocation to another location, for reasons that are varied and hundreds are known to Seraphax alone.

Some people think from the perspective of Lion El'Jonson, while others' sinister intentions are overflowing, flowing between words and turning text into a dark swamp.

These people claim that the Lion El'Jonson did this to gain more say in the Imperium —or, to show loyalty to his father.

It's not hard to understand where their argument is based; however, while the idea may seem ridiculous to those who know the truth, it is highly credible to the general public.

At least, that's true for the Caliban.

"They never liked those Imperium who migrated from Terra, did they?" the Daemon asked casually. "These Imperium used the machinery they brought to build factories, changing the landscape of Caliban and altering the traditions of the Caliban."

"The forest is gone, but their lives haven't improved. Before the Imperium came, they were woodcutters and farmers; after the Imperium came, they remained woodcutters and farmers, only with one more path—entering the factory."

"In contrast, the Imperium live in the upper echelons of the Hive City and enjoy a comfortable life. And where is Lion Eljonsson, the leader who brought them to the Imperium? Ah, he is realizing his glorious ambitions among the stars."

"Unfortunately, he doesn't have time for your affairs!"

The Daemon couldn't help but burst into laughter, its laughter sounding like two flints rubbing against each other, the Mars threatening to ignite a fire at any moment.

And that is precisely its purpose.

Seraphax walked toward the fortress, and some memories surfaced.

He was not among the first Caliban to join the Legion; by the time he was born, most of the forests on Caliban had already been cleared. The Great Crusade was a great undertaking, but no great undertaking can be accomplished without the people.

Countless worlds supplied resources for this cause, Caliban was no exception. Most Caliban would work in the factories for their entire lives until they fell ill and died, or were lucky enough to have a knight in their family.

During his childhood, Seraphax did not display any extraordinary talent, but this was not a major problem for his parents. His parents were hunters who lived in seclusion in the forest and were unwilling to serve the Imperium in any eco-cities or Hive City.

Out of respect or fear for the Lion El'Jonson, the Imperium officials did not force them. As a result, a considerable number of people chose to stay in the wilderness, far from the conveniences of modern life, preferring to be accompanied by torches and hunting bows.

When he was five years old, Seraphax's father gave him a small bow and a skinning knife.

Seraphax didn't fully master the bow until he was eight years old, but skinning was different. He learned the skill much earlier, but due to his age and physical strength, he could only handle creatures like rabbits or squirrels at that time.

When he was eight years old, he went into the forest alone to test his archery skills—and, naturally, he got lost.

Every forest in Caliban is extremely dangerous; even an old hunter like his father would only hunt on the edges and never actually venture deep into the forest.

However, he did not tell young Seraphax about this at the time, probably thinking that a child who couldn't even draw a small bow wouldn't have the courage, but he clearly underestimated his son.

Seraphax shot a deer that morning.

He could indeed draw the bow, but only for a short while. He couldn't keep the arrow on the bowstring for long, so the arrow didn't pierce the deer's body as he had hoped; it merely pierced the flesh.

It shrieked and ran into the bushes, Seraphax gave chase without hesitation, only to get lost in the process.

Even now, he doesn't know how long he's been lost.

All he knew was that when he regained consciousness, he was surrounded by a group of giants clad in black armor. The leader was particularly tall, with a full head of blond hair, and stood beneath a statue of a blind knight, leaning on a sharp sword.

Trembling, Seraphax heard the knights asking the man what to do with him.

"You found him outside the fortress?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Very well, then let him join the legion."

"Yes, my lord."

This is Seraphax's earliest memory of the Lion El'Jonson.

In hunger and fear, he escaped death and joined the First Legion as a reserve officer. From then on, he never saw his parents again. He had searched for them, but the cabin was completely empty, and there was no one to be seen.

Seraphax finished reminiscing, slowly raised his head, and saw a statue surrounded by vines and moss.

The blindfolded knight had an old horse wounded by an arrow lying at his feet. He held his shield to his chest, a sword in his left hand, and the shape of his eye sockets was faintly visible behind the black cloth covering his eyes, as if he were staring at the bandits who had shot arrows from the shadows and wounded his companion.

Be wary of unseen threats.

Seraphax stepped back, bowed slightly to him, and then walked into the overgrown courtyard.

He soon reached the deepest part of the courtyard, where two heavy solid wood doors inlaid with metal greeted him silently amidst vines and dust.

At that moment, the ground trembled, signaling the official start of the bombing. The fleet of warships anchored on Caliban's orbit would gradually split into several different groups.

The radicals intend to get involved and travel to Caliban's ground. The cautiouss want to enter the orbital space station and find the culprit who ordered the bombing.

Whatever they choose, it won't change anything. Seraphax feels genuinely sorry for them, but that's the reality; they can't change the future.

He had witnessed hundreds of Caliban Uprising, and none of them had ever escaped this fate.

Seraphax raised his right hand, and the two doors gradually twisted and deformed under an invisible force of nature; metal crumbled, debris flew, and wood creaked.

A stench of decay wafted out over the wreckage of the door, but Seraphax ignored it and stepped inside. Suddenly, the long-dried brazier lit up, illuminating the hall as bright as day.

Seraphax took a deep breath.

A huge, winged creature emerged from behind him.

"I'll ask one last time—" it said, bowing its head. "—Do you really understand what you're doing?"

"I know."

The Daemon laughed, an expression not easily made by its avian-like head. "No, Seraphax, you have no idea just how insane your actions are."

It raised its right paw and then gripped it tightly. With a flash of silver light, a curved staff appeared in its hand.

Its surface is covered with numerous scripts, originating from different ethnic groups, some extinct, some still existing, including even High Gothic.

"For the sake of endless changes," the Daemon said with a laugh.

Light burst forth from the depths of the fortress.

Seraphax didn't look again; he simply closed his eyes, and memories of the past flowed through his mind like water.

A moment of confusion surfaced in my thoughts.

Do I really know what I'm doing? For a moment, he asked himself this question, filled with fear of the unknown. However, in just a moment, he wiped that fear away with his own hands.

--

The ground trembled and shook. The sky was obscured by fire, and the First Legion's deadly firepower was wreaking havoc on their homeland.

Ordinary weapons are manufactured for killing, but these are different; they were created with the tactical objective of "destruction" as their standard.

They should have been pointed at enemies of humanity, but instead they have turned their guns on their own people and even their own blood relatives.

The Lion El'Jonson was curious to know what those who pressed the launch button were really thinking.

Frowning, he crouched down and approached the observation window of the concrete bunker in a half-kneeling position.

Its original garrison was recently burned to a crisp by an incendiary bomb, which allowed the Risen and the Lion El'Jonson to file in and catch their breath. Since leaving the abandoned sewers, they had been constantly on the battlefield.

They had to constantly orient themselves, find a way to the old site of the Order amidst the hail of gunfire, and avoid anyone they encountered along the way.

The situation in Caliban was utter chaos. The First Army's once-proud black paint scheme had become a nightmare. Friend or foe could no longer be easily distinguished; everyone shouted for the name of the Lion El'Jonson, and then turned their swords against each other.

They couldn't get involved, as it would severely slow things down. Besides, who knows what might happen if they got entangled with the past? The Risen reached a consensus on this matter, and the process was quite simple.

It's best not to mention the situation of those two young people.

After a brief observation, the Lion El'Jonson withdrew his gaze. Before he could speak, Zabriel handed him a hastily made helmet.

Meeting the Lion El'Jonson's puzzled gaze, the old knight raised his hand and pointed to the think tank members resting at the back of the Librarian: "Bevidan thinks you might need to conceal your face, just in case."

The Lion El'Jonson paused for a moment, then looked down at the helmet in its hand. It had no markings or decorations; it looked like an old-fashioned knight's helmet, except that the visor could not be opened. Its surface was jet black with a simple matte finish.

"Bevidan."

"The Primarch." The Librarian immediately opened its eyes and looked over.

The Lion El'Jonson brandished the helmet in its hand at him, its tone laced with rebuke but also with a smile, and asked, "How did you come up with the idea of using psionic energy to create a helmet for me on the battlefield?"

Before Bevidan could answer, he raised his hand and put the helmet on. The shape was just right, and as for the weight, that was not a concern for the Lion El'Jonson.

He left the bunker and walked to the other end of the trench, the Risen silently following, beginning their march across their former homeland.

The conflict has escalated; now it's not just the Dark Angels killing each other, but also the Auxilia and even civilians, who are trapped and unable to escape. War spares no one; it is an extremely greedy beast, and it is forever unrestrained.

People can choose when a war begins, but they cannot choose when it ends.

The Lion El'Jonson tightened its face, cutting off its thoughts and focusing all its attention on how to skillfully use its senses.

In this complex situation, only he is capable of leading the way. If possible, they must avoid everyone and successfully reach the old site of the Order within twenty-two hours.

Leaving the trenches, a plain that was turning into scorched earth came into view.

The defensive positions planned for the defense of the eco-city are now under heavy artillery bombardment, so intense that even civilian convoys leaving the city behind the positions are being bombarded.

The Lion El'Jonson sees clearly, and its anger arises just as clearly.

If he knew who gave the order, that person would surely be executed. What wrong had the civilians on Caliban done, regardless of the reason?

"Primarch." Seeing him stop, Zabriel immediately spoke in a low voice as a reminder, "We cannot stop."

"I know," the Lion El'Jonson replied in a deep voice.

Before he could even finish speaking, a shell broke through the enemy's firepower and landed in the convoy not far away. Several hovercars were instantly smashed to pieces, and the shockwave and blast wave carried metal and human fragments everywhere, causing secondary casualties.

The cries of the civilians reached the ears of the Risen. The veterans remained unmoved, silently gripping their weapons and awaiting the Primarch's command. Only the two young men instinctively took a step.

Asmodai charged particularly fast, and if Sergeant Afka hadn't reacted quickly and pulled him back, the squire in training armor would probably have already reached the disaster site and been killed instantly by the second shell.

The Lion El'Jonson slowly exhaled a breath of stale air, as if it had made a decision.

Zabriel gripped the hilt of his sword, then released it. He already knew what command their Primarch was about to give.

Frankly, he is proud of it.

"On my orders, Dark Angels," Lion El-Jonson said in a low voice. "Once the bombing is over, immediately proceed to rescue the civilians, but remember, do not reveal your identities, understand?"

"And what about you?" Azrael asked.

The Lion El'Jonson did not answer.