Judgment, Long Overdue (VIII: Scheming)

Lion Aljonsen has lived for many years; in the material world, he has genuinely lived for ten thousand years. Even in mythology, this is not a small number.

Many people call him the Son of God with great reverence, believing him to be another kind of god, a demigod, someone far superior to them, and living proof of why the God-Emperor is a god.

There are so many of these people that they could stretch from Caliban to the farthest reaches of the galaxy. Anyone in the Imperium who believes in the "God-Emperor" will also believe in him and pray to him at some point.

The Lion El'Jonson, however, never heard, not even once. He couldn't hear, and he didn't want to. Therefore, he wouldn't, like Sanguinius, set aside a day each year on the Emperor's Ascension Day to listen to the people's prayers.

The truth is, even if he could hear, he wouldn't answer.

Ten thousand years have passed; he has long since learned that silence is golden.

That's why he chose to remain silent about Azrael's question—there was no point in answering; only hopeful young men like him and Asmodai would hold onto the Lion El'Jonson's hope, believing he would reveal the answer.

Those who are more familiar with him and with this world than the Risen do not seek answers; they only do their best to save, kill, and carry out orders.

But then again, how precious are the hopes in the hearts of these young people?

The cold world had not yet extinguished the passion in their hearts, Lion El'Jonson did not want them to lose it.

After all, this impulse, while making them yearn for him to say "I will wait for you" rather than "I will act alone," also makes them secretly hope to save more people as they rush towards the bombed convoy.

They always wanted to save more people, but the world wouldn't allow it.

This world basically only allows one thing.

The Lion El'Jonson gripped his Lion Sword tightly and strode into the burning forest. Though it might sound disrespectful, now freed from the duties of guide and leader and alone again, he was several times faster than before.

As always, no Dark Angels dares to claim they can keep up with Lion El'Jonson in the forest. He is almost one with the forest, even though it is filled with choking smoke, visibility is extremely low, and all that can be seen is ashes and flickering red flames. This inhuman and terrifying scene has no effect on him.

Long before he met Luther, he had already learned to coexist with the forest. It wasn't a kind companion; in fact, it didn't want Lion Aljonson as its companion at all, but it couldn't refuse.

Few people could refuse him.

The Lion El'Jonson swung its sword and cleaved a fallen giant tree in two.

Something—something he could hardly describe—was permeating the air.

How should it be described? By smell? No, smell is insufficient to describe its full character, although it has a strong rotten smell, but that is merely the surface.

If one were to seek the most fitting word to describe the truth that exists beneath this decay, the Lion El'Jonson would use the word "evil."

Extending this further, it becomes pure evil.

It's like cancer. It suddenly appears in a happy family, without warning, out of the blue. It destroys the lives of husbands, wives, or children without reason, causing loved ones unbearable pain and tears falling on cold, stiff faces.

This is an evil that must be eradicated, and the Lion El'Jonson is extremely familiar with it.

He has fought it more than once.

Seraphax.

The First Army Commander began wielding his sword with unprecedented killing intent, destroying everything in his path that stood in his way to the former site of the Order. This was only the beginning; his speed was even gradually increasing.

Of course, this was a risky move, but he did not intend to hide his whereabouts. Firstly, it was to make it easier for the Risen to catch up with him, and secondly, it was also a kind of announcement to inform Seraphax of his arrival.

He didn't believe that the traitor would come here unprepared, empty-handed. In the Lion El'Jonson's mind, he was even prepared to see the old site of the Order transformed into a desecrated and decadent fortress.

In that case, Seraphax would certainly be monitoring his surroundings in preparation for his arrival and that of the Risen. He was cautious by nature, and as the son of a hunter, he had only ever made a mistake once in his life, while hunting.

This unproven fantasy fueled further anger, making the Lion El'Jonson's blade grow ever colder, and his extraordinary skills erupted and spread along with the cold, completely controlled rage.

At this moment, Lion El'Jonson didn't know was that he had actually surpassed himself when he cut off that fake shoulder armor in the Lupercal Court.

Three minutes and twenty-six seconds later, he used his sword to cleave open the sturdy gate of the old fortress.

The doors had collapsed, dust was flying everywhere, and the scene was desolate.

Memories stirred by the training grounds, stables, and the scattered courtyard where the servants lived resurfaced along with the rampant weeds growing in the yard, but they failed to overwhelm his thoughts; instead, they made the Lion El'Jonson even calmer.

He observed his surroundings, and suddenly an inspiration flashed through his mind. A sensation surging from the depths of his bones immediately alerted him—the feeling was almost as if someone were scratching and teasing his marrow with a feather.

He gripped his sword tightly and heard a familiar voice.

"Do you miss it here, Primarch?"

The Lion El'Jonson shifted its gaze to the statue in the center of the courtyard, where the blindfolded knight still stood guard, shield in hand, protecting his fallen companion. An unseen threat lurked in the darkness, while the knight, old and weary, stood alone.

He took off his helmet and hung it on his belt.

"You wanted to see me here, and now I've come. Come out and face your death."

"I cannot comply, my lord—"

Seraphax's voice drifted out from the wide-open inner chamber, carrying a strange tremor, as if he were being boiled or cooked. And his trembling tone proved just how accurate the Lion El'Jonson's perception was.

The pain involved is self-evident.

The enemy is being tortured, which should be a good thing, but Seraphax is no ordinary "enemy"—he is a wizard.

He embarked on this path of no return as a descendant of Lion El-Jonson, receiving blessings so great that they were enough to alter part of his existence in the material world.

This proves that he has degenerated into a minion of Chaos —for them, suffering often means sacrifice, means seeking more power from the gods they believe in.

The Lion El'Jonson pulled three fragmentation grenades from his belt; they landed in his hand, squeezed together tightly, and held together by a wide metal wire.

The Lion El'Jonson pulled the safety pin and tossed it aside. The three objects, imbued with the piety of the Mechanicum and their meticulously crafted destructive power, tore through the air and roared into the inner court.

A burst of fire and tremors erupted simultaneously, and shrapnel and sharp metal fragments flew back at tremendous speed, creating a terrifying spectacle.

Without even looking, the Lion El'Jonson raised its sword with one hand and slashed horizontally, completely destroying the fragments of varying sizes, speeds, and positions all at once with a single strike.

Without a doubt, what he did far exceeded the limits of swordsmanship.

Half a second later, flames erupted from the inner chamber. Seraphax followed closely behind, striding out.

The wizard's robes were no longer the simple garments they once were; they had become like flowing silver, shimmering with dazzling light. Nine human skulls, each engraved with Eight-pointed Star, surrounded him, their sharp teeth and black eye sockets screaming silently.

Without a word, the Lion El'Jonson charged at him.

The wizard's first spell struck him precisely the moment he took his second step. A twisted, pale blue serpent, accompanied by the crackling sound of lightning, shook the air as it hurtled towards the Lion El'Jonson.

This strike was exactly as it was, as fast as lightning in the truest sense, but still no faster than the Lion Sword. The twisted and violent lightning serpent was cleaved in two, and the aftershocks fell into the open space without diminishing, disappearing into it and beginning to create terrifying sounds and commotions underground, as if they were alive.

The Lion El'Jonson itself was unharmed.

With a flash of light, before time had truly begun to pass, the Lion Sword's blade struck Seraphax twenty-five times with pinpoint accuracy. The final blow, ruthless yet resolute, sent his head flying, landing precisely at the Lion El'Jonson's feet.

The wizard's headless and mutilated corpse stood there, swaying, blood oozing from the severed flesh and bones, carrying a sweet smell that shouldn't exist.

He looked like a piece of flesh riddled with holes, yet filled with precious wine. His pale bones were the wine glasses, and the entrails rolling out of his dissected chest and abdomen were the solidified essence of the wine.

With a flash of light, Seraphax stood unharmed, his scalding, silvery robes eroding his flesh, and the half of his face that was not yet burned was covered in genuine pain.

He exhaled a deep, deep breath of air still tinged with the smell of blood. Blue Radiance shone before him, and the Lion Sword's renewed attack was firmly blocked by the shield, its strength far exceeding what he could bear.

"May I finish what I have to say, Primarch?" Seraphax asked with a faint glimmer of hope.

Above the sword's edge, the Lion El'Jonson gave a cold laugh.

The battle continues.

This battle has nothing to do with knights, banners, or any honor, but it has its own purity. The Lion El'Jonson is the kind of man who, once he makes up his mind, will never hold back; he will use every last bit of strength in his body to kill his enemy—note the difference here: kill, slaughter, destroy, not just win.

He was completely absorbed in his task, and no matter how Seraphax tried to resist or fight back with magic, it was to no avail. These invincible Warp magics were nothing to Lion Eljonsson; they could only cause him a little trouble before being completely destroyed by the Lion Sword.

In the midst of life and death, Seraphax clearly saw the eyes of his Primarch, the deep green shimmering within them, which he caught with his own eyes. Seraphax then began to retreat, acting as if he were at a disadvantage in the battle.

However, he possesses the power of Tzeentch and many blessings of Chaos, so the physical victory or defeat is merely a facade.

This world is cruel; doing good deeds doesn't guarantee a reward. But if you do evil, even the smallest evil, benefits will come rushing in, leaving you no room to refuse.

Some people fall into this state of depravity, becoming apostles and agents of Chaos without even realizing what they are doing.

Seraphax is different.

He was prepared; he always has been.

When he was about to pass the Order's test to become a true knight, he spent a full half-month investigating the places where the giant beasts roamed and reading every related book. He did the same thing when he made up his mind to establish the Thousand Eyes.

He first visited some men or women who lived in seclusion in the wilderness. Most of them were charlatans pretending to be gods and ghosts, and only a few had the "real skills." Naturally, these people were terrified of his appearance.

This was exactly what Seraphax wanted. Through interrogation, he gained some basic knowledge of occultism, followed by years of study.

The Imperium's official guide to psionicism played a significant role in this regard, and although acquiring it nearly destroyed Seraphax's nascent warband, it was still worthwhile. The knowledge in that book allowed him to make rapid progress in his understanding of psionicism and the Warp.

Nine centuries later, he began to encounter Daemon. Countless hours and lives were lost in the process, and he became what he is now, a Lord of Change whose life is inextricably linked to him.

It will do whatever he asks.

"Bang!"

The Lion Sword pierced the shield, and the Lion El'Jonson's faded mane danced in the air. His eyes were bright and sharp, showing no sign of wavering.

Seraphax's retreating steps suddenly faltered as the Lion Sword pierced his chest.

The Lion El'Jonson did not let this rare opportunity slip by. With a twist of his wrist, he was about to slash across the blade and tear Seraphax to pieces—however, the Lion Sword failed to cut through the wizard's flesh as he had hoped.

The Lion El'Jonson looked closely and discovered that his traitorous son had a withered, blood-stained bird claw hidden in his chest; it was the Lion Sword that had captured him.

"Daemon!" the Lion El'Jonson finally roared, his face revealing undisguised hatred.

This extreme emotion became a second force beyond rage, suddenly turning the previously balanced struggle into a one-sided affair. The Lion Sword pierced the wizard's body smoothly, causing the bird's claws to curl up in pain.

A cry erupted from the depths of Seraphax's chest. He straightened his body expressionlessly, and a straight gash suddenly split open at the base of his pale neck, extending all the way down to his abdomen.

Then, something emerged from it.

Seraphax collapsed to the ground, trembling, and the flames finally went out.

The Lion El'Jonson roared and raised its sword.

Time stood still at this moment—the trembling wizard, the bloodied Daemon stretching its body, and Lion Aljonson, now a machine of destruction, consumed by murderous intent and rage.

And the disintegrating, burning Caliban.

All of this came into Konrad Curze Curze's view, causing him to tense up in the quiet cemetery, his bulging veins standing out alarmingly around his face.

The Daemon that had been kneeling beside him awaiting orders immediately raised its head, and a hint of human concern appeared on its ferocious beast head.

"Primarch?" it whispered in a cursed, terrifying voice. "Are you alright?"

A few seconds later, the Night Haunter finally stood up straight. He thoughtfully scratched his chest with the sharp fingers of his right hand, leaving five faint bloodstains.

The soft light that had always emanated from the Moonlight Crown began to shift, turning crimson, ominous, and filled with violence. The wind that had been blowing through the cemetery suddenly ceased, and countless heavy stone coffins began to creak, as if the resurrected dead were striking within them.

"Primarch!" the Daemon cried out in shock.

Before it could finish speaking, Curze swiftly grabbed the crown from its head and threw it into the darkness. With it gone, the only light in the cemetery immediately disappeared, but this posed no problem for the Daemon or him.

The Daemon with the beast's head cautiously looked around, but could no longer see even half of the trembling stone coffin. At the same time, the wind began to blow again.

"That was close."

Curze smiled and spoke, drawing its attention back. The Daemon looked at him, confused and frightened, only to receive a shrug that said nothing had happened.

"You look like you don't trust me at all, Keg?"

"What? Of course not, Primarch! I am merely..."

"Alright, alright." Curze hugged it affectionately. "I'm fine, go back to what you're doing. I have to leave for a bit. Tell Fer that since Van Cleef and I aren't here, he'll be in charge. Don't let the ghosts get too out of control."

The Daemon nodded, raised its hands, and formed the shape of an Aquila in front of its chest. Burning golden light swept in from the other side of Chaos along with its movement, immediately beginning to punish this audacious Daemon, burning fiercely on its claws.

It should have been annihilated by the pervasive darkness of the cemetery the moment it appeared. However, with Curze's tacit approval, this did not happen.

It wasn't until the flames had burned for a full thirteen seconds, and the Daemon's claws were almost exposed to the bone, that Curze finally reached out his right hand and casually extinguished it with one hand.

The Daemon stood up and solemnly bowed to him, using an extremely ancient ritual belonging to a long-gone era. The lord of the Eighth Legion nodded to it, his pale face revealing no attitude whatsoever.

Then, in the presence of the Daemon, he stepped into the darkness without warning.

Countless voices began to echo in his ears—welcomes, reports, calls. It was so noisy that even a well-trained Psyker would instantly become a mindless zombie upon hearing these voices.

However, this was nothing out of the ordinary for Curze. He was used to their company, and he would probably feel uneasy if he returned to the darkness one day and didn't hear their voices.

Responding to their words one by one, the Night Haunter walked toward a path specially prepared for him.

He walked toward his father.

--Okay, which one?