Late Judgment (IX): Plans Can't Keep Up with Changes

A fraction of a second later, the Lion Sword collided with a bent wooden staff.

An indescribable roar and a blinding light erupted from the point of impact, and thousands of wailing souls vanished in a flash from the surface of the wooden staff.

Amidst the explosions, flashes of light, and faint screams, the Lion El'Jonson took a step back.

He intended to strike again with his sword, seizing the initiative and the advantage of speed to banish the evil creature before it could cast its spell, but he failed. The evil creature merely tilted its staff slightly, and another silver light suddenly flashed from its tip.

The light easily tore through the laws of nature, summoning a cold wind that even Lion El'Jonson could hardly resist—this immediately alerted him.

This was not the first time he had dealt with Tzeentch's Daemon, and he knew very well how troublesome they were.

While ordinary battles are perilous for both sides, they still involve posing and solving problems. But fighting these birds is different. These noisy bird creatures don't pose problems one by one; they prefer to pose a hundred problems in an instant.

Can't see it clearly or understand it? Great, that's exactly what they want.

The biting wind chilled him to the bone, and an incomprehensible evil force seeped into the Lion El'Jonson's bones through the gaps in his armor, making him truly feel the cold.

He disliked the Ecclesiarchy, but the armor itself had still been blessed by several devout priests. However, as things stand, either those priests were not devout enough, or the power represented by the Daemon and its evil magic had exceeded the scope that "faith" could normally influence.

So you are not here, Father.

The Lion El'Jonson gripped its Lion Sword tightly, a cold smile creeping across its face.

Very good.

The biting wind intensified, turning into a gale that extinguished all the flames around the fortress. In an instant, the temperature transformed from the terrifying scene of a wildfire to that of an extremely cold glacier. Vegetation withered abnormally, and black ice spread boldly and slowly across the ground.

The Lion El'Jonson was forced to retreat repeatedly by the wind and had no choice but to parry with its sword.

The broad blade of the Lion Sword obscured his face, and only the blindfolded old knight in the courtyard could see his expression at this moment—his beard and hair were dancing wildly, his face was frosty, and his deep green eyes were serious and cold, showing no sign of retreat.

The next second, accompanied by a low growl, he actually took a step forward against the bone-scraping poisonous wind. Then a second step, and a third step.

As he took his fourth step, his slow pace turned into a run, and then a charge. The Lion Sword hung low, its blade slicing across the ground, Mars flying, and ice being severed.

The Lord of Change immediately let out a shriek. Seraphax barely managed to get up from behind it, his face covered in blood and a mess, only a blurry shape could be made out.

Whether he actually saw what the Lion El'Jonson looked like at that moment is completely unknown. However, one thing is very clear—he was not panicked.

Despite the unstoppable and murderous charge of the First Primarch, Lion Eljonsson, Seraphax remained remarkably calm.

He held a mirror in his right hand.

A flash of silver light appeared, and large patches of light patterns suddenly appeared around the Daemon. They instantly transformed into inverted magic circles, from which dozens of fireballs roared forth, striking the Lion El'Jonson squarely and completely engulfing every corner in front of and behind him.

The fireball exploded, the ground shook, and dirt flew everywhere, creating a spectacular scene like a reversed waterfall. A broad, sharp sword, however, pierced straight through it, cleanly and decisively cutting through the curtain of earth.

The Lion El'Jonson charged out, its right shoulder forward, its power and speed, combined with its armor, sent pebbles and charcoal flying like bullets.

The Lord of Change solemnly raised his scepter, not only not underestimating them, but also firmly intercepting these "bullets." Then, his wings flapped behind him, a flash of blue light appeared, the rubble was integrated together, the ground trembled, and the soil was pulled up and clung to the stones.

Through the combination of that extraordinary evil power, a giant sword not much smaller than the Lion Sword was suddenly born—without the slightest hesitation, more fireballs shot out from the light patterns, interfering with the Lion El'Jonson's charge and vision.

Not to be outdone, the giant earthen sword rose upside down as if held by a ghost, following closely behind the fireballs as it thrust towards the Lion El'Jonson.

This was already terrifying enough, but the Lord of Change still felt it wasn't enough, and had even begun preparing the next spell. Pitch-black smoke rose from beneath its feet, within which countless wailing human faces flickered.

It values Lion El'Jonson so much, but that's still not enough.

Lion Aldridge arrived in front of it six seconds into the charge.

Unwavering resolve, unparalleled purity. He cannot be harmed by external objects, nor can he be trapped by evil spells; no schemes or tricks can work against him.

That's the kind of person he is; once he grasps the sword, nothing can sway him anymore. Seraphax's voice spread through the mental link into the Demon Lord's thoughts, drifting like willow catkins.

He was already extremely weak, Daemon clearly sensed this. If it wanted, now was the perfect opportunity to possess him.

Seraphax could be described as a perfect shell; it was fully capable of sustaining itself in the material world for several more centuries.

But that won't work.

The idea of staying here for centuries was far too boring and conservative compared to what he was supposed to do.

Without hesitation, the Lord of Change opened his chest, allowing the Lion Sword to pierce through him. The smoke screamed and coiled around the Lion El'Jonson, disappearing like real dust in a flash, disappearing into his body and beginning to devour him.

This would bring extreme pain—this was no exaggeration. The Daemon clearly saw the Caliban's face turn deathly pale, and large beads of sweat rolled down his forehead, but his hand holding the sword did not tremble in the slightest.

His five fingers, as firm as a python's fangs, gripped the sword hilt tightly. He spun the blade, cleaving the Daemon in two without retreating an inch, and then charged toward Seraphax.

"Truly terrifying," the Lord of Change exclaimed sincerely.

The final spell coalesced in its eyes.

Eight seconds into the charge, the Lion El'Jonson's sword was close to the neck of the defenseless Seraphax. His strike was perfect; gripping the sword with both hands, his power and speed undiminished.

The sword unequivocally severed Seraphax's head; however, the wizard's last act before death was remarkably simple.

He raised his right hand, and silver light burst forth from his palm, as if the world were being born.

The Lion El'Jonson heard a buzzing sound coming from behind it.

He turned his head and saw the Daemon, cut in half at the waist, triumphantly opening its beak. One of its eyes shimmered like a mirror, Dark Cells.

Nine-thousandths of a second later, the mirrors merged into one, the Lion El'Jonson vanished without a trace, and Seraphax's headless corpse collapsed to the ground with a thud before swaying and rising again.

He turned around with difficulty, ignoring the Daemon's corpse, and walked towards the inner courtyard.

The blindfolded old knight silently gazed at all of this, while another Radiance burst forth from the wide-open inner courtyard behind him.

--

"Move closer to me!" Zabriel shouted.

His orders were carried out faithfully and without reservation—everyone, whether civilians or his brothers, rushed to him sooner or later after hearing the command.

The seventy-seven Astartes and the twenty-one civilians who had miraculously survived huddled together behind a bunker made of vehicle wreckage.

The situation is getting worse.

Zabriel instinctively gripped his Boltgun tighter.

How to describe this event? He didn't have a definite idea; he could only say that everything happened in an instant.

Lion El'Jonson marched deep into the forest, charging towards the convoy to rescue civilians. Bombing raids landed on the defensive lines, and hordes of armored units surged down from the distant hills like a tidal wave, making the already crumbling defenses even more vulnerable.

People were dying every moment. As Zabriel was busy pulling a child from the arms of her half-dead father, his keen senses told him that about seventy meters behind him, two of his comrades were being killed in a bombing.

They were killed by a powerful artillery barrage.

Zabriel didn't feel sorry for them. To be honest, dying under shelling was a kind of luck, because you wouldn't even be left with a complete body; death happened in an instant. Compared to tens of thousands of other ways to die, this was already one of the better ones.

But he was indeed angry.

Ten thousand years ago, he was confused, helpless, and angry, like a child trapped in his home with no way out. Ten thousand years later, in the "present," he is still experiencing all of this on Caliban, but unlike before, he is no longer confused.

The anger only intensified.

On what grounds? Why?

Zabriel looked down at the girl nestled in his arms; she was completely stunned. Her complexion was healthy, clearly from frequent sun exposure, but now two sickly flushes floated on her cheeks.

She was almost indifferent to everything around her, only trembling slightly when more shells landed, then gripping Gabriel's hood even tighter.

"We must evacuate," Azrael, one of their recruits, said in a forcedly calm tone.

Zabriel didn't criticize his forced composure; to be honest, it was quite good, at least he understood what calmness meant—the old knight silently turned his eyes behind his visor to look at his squire.

Wearing heavy training armor, Asmodai did not lower his visor. The half of his face that was exposed was covered in sweat, and his clenched teeth and deep hatred worked together seamlessly.

However, his expression and his behavior were completely contradictory. Although he acted like a fool who had lost all self-control and the last vestiges of his intelligence, he consistently protected a mother and child behind him.

Zabriel wouldn't admit that he suddenly felt like laughing at that moment.

"You're right, Azrael," the old knight said, then summoned their only Librarian. "Assess the situation, Bevidan, I grant you authorization."

Because there were civilians present, he used a more euphemistic way of putting it, but this clearly did not satisfy the survivors.

Upon hearing these words, a man who had lost his wife and parents suddenly snapped out of his daze, his thoughts briefly returning from their frenzy. Tears welled in his eyes, he roared, jumped up hysterically, and began to scream incessantly.

"What happened, sir?!" he asked, laughing and crying at the same time, like a child asking his parents for candy but not getting what he wanted.

Zabriel noticed that his parents' blood was still on his face, and his wife's pendant was clutched in his hand, only a glimmer of gold showing.

"An enemy attack," the old knight replied with unusual calm; his heartbeat was even slower than usual when he lied.

"In Lion's name—these traitors must be executed!" Upon hearing his words, an elderly man wearing glasses suddenly spoke up among the civilians.

The Risen fell silent at his words, but most of the survivors responded. Zabriel suppressed the urge to sigh and calmly sent more commands through the neural link into the communication channel.

He considered almost everything, from planning and arrangements to how to deal with various emergencies, except for one.

The next second, Bevidan practically screamed as he burst into his thoughts.

It's Lion El'Jonson!

What?

Librarian continue to scream.

It's him!

Zabriel paused for half a second, put the girl down, suddenly raised his gun, stood up, and peeked out from behind the wreckage of the vehicle that had been used as cover.

In the surging torrent of armored vehicles, he saw a group of figures that appeared against the current, seemingly out of nowhere.

The two men, clad in black armor and winged helmets, stood guard. One was a blond man clad in armor, his emerald eyes reflecting the glint of swords. The other was an elderly man with white hair, his prosthetic limb and single arm concealed beneath his cloak.

After Zabriel retreated into his bunker, he felt as if his blood had frozen.

He took a deep breath, then stood up again without hesitation.

This time, he didn't focus on the group of people going against the current. Instead, he strictly used the skills he had gained from tactical training to accurately and quickly analyze the direction the current situation would take.

Flanking maneuvers are a tactic the Lion El'Jonson greatly favors, and he employs them exceptionally well. On numerous occasions, his enemies are killed by explosives before they even realize they've fallen into a trap.

This time seemed to be no exception. The armored force that had rolled over the defensive line was now facing another force led by the Lion El'Jonson. The First Legion was never short of devastating firepower, so the armored force would likely find it difficult to gain any advantage against them.

The old knight immediately decided to leave the area and divided the plan into two steps.

First, escort the civilians to a safe place away from the fighting; second, leave immediately after doing so, and avoid getting entangled with either side in the fighting.

However, plans never keep up with changes.

A voice interrupted his communication channel.

"Zabriel," Luther of the First Legion called to him from the center of the battlefield. "We need to meet."

The old knight's right hand trembled, and he almost dropped the Boltgun.