37. The Belated Judgment (10, Ouroboros)

"What will you choose, Father?" someone asked in the darkness.

The Lion El'Jonson was awakened by the sound, and even before his eyes were open, he reflexively swung his sword. A tree was split in two by his brutality, but it did not fall; the canopies of other trees supported it, saving the surrounding grass from bending over.

The Lion El'Jonson slowly lowered its Lion Sword.

Has he let his guard down? No, although it certainly seems so. It's an obvious Deceit, and no opponent with even a modicum of intelligence would interpret it as a sign of his relaxation.

However, if he were to actually arrive in a place teeming with demons, those inferior beings who could not restrain themselves would surely burst forth howling from the surrounding bushes.

It's in their nature to be noisy, always screaming, and craving food in any form. They are born without the ability to assess situations, and this actually stems from the deliberate actions of their creator.

The Lion El'Jonson slightly relaxed its fingers, lowered its head, and took two quiet breaths.

He was listening to this new world. A flood of information, which was difficult for ordinary people to perceive, came in, but was blocked by a dam he had built in his mind. Only a few key pieces of information flowed into it.

They were combined in an extraordinary purity and then became a kind of "perception"—a precious ability gained through the combination of innate intuition and acquired training, an intuition that surpasses all others.

This intuition made Lion Aljonson reluctantly realize that he was still in Caliban.

Then he began to think: Which period of Caliban?

He couldn't help but try to deduce this matter; the lessons of the past were still right in front of him, not yet forgotten.

Since his rebellious offspring could use that silver mirror to send him and his guards back to Caliban ten thousand years ago during the rebellion, who can guarantee that he won't repeat the same trick? Or go even further, altering the timeline again to achieve his deeply hidden purpose?

The Lion El'Jonson frowned.

He had to admit that he now slightly missed his helmet. Its built-in combat system was indeed somewhat cumbersome for a Primarch, but in the present situation...

Okay, putting everything else aside, it at least gives him one crucial piece of information: are there any communication channels around him?

The question and its answer are very important, but they are far less noticeable than the increasingly humid air.

The Lion El'Jonson's muscles began to tense; his senses had reached their limit. The gentle breeze that had been constantly blowing through the treetops, tugging at the leaves and making a rustling sound, had disappeared; it had stopped as the air became damp.

A gust of wind swept up from behind him without warning. The wind stopped and its arrival was directly related, but its sudden attack was indeed without any foreshadowing—there were neither footsteps nor the smooth, muffled sound of muscles stretching against bones.

The Lion El'Jonson suddenly turned around and thrust out his Lion Sword with one hand, but a beast the size of a chariot rammed into him, sending him flying along with his sword. He crashed through at least four trees before finally coming to a stop.

Wood chips flew everywhere, falling like raindrops. The emerald green leaves, now stained with a foul-smelling mist in the increasingly humid air, revealed a pair of bright yellow vertical pupils in the Lion El'Jonson's eyes.

The eyes were divided into several different sections by the leaves, but the mouth beneath them was not like that; its jet-black fangs seemed to be waiting for blood.

It craved fresh flesh and blood, but the Lion El'Jonson merely swung its sword coldly—a simple strike, from bottom to top.

And just like that, its head was neatly split in two.

Just one strike.

That's how decisive it is.

The Lion El'Jonson rose to his feet, his face grim; not even the blood of the beast stained his armor.

It was not dead yet, or at least not completely dead. Huge amounts of blood were gushing out continuously from the wound, bending the grass and staining the soil red, making the place look like a slaughterhouse.

It waved its claws in vain, spewing foul and blasphemous gas from its trachea, trying to defile its enemy with its claws before it died.

The Lion El'Jonson stared coldly at it, remaining standing still, not moving an inch.

The beast died with regret three minutes later.

If anyone else had witnessed this, they would have been astonished by the beast's tenacious will to live—how could a creature survive for so long with its head split in two?

The Lion El'Jonson would tell them that such things are everywhere in the galaxy. But he had to admit that his first encounter with such a thing was indeed in Caliban.

This raises a new question: these beasts, known as behemoths on Caliban and corrupted by Chaos, have actually been extinct for many years.

Even during the internal strife in Caliban, the behemoth had long become a vague reference in history books, often associated with the honor of knights or the legendary founder of the Order, a solitary knight.

In other words, they have merely become a symbol of the Order' honor.

They shouldn't exist.

The Lion El'Jonson pointed its sword at the nearby bushes, then spoke in a calm tone, the blade gleaming. "Come out."

A strange creature emerged from the bushes; it was as small as a child and wore a dark green robe.

The Lion El'Jonson recognizes it. Or rather, it recognizes them.

The Dark Watchers.

How did you get here?

Its voice entered the Lion El'Jonson's mind directly, seemingly no different from psychic communication, but in reality, they were two completely different experiences.

Compared to psionic energy, the voices of the Watchers are more eerie—you can't "see" where it is speaking to you, nor can you accurately "hear" the direction from which its voice comes. You only know that it is watching you, and standing in the darkness.

This provoked much disgust and fear.

The Lion El'Jonson looked at it and asked, "Why can't I be here?"

You shouldn't have.

The watcher paused, bewildered, for a good ten seconds. For a creature like it, this shouldn't have happened. The Lion El'Jonson waited patiently, knowing he would get an answer—whether it was what he wanted or not, it was still an answer.

He has too many problems that urgently need to be solved.

+You shouldn't be here, but now I understand, the Ouroboros is flicking its tongue.+

Ouroboros?

The Lion El'Jonson narrowed his eyes. He had never heard of this term before, but a chill was creeping into his heart. It was rare for anything to make him feel this way.

He's here.

Suddenly, the Dark Watchers issued a warning. The small creature in a dark green robe raised its right hand and pointed to a shadowy path in the forest. The Lion El'Jonson immediately drew its sword and stared intently, but saw no one.

"Who?" the Lion El'Jonson whispered.

+The other person within this endless cycle, the one who shaped you, the one who transformed you from a beast into a knight.+

The watcher lowered its hand and turned to leave. It entered the thicket without making any sound, as if vanishing into nothingness.

The Lion El'Jonson looked warily toward the end of the road, and for some reason, his heart suddenly stopped for a moment.

--

The roar of artillery fire echoed as pitch-black torrents clashed and clashed on the burning earth. The blue of the sky was shattered by the continuous barrage of meteors, and the scattered sparks and streaks of light that occasionally streaked across the horizon were like the claws of Daemon, tearing apart and devouring all that was beautiful.

Before today, the Caliban prospered. After today, the Caliban is forever doomed.

Under this very sky, Zabriel met the person who had called to him, all alone.

Yes, he didn't choose to bring the Risen; instead, he chose to split his forces into two groups. Luther's call was undeniable; to refuse would be disobedience.

He had to try to meet with his former Grand Master and persuade him of some things.

He knew it would be difficult, but he had no choice. Luther was absolutely a man of his word when necessary, and Zabriel preferred to take the gamble rather than disobey and cause a timeline error.

He believed in Luther, and he believed the Lion El'Jonson would handle things before it was too late.

Seraphax will die soon. Zabriel was convinced of this.

However, before they meet, there is one more thing to explain—the communication channels within the Risen are specially encrypted, and even if the Lion El'Jonson himself tries to enter with his privileges, he will be refused entry.

However, Luther entered their channel so easily, as if he were also one of the Risen.

No, wait.

Zabriel suddenly realized that, if one were to be precise, Luther was probably the earliest Risen. He was initially banished, with the Lion El'Jonson himself announcing his betrayal of the Legion. Yet, he returned more than a decade later and regained power.

Should I still call him "sir"? The old knight wondered, both amused and exasperated.

"Long time no see, Zabriel."

Amidst the ruins left by the First Legion's armored onslaught, Luther, still cloaked, nodded to Zabriel.

He was still old, with a full head of white hair. Aging had eroded Luther's former strength; now, he looked less like a partially modified Astartes and more like a tall, ordinary mortal.

If you ignore the things that are glaringly visible on his belt.

Behind his helmet, Zabriel glanced at them. He couldn't help but notice them, even though they were dusty and looked like parts an old scavenger had found in a junkyard, hoping to discover something of value.

But they weren't; they even made Zabriel instinctively feel like he was sitting on pins and needles. Worse still, he found that he could only recognize a handful of them.

Considering his status, this was simply unbelievable—but what Luther said next went far beyond unbelievable, like a heavy hammer hitting him in the face.

"We haven't seen each other for at least ten thousand years," Luther said.

He was smiling, while Zabriel only wanted to ask a question. He struggled to maintain his composure and simply offered a nod.

"Very good, calm—" Luther nodded approvingly at him. "—You can always have it, keep it, Zabriel, it's a precious quality."

He took a step back, slowly lifting his cloak to reveal his hands. His prosthetics appeared faded, far less gleaming than the silvery sheen Zabriel had glimpsed on the battlefield not long ago, but their exact form remained unchanged.

Moreover, it was only the surface that had faded; the seemingly flashy but impractical bionic muscle bundles were still functioning with Luther's movements, and the sound they made when tensed was exceptionally dangerous.

Compared to his prosthetic limb, his right hand was casually draped over his belt, wearing a brown leather glove that was stained with oil, wrinkled, and damaged.

The winged sword emblem awaited him unadorned on the back of his hand, while an ancient, jet-black skull ring sat on his thumb, looking rather inconspicuous.

"In short, I'll try to keep it brief," Luther began slowly. "Time is a straight line, do you understand that concept, Zabriel?"

What else could Zabriel say? He simply nodded, then, as if remembering something, quickly removed his helmet.

Luther laughed again, but this time, his smile held a hint of melancholy, "In my memory, you were just a young man."

"I don't remember you being this old," Zabriel said in a deep voice.

They gazed at each other, smiled, and Luther once again took the lead.

"This straight line will move infinitely forward, never stopping, and cannot be stopped. It connects everything, causing them to change along with its progress. But it is, after all, a straight line; it will not bend, nor will it turn back."

"Therefore, in our understanding, going back to the past should be impossible. However, this is only in our understanding. For other races in the galaxy, time is not a lofty and untouchable concept."

"They have toyed with time many times, and although they have been punished for it, they have indeed inspired some people—for whom they have realized that while time is indeed a straight line that cannot be reversed, it does not mean that humanity cannot actively return to a certain point on it."

Luther raised his left hand, his prosthetic middle finger and thumb touching, clenched, and struck it, the metal clashing.

He said softly, "Then, these people quickly learned, without any instruction, to do something more advanced. For example, to cut off a part of this straight line, make it a separate line, and thus make it another straight line."

Zabriel quickly caught up with him and then posed a crucial question.

What effect will this have on the straight line?

"Break it off." Luther smiled knowingly. "Then it disappears, replaced by another straight line, continuing forward Never Look Back. But no one has ever done that before."

Zabriel took a deep breath, Luther turned around. A golden door slowly opened before him. He stepped inside without hesitation, leaving Zabriel outside.

"Follow me." The Order Grand Master's voice rang out, carrying an undeniable calm. "Your questions will be answered one by one, just as the situation itself will be. Trust me, Zabriel."