39: The Late Judgment (12) (Resuming Daily Updates)

The cave was dimly lit, with a fire burning brightly. The firewood, surrounded by stones in the center, crackled in the flames, a sound that was pleasant to hear, and the warmth and light it provided were soothing to the soul—but upon closer reflection, the firewood itself probably didn't want to make this sacrifice.

But they had no choice. When Luther chose them from the dark forest with his calloused hands, their fate as firewood was sealed. They were destined to give everything, to sacrifice everything, to illuminate the darkness with their own deaths.

The crackling sound that brought warmth and reassurance was actually nothing more than the last words of the firewood as it howled and screamed in the flames.

From this angle, the campfire is truly chilling.

Lion Aljonsen stared indifferently at the terrifying figure, his armored hands resting seemingly calmly on his knees, his Lion Sword clutched tightly to his chest. His Shadow writhed and twisted on the wall, while gusts of wind, sounding like mournful cries, drifted from outside the cave.

He was no stranger to such a sound; long ago, when he wandered naked through the forest, seeking a secluded place to rest each night, he had heard it countless times.

Looking back now, it almost sounded like Caliban was yelling at him.

Get out! Get out of here!

The Lion El'Jonson raised its head indifferently.

Light and shadow subtly sculpted his face. The artist in charge of this work was clearly not a very meticulous person; while his work was ingenious, it was completely devoid of any harmony.

The Lion El'Jonson's face resembles a majestic kingdom, where two completely opposing forces, symbolically significant, are vying for dominance.

However, probably no one would care about this minor discordant note—simply by sitting here, he is a king. Moreover, a king who can be extremely savage and powerful when necessary, truly wielding unstoppable force.

But Luther replied, "You're old."

He laid it out quite bluntly, and the cave seemed to be helping him. The rocks, having traveled for millions of years to reach this place, absorbed Luther's rough voice, refined it, chewed it, and then spat it out again.

His voice thus transformed into an eternal whisper between the stones, colliding continuously and recounting the fact that "aging" is difficult for most people to accept.

When their echoes finally ceased, the old knight's voice had become like Mars flying between two flint stones colliding.

The Lion El'Jonson frowned, choosing to remain silent.

He was well aware of his own age and did not wish to argue further on the matter—though Luther's voice held a hint of surprise, the implications of which were self-evident.

How can you get old?

A hand reached out from behind him, holding a leather water pouch. Its surface was mottled and scratched, with the winged sword emblem gleaming on the edge of the bronze-colored screw cap.

It inevitably attracted the Lion El'Jonson's attention. He glanced at it before accepting the water bag, a gesture that was not polite and even carried an inappropriate rudeness.

Luther chuckled at this, casually strolling past the Lion El'Jonson and slowly making his way deeper into the cave. His destination was a pile of dry wood, unlike the wood in the fire, which had not yet been chopped.

A small, wooden-handled stone axe was casually leaned against the wall, and several animal-hide backpacks were piled up in another corner, empty and sunken, probably with nothing left inside.

The Lion El'Jonson withdrew his gaze, slowly unscrewed the cap of the water bag, his nostrils twitching as he concealed his probing behavior with the act of drinking—he knew he couldn't hide this from Luther, but it was, after all, an old habit.

Once a person grows old, it becomes very difficult to change anything about them, whether it's a flaw or a strength.

He swallowed the icy water gulp by gulp, and at the same time, the Lion El'Jonson confirmed one thing from the lingering scent in the air: those animal hide backpacks were Luther's food storage.

He deduced that it was probably something as easy to store as cured meat; given the right temperature and environment, dried meat could even be preserved for several years.

Any wanderer living alone in the wilderness should learn this skill, but the Lion El'Jonson was curious to know what circumstances could have driven someone like Luther to such a state that he had to rely on these basic and primitive things to survive?

He knew Luther all too well; the Order's former Grand Master was a crippled version of Astartes, yet also one of the most dangerous people in the galaxy. The man standing before him, however, truly looked like a disheveled vagrant.

The numerous speculations sparked by this idea gradually took root in his mind, transforming in a very short time into a towering tree laden with fruit. Each fruit was telling a story, and thousands of different thoughts emerged, most of them filled with doubt.

The Lion El'Jonson calmed himself, took another sip of water, and saw Luther grip the wood-chopping axe and begin chopping wood. He was incredibly focused and efficient, like a seasoned lumberjack.

Not only that, he even chose to do this work with his back to the Lion El'Jonson, crushing pieces of dry wood into dust on a flat rock.

Soon, the dismembered remains of the trees lay scattered at his feet, wood chips flying everywhere like splattered, pale yellow or white blood. Seeing this, the Lion El'Jonson finally decided to break his silence; he had received enough gold these past few days.

"I have something I'd like to ask you," he said in a deep voice, still maintaining a proper, yet not quite aristocratic, reserve.

"What is it?" the old knight asked without turning his head.

"You once hunted Eldar?"

Luther bent down, picked out a small piece of wood from the pile, and placed it on the workbench with one hand. He continued working, but did not choose to avoid the Lion El'Jonson's question.

"Yes, did the Sigillites reveal this to you?"

"No." The Lion El'Jonson put down the water bag and placed it not far from the fire.

Luther pondered knowingly for a moment, then raised his axe and brought it down heavily.

"So, you went to him on your own initiative. It seems our long-suffering and destined-to-continue-suffering Sigillites has not followed some of the rules and regulations that he, as one of the founders of the Inquisition, should abide by."

He put down his axe, turned around with a smile, walked back to the fire, and sat down next to the Lion El'Jonson without any hesitation.

What did he show you?

"Your hunting record," the Lion El'Jonson said. "I'm particularly interested in those against the Eldar."

Luther seemed unmoved by the heavily embellished word "hunt," and simply continued asking questions.

"Why?"

The Lion El'Jonson lowered its head and let out a cruel sneer. The light and darkness shifted again, and two blazing flames were now reflected in its deep green eyes, their light blinding, like the pale blue flames spewing from a spaceship engine, enough to scorch one's eyelids.

Luther stared at them and returned a perfectly calm smile.

"If you don't give me a reason, Lion— " the old knight shrugged, "I'm afraid I can only say I'm completely powerless to answer your question."

The Lion El'Jonson frowned, casting aside his composure. He didn't let his temper control him, nor did he allow past habits from his interactions with Luther to influence his present state.

Lion Alderson responded with unusual calmness.

Do you really need a reason for this?

The old knight smiled gently.

"Everyone needs a reason to do anything, Lion, not even the scum and thugs who would pull a bloodied baby out of its mother's womb for a pittance."

"What can money buy for such depraved and shameless beasts? Nothing more than food, clothing, transportation, and the pleasures of pills, hallucinogens, and physical encounters. So, if even the most vile and despicable members of our race need a reason to act, then someone as esteemed as you must have even more reasons."

The Lion El'Jonson narrowed its eyes again.

"I want to know." He finally responded, though his voice carried an obvious threat. "That's the reason."

Luther smiled, dismissing the threat as a gentle breeze. "That reason isn't enough to make me break some principles I must uphold, Lion. These are all I have left."

His second half-sentence silenced the Lion El'Jonson for a full half-minute. After a long while, he finally spoke again.

What have you been through?

The old knight's face remained unchanged; his smile was frozen, and his face looked like an ancient, hard, and rough rock. His answer, however, truly stirred a long-forgotten sense of annoyance in the Lion El'Jonson.

"This is the second question already, Lion. I haven't answered the first one yet."

"Let those damned Eldar die, they deserved to die anyway," the Lion El'Jonson said coldly. "Now tell me what you've been through, what time it is, and why you're here. I need to know everything, Luther. I have no time or energy to waste on riddles with you."

He raised his left hand, placed it on the scabbard of the Lion Sword, and let out a low growl.

"I still have people to kill."

Luther stared at him for a moment, and after a few seconds, he nodded.

"Alright, since you want to know, I'll start from the beginning."

--

The moment he stepped through the portal, Zabriel felt a long-forgotten, indescribable tremor. This feeling, rising from the depths of his bones and spreading rapidly, was all too familiar to him— the Dark Angels's heart sank; he knew he had entered the Warp.

He didn't want to ponder why this could work; he didn't care about the alluring and seductive secrets of reasons, causes, or conditions. He had a mission, however vague, but he had already made his decision.

Zabriel will do everything in his power to ensure this mission is completed.

Now, he needs to consider a completely new problem.

Where is he?

Okay, first, take a look around.

The built-in analysis function of the eyepiece provided him with a series of complex data, such as air humidity. He used his battle-hardened instincts to decipher them all in a mere half-second, then swallowed them whole, like a cannibalistic monster that had not tasted blood for a long time.

A familiar feeling was slowly creeping in, causing him to instinctively grip his sword.

A lush forest came into view, as well as a clearing filled with malevolent creatures, whose shapes were indescribable as twisted monsters frolicking among countless corpses.

The corpses were all dressed in what Zabriel considered very simple clothing; long before he joined the Order, the Caliban no longer dressed like that.

A glass altar, rising like a sword in the deepest part of this hell, reflects the blinding sunlight, while flames, shifting between brilliant and deep blue, burn fiercely at its spire.

The forest bowed down in submission, becoming a loyal slave, stirring up a storm for its power, and Daemon, like its subjects, cried out a name beneath it.

Seraphax.

Zabriel looked up and saw a familiar figure.

The man seemed to sense something, and looked down at him, then stretched out his left hand in the distance, making an ancient tactical gesture that was only used among Dark Angels.

It means: Come find me.

Without a word, Zabriel drew his sword and strode into the Daemon horde.

This is undoubtedly suicidal. No soldier of sound mind, without orders, would make such a choice—to charge alone against an enemy force hundreds of times their size.

This was beyond courage or foolishness; only madness could describe it. But Zabriel was certain he wasn't mad. Quite the opposite; he was now more lucid than ever before.

Primarch, Legion. These precious things he had long lost and longed for had returned, so he would never again deliberately seek self-destruction for liberation as he had in the past.

But at this moment, what gave him the courage to face this horde of hungry demons? What did he have to rely on?

The answer will be revealed beneath the sword's edge.

The first Daemon to die at Zabriel's hands was small in stature. Before the Power Sword completely cleaved it in two, it was hunched over, its four paws on the ground, charging wildly toward the Dark Angels.

Its claws and teeth are sharp, its desires insatiable; the flesh and blood of mortals are insufficient to soothe its frenzied mind and body, nor are the memories hidden in the minds of mortals enough to quell its thirst.

But it was absolutely certain that this hybrid could succeed.

This foolish, insane, eternal slave born from the evil star beneath our feet would surely starve, but that was not the case. Zabriel slew it with ease, and beneath his blade, brilliant golden light shone forth without reservation.

He held a winged sword emblem tightly in his palm.

The demons paled. At the top of the glass tower, the wizard sighed, unsurprisingly. His voice drifted down on the wind, silently reaching the ears of the Dark Angels.

"Whatever you want to do, it's probably too late, my brother."

"For the Emperor and the Lion El'Jonson!" Zabriel roared as he charged forward, sword raised.

Under his sword, the situation subtly reversed, but the flames atop the glass tower never dimmed; they burned, deeply infusing the Caliban's crust with the power of an unspeakable evil god.

One interesting thing, though Zabriel was unaware of it, was that in the "now" he was in, Lion Aljonsen had not yet appeared on the Caliban. Or perhaps he had already appeared, but no one had yet discovered him.