The Belated Judgment (13)

"Do you remember the legend of the Lone Knight?" Luther asked.

The warmth and light from the campfire were encroaching on his face; the smile had long since vanished. The firelight did not make him look healthier; age and hardship remained there, sculpting the stone.

Under their influence, every scar and every wrinkle became clearly visible. But the Lion El'Jonson's focus at this moment was no longer on Luther's unusual age, but on something else he had never seen in the old knight before.

"I remember," Lion Alderson said calmly.

He was concealing his true thoughts, and he believed Luther was too. They had probably had hundreds of thousands of conversations, and similar situations had naturally occurred many times before. Luther was likely concealing his thoughts based on experience, but for Lion El'Jonson, it was purely instinctive.

Sometimes he finds it a bit ridiculous, but more often he just silently follows it, just like animals in nature follow the law of natural selection.

However, he wasn't lying; of course he remembered—how could he forget?

The Lone Knight: The Origins of the Order, Protectors of the Unarmed.

While other the Order, large and small, were busy building castles, training commoners, and preparing for war, the Lone Knight chose to patrol outside his cave day and night. He asked for nothing in return and protected the unarmed without discrimination.

He instilled a unique spirit in the Order, which has since been expanded into various virtues that flow through the Dark Angels.

However, to this day, no conclusive evidence has been found to prove that he actually existed.

The academic community in Caliban has even reached a consensus that the Lone Knight does not actually exist; he is merely a fictional character created by the Order Knights to highlight their own uniqueness.

Throughout history, this is not unusual. Everyone who first raises the flag will inevitably become the most special person, whether by choice or by force, and then gradually become the flag itself.

Luther smiled.

I remember, I brought you a few books that day.

He spoke slowly and relaxedly, as if he were chatting with Lion El'Jonson while sitting in a comfortable armchair. His words seemed to have a magical power, and the Lion El'Jonson quickly saw some images.

He saw a blond boy with his clothes askew, and a knight in gleaming silver armor. The knight wasn't carrying a sword, but rather a stack of heavy books.

Urged on by his father, the boy reluctantly sat down at a desk, his eyes fixed on the knight's armor and the longsword at his waist. Clearly, he was more interested in these two things than in reading.

The knight probably noticed this too, so he took off his helmet and promised with a beaming smile—

"--If you finish reading these books, I'll find you a sword too, how about that?" Luther said softly.

The campfire crackled, the firewood continued to groan, Lion El'Jonson unconsciously clenched its teeth.

"I've finished reading," he said slowly. "But you didn't keep your promise."

The old knight shook his head apologetically. "Yes, I didn't. You looked no more than ten years old then, Lion."

"Ten years old? I had just killed a seven-clawed war beast when I met you!" Lion El-Jonson retorted sharply. "And you treated me like a child? You think it's wrong to give a child a sword? You've broken your promise, Sir Luther!"

After a long silence, Luther let out a sigh.

"Regardless of what you're actually accusing, we've gone off-topic, Lion."

The Lion El'Jonson paused for a moment, then nodded.

"Anyway, you finished reading those books. For at least a whole week afterward, you kept asking me about the Lone Knight. You were very interested in him back then, or rather, you admired him—please forgive me for using that wording."

"That's true," the Lion El'Jonson replied gruffly. "Every knight's apprentice does."

Luther seemed to want to smile, but he restrained himself and instead softened his tone.

"Yes, every apprentice is like that. And we were all apprentices once. Everyone knows his legend, everyone wants to be like him, and I was no exception. When I was young, I even wanted to imitate his statue and get myself a suit of armor."

"But my mentor at the time, Ethemir, told me that doing so was nonsense, because no one had ever actually seen the Lone Knight; he was just a legend. The books, statues, and paintings that existed within the Order were simply our imagination and longing for him, nothing more."

The Lion El'Jonson listened patiently to his words, then immediately asked, "So what? What does the legend of the Lone Knight have to do with your experiences?"

Luther didn't answer the question, but continued talking to himself, "But I still want to be a hero like him."

His eyes held an incredibly complex expression, one that even Lion El'Jonson couldn't decipher. But that was enough. He knew Luther far too well; they had been through so much together, their understanding of each other astounding.

Luther's unusual behavior at this moment was enough to arouse suspicion. Various speculations spread with his thoughts, like a dense current running through his mind, and finally turned into irrational lightning, striking the dark giant tree that cast a shadow hard.

The chattering fruits suddenly fell silent, unable to utter a sound, and a raging fire began to burn in the Lion El'Jonson's mind.

The colossal beast that shouldn't have appeared, the path, the aged Luther, and this dark, deserted cave. And the legend of the Lone Knight.

He looked at Luther in astonishment, but the old knight simply lowered his head, immersing his face completely in the waters of memory, letting himself be submerged, and then let out a soft sigh.

His voice became very soft and indistinct, the kind of voice every old man makes when reminiscing about the past, and he was no exception. Pain slowly intertwined on his face, then distorted in the firelight, becoming a mottled shadow.

After a moment, he finally raised his head and looked at the Lion El'Jonson. He opened his mouth, as if he wanted to say something, to express something.

The Lion El'Jonson could see his hesitation. He understood that Luther wanted to tell him everything, but for some reason, he didn't do so until the very end.

He remained completely silent, and that too was an answer.

The Lion El'Jonson took a deep breath and silently hugged the Lion Sword in its arms.

--

Zabriel slowly pulled his Power Sword from the last Daemon's body, and casually wiped his goggles.

The filthy blood slid down like sticky glue, with much of it still remaining in the cracks of the steel structure, refusing to leave and smearing his armor in a nauseating way.

Although Zabriel was used to getting blood on his hands during battles, the situation was different this time. He could clearly feel that his Power Armour was becoming "slower," and the smooth, intuitive feel it once gave him was quietly disappearing without him even noticing.

Even if he's dead, is it really worth bothering him with such trivial matters?

Dark Angels gripped his Power Sword tightly, glancing up at the glass tower. The flames atop it still burned relentlessly, but Seraphax was nowhere to be seen. Sensing something, he immediately turned around warily, and sure enough, the wizard stood weakly behind him.

He looked completely different from the energetic and enthusiastic young man he used to be. Zabriel didn't even know how to describe his feelings at that moment; it was probably a mixture of fear and disgust.

He stared at the wizard's pale face, then without hesitation drew his Boltgun, raised it, aimed, and pulled the trigger.

The twelve explosive shells, carrying an undeniable chilling killing intent, slammed into Seraphax's body with frenzied fury. Instead of tearing flesh and breaking bones, they sank deep into him as if he had ingested a lump of gel.

Seraphax's face contorted in pain. He took a deep breath, coughed, and said, "You shouldn't have come here, Zabriel. Who's helping you?"

The Dark Angels glanced at him coldly, casually tossed aside the Boltgun, and transformed into a savage black shadow, charging straight at him.

The charge was fueled by rage, but the Power Sword failed to hit Seraphax like a bomb, instead being firmly blocked by the pale blue rhomboid shield.

Silvery liquid trickled from the wizard's lips, but his gaze remained fixed on Zabriel's tightly clenched hand, as if he could see the winged sword emblem through the tiny gap.

Zabriel ignored this and simply braced himself against the hilt of the sword with his left hand, applying even greater force.

Beneath his helmet, he was practically gritting his teeth. A flash of golden light, Seraphax's shield began to shatter little by little, the entire rhombus shape covered with cracks like glass about to break.

Behind the glass, Seraphax's expression changed rapidly. His eyes almost popped out of their sockets, and he looked so terrified, as if he had stepped out of an abstract painting. He vanished without hesitation.

Zabriel immediately drew his sword, alert, as the surroundings were bathed in crimson light.

The corpses of civilians, previously slaughtered by Daemon for their amusement, bloomed in the soil like flowers, crimson and dark red mixed together, rotten flesh and faded bones piled up and intertwined.

The tree trunk was covered with eyeless heads, men and women, young and old, swaying gently in the wind. The intestines used to suspend them, acting as ropes, looked extremely taut, as if they would burst at any moment, spewing out filth and causing the heads to fall to the ground.

Such a hellish place, yet Zabriel stood alone within it. He felt no fear of these things, for the perpetrators had long since been slaughtered by him.

Looking behind him, you'll see a blood-soaked path gleaming with light, lined with countless Daemon corpses. Their carnage is no less gruesome than that of the common people.

"Brother."

Seraphax's voice came from overhead. Zabriel cautiously glanced up slightly, but did not see the wizard.

He knew the situation was turning against him, but he had no good way to reverse it. But Seraphax didn't seem to be hostile towards him, at least not yet.

The wizard spoke slowly.

"You single-handedly slaughtered all the Daemon I summoned."

"They may be weak, but they shouldn't be opponents you can defeat alone. Besides, you're completely immune to the magic here—I guess you probably don't even know that, right?"

"You feel nothing because those curse spells had no effect on you. This is not the power you should possess, Zabriel, do you understand? Coming here was a complete mistake; you will die."

Zabriel frowned behind his helmet.

He detected an inappropriate sadness in Seraphax's voice. The wizard seemed to have gone mad, still believing himself to be the knight captain of yesteryear, and was about to grieve for witnessing the death of a comrade in battle.

"You're insane," he judged simply. "Come out and face your death."

"I will die. My death is inevitable, and no one in this galaxy can save me from this fate. After all, I chose to jump into it myself. But you are different, Zabriel. You shouldn't have come here. You shouldn't have."

Seraphax's voice gradually faded, and when it rang out again, it was filled with despair and rage, as if he had truly gone mad.

"He's helping you!" the wizard roared. "My deduction was correct; He was indeed forced to sit on the throne!"

"By Lion, Zabriel, don't you understand? You are just an ordinary Astartes. You have no power to travel through time to my timeline, nor do you have the power to fight against ten thousand. You have become a vessel for His power! It is He who is pushing things forward, so He sent you here. Don't you feel it yourself?"

The wizard let out a few hysterical sobs, Zabriel, filled with disgust, gripped the grenade at his waist, beginning to ponder whether he should blow up the glass tower.

"Forget it, you simply don't understand."

"I understand, I know what I'm doing," Zabriel said. "And I also know you're insane."

Seraphax let out a few bitter laughs.

"I'm afraid I'll go mad, brother, and if you knew what I know, you'd go mad too. Everything I did was to save Caliban, to save the Legion, the Primarch, and the Imperium. But the Emperor sent you."

"He is driving all of this; He has become a god, something indistinguishable from other evil gods. Everything He does is merely to maintain His own existence; that's what God is like."

Amid Zabriel's silent rage, Seraphax took a deep breath and whispered his last words from the forest thousands of meters away.

"The Emperor is dead, Zabriel. Now a god rules over us."

After those words, the glass tower shattered and collapsed, burying Zabriel instantly, and Seraphax vanished into the depths of the forest.

He wasn't familiar with the forest, but that didn't matter; the target had been locked on, and he could see the person he was looking for clearly from tens of kilometers away.

Or rather, a child. He is fast asleep, his blond hair as thick as a mane.