49. The Belated Judgment (XVIII) (I'm Back-Starting with a Big Chapter to Whet Your Appetite)

As time went on, Lion Aljonsen became increasingly aware that the dimension they had once so firmly called "reality" was gradually fading away.

Moreover, this process is irreversible. No matter how many times he and Luther emerge from the cave at dawn to slaughter the giant beasts, this will not change in the slightest.

"You've arrived, and so it begins to place its bets. Time and space no longer matter, Lion; the only thing that matters is—we will fight tooth and nail here."

In the lull of the killing, the increasingly aged Luther made such a statement. The Lion El'Jonson remembered that moment vividly; he had never seen the old knight's eyes so calm, as if he had made some kind of firm decision.

Moreover, he said this with a smile.

The Lion El'Jonson agreed with him, but not entirely.

Swing the sword with all your might?

From the moment he picked up the longsword until now, he has never held back in wielding it. Whenever the Lion Sword is drawn, someone or something will inevitably bleed. He is not an executioner, nor does he regard killing as a creed in his life, but he was raised and educated in this way, personally nurtured and taught by Luther of Caliban.

Back then, that serious, dark-haired middle-aged man had earnestly told him in the training grounds inside the fortress monastery, "Drawing your sword means you've chosen to use force, rather than other gentler methods. If you've truly been forced to this point and made up your mind, then don't hold back—either don't do it at all, or do it thoroughly, Lion."

Either don't do it at all, or do it thoroughly. How interesting.

The Lion El'Jonson raised his sword and slashed horizontally, the Lion Sword humming as it sent the deformed head of a giant beast flying several meters into the air. He slaughtered, the blade in his hand cruelly devouring life, yet his thoughts calmly chewed on memories; the violence of the outside world could not disturb the peace within him.

Ultimately, Lion Alderson realized, somewhat incredulously, that Luther's teaching of him had crossed certain lines—it was obvious, wasn't it?

Only politicians have to choose between "doing nothing" and "doing it to the extreme"; other people are usually unaware that they are caught between these two choices.

The Lion El'Jonson swallowed the somewhat chilling thought, and more ripples stirred in his calm mind. Countless questions flooded his mind; he swallowed them all, then swung his sword with doubled force. It wasn't until late that night, by the fire in the cave, that he uttered a few of them.

"Did you already know who I was back then?" Lion asked abruptly.

Without even looking up, Luther used his metal hand to rummage through a grilled fish, transforming his disability into a convenience that made him impervious to heat. At the same time, he asked casually, "Who goes there?"

"I don't like playing that stupid trick of asking questions I already know the answer to."

Luther raised his head, and his eyes, which had been sunken deep in their sockets by the frost and weariness of the day, narrowed noticeably—he smiled, a very pleasant smile.

Then he nodded.

I had a feeling about it.

The old knight spoke in a mumbled voice, nodding as he spoke, looking just like an elderly person reminiscing about the past, and even gesturing with his other hand.

"You were already this tall when I found you in the jungle, Lion. But you were still very young. To put it slightly disrespectfully, although you looked dirty like a savage, your skin had no scars or signs of time. To me, you were practically a baby with the body of a teenager."

"And how unusual is this? I mean, the short time we met, you appeared out of nowhere and killed a giant beast right in front of us with a crudely made stone spear."

"Besides that, you have no weapons or armor. You're covered in stinking animal fur and your own hair, and you're unrecognizable from a distance. Luckily, I was close enough, kid, or I wouldn't have had time to tell my comrades not to shoot."

The Lion El'Jonson listened intently and quietly, without uttering a word. The Lion Sword rested on his shoulder, and he had taken off his cloak and spread it beneath him. He was old, almost as old as Luther, but still much taller.

No one would associate them with being father and son.

Luther paused, his smile fading, and then suddenly spoke in a very cold tone.

"Lion —I almost blurted it out. Remember? I was standing between you and them, the situation was incredibly tense. And then I called you Lion. I said, ' Lion, you won't attack, will you?' My tone was as if I'd known you for years. Think back, isn't that ridiculous?"

The Lion El'Jonson did indeed ponder for a moment, just as he had said, before slowly shaking his head.

"I don't see anything ridiculous," Lion Aljonson replied with an eerily calm tone. "All I know is that you stood in their way and called me by a short, rapid syllable. It wasn't until a day and a half later that I learned it was my name. And I accepted it."

Luther smiled slightly again, his previous coldness completely gone. The smile was very gentle, and carried a sense of composure.

"And by then you had already learned the language of Caliban."

The fire burned, the firewood rattled restlessly, and suddenly a strong wind rose outside the cave. They fell into a silence that lasted for several seconds.

"The wind is rising," said the Lion El'Jonson.

"Yes," Luther replied slowly. "Normally, there wouldn't be such strong winds at night."

Another silence fell.

"So I'm afraid that back then—" Luther suddenly began again—" I already knew you weren't an ordinary person, at least not one of us."

His tone was quite amusing, almost sarcastic. The Lion El'Jonson narrowed his eyes and immediately retorted.

"What? In your eyes, I'm not even a human being?"

"That's not what I meant." Luther shook his head. "However, a normal person probably wouldn't be as alert as you are right now, as if you've smelled something, right? That just proves my point."

The leader of the First Army ignored the foolish old man's incessant chatter, simply gripped the Lion Sword, and abruptly stood up. In that instant, the blade was already drawn.

He threw the scabbard on the ground, turned around without a word, and strode towards the entrance of the cave. Outside the cave, the wind howled, and the only glimmer of moonlight was blocked by thick clouds that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, leaving no light at all.

Then, pitch-black rain, thick like mud, fell from the sky and slammed directly onto the ground. It didn't feel like rain; rather, it resembled a bombing or the "swords falling from the sky" described in myths and legends—strange and indescribable.

Gods?

The Lion El'Jonson silently redefined the meaning in his heart: it was the work of an evil spirit.

There are no gods in this world. He thought, then stared blankly at this outdated old saying for a moment.

Perhaps it was age, or perhaps he had been too lost in memories lately, but at this moment his thoughts were inevitably pulled back to a very special point in time. The peculiar stench emanating from the Orks corpses being burned by Phosphex pierced through the weight of time and struck him precisely.

Ullanor.

It was raining that time too. He remembered it clearly, and then he thought of the Emperor.

"There are no gods in this world," his father said. "Know that any power prefixed with 'beyond imagination' can actually be broken down, mastered, and utilized by human wisdom. Remember this, Lion."

I remembered it, but...

The Lion El'Jonson looked out over the forest and slowly rose to his feet, his brows furrowed as he put on his helmet.

Countless giant trees, as if by unspoken agreement, chose this moment to transform into spirits. Their roots, which were originally deeply embedded in the ground, parted the soil, joined together, and transformed into thick tendrils, which in turn formed a structure similar to human legs, supporting them as they stood up.

A chilling creaking sound echoed incessantly, revealing countless corpses and skeletons after the once intertwined roots had chosen to depart. Some were extremely fragile, while others were still relatively fresh.

The treetops swayed and shifted, their leaves swelling to form abstract human faces that screamed as they fell to the ground, adding a terrifying force to the howling winds and rapidly falling raindrops, becoming a new voice in this ominous symphony.

And so, in the rain, they stood up and made way.

A figure swayed unsteadily at the end of the road.

Behind him, Luther sighed softly, "The plan has gone awry, Lion. Someone found us before Zabriel could. And it wasn't the power of Ouroboros."

Without turning his head, the Lion El'Jonson said, "I don't think the one who found us is human."

He leaped down from the cave exit, sword in hand, not taking the path, but plummeting straight down into the ground, which had been turned into boiling mud by the black raindrops.

The shockwave was completely absorbed, and the filth eagerly clung to it, trying to seep into the gaps in the armor and gradually tarnish the glory of this armor, which had served for almost as long as the history of the Imperium.

But the Lion El'Jonson merely took a step, turning their greed into wishful thinking—high-temperature steam gushed out from the pre-prepared gaps, instantly melting away all the evil that dared to offend Lion El-Jonson.

A series of screams faintly came from beneath the mud, reaching his ears. The Lion El'Jonson looked down, his face behind the helmet showing even more disgust.

Just some rainwater gave rise to this thing.

The Lion El'Jonson quickened his pace. This time, the dark mud did not try to stop him. Wherever he went, only bare and rugged stones remained on the ground.

The soil and vegetation had received the rain, but the stones buried deep underground seemed to have a different opinion. Under the cover of night, they remained unchanged, and this similar tenacity and stubbornness inevitably brought a smile to the Lion El'Jonson, even though he shouldn't have been smiling at that moment.

"Gather," he said.

The deep sound pierced the dark rain without hindrance. The mud, as if threatened, spewed out bubble after bubble, displaying its threat to him like a wild beast, yet not a single speck of mud dared to rush forward and tarnish the piece of metal.

The First Army Commander slowly raised his sword, standing before them. A flash of blue light illuminated his black armor, making the roaring lion's head on his right shoulder armor stand out prominently.

Logically speaking, such a king should have his own pride of lions. At this moment, there should also be an unstoppable black-armored legion standing behind him.

However, reality is often quite absurd. Now, standing behind the Lion El'Jonson is only one person, and even that person is an old, tired, white-haired man with an oil-stained cloak.

He stood panting behind the man he had sworn allegiance to, and after several seconds he straightened up, raised his left hand, and pressed a winged sword emblem against his right chest.

"Attack," Lion El-Jonson coldly ordered.

Yes, after assembling, they always attack; the First Legion never hesitates—but the question is, against whom? Against what? Against this mud?

The Lion El'Jonson didn't ponder these questions; it simply swung its arm and then took a step, its gait displaying an unusual lightness.

With his arm driving his wrist, he disintegrated the force field, shattering the rain curtain. A deep blue light traced a beautiful arc, actually reducing the mud wall that had been driven to stand upright to dust. And he didn't stop there. Immediately following the first strike was a continuous series of strikes like flowing water, each strike's arc perfectly timed and incredibly precise.

Watching this scene, Luther stood behind him, his hand on his gun, a somewhat inappropriate expression of emotion on his face.

In the distant past, a past that exists only in their memories, he had taught Lion Aljonson many different sword techniques. Some emphasized offense, some focused on defense, and some even went so far as to completely abandon defense, advocating speed and a single, decisive strike—two extreme approaches.

These sword techniques originated from the ancient Calibanite Knights, who were the best swordsmen and greatest heroes of their time.

Only in this way would they be qualified to write down what they had learned in a book that was not too thick, and put it in the library of Aldurukh for future generations to study. But now, right before his eyes, the swordsmanship displayed by the Lion El'Jonson had strayed far from the principles of swordsmanship itself.

He wasn't wielding a sword; rather, it was more like he was...

"Lion!" Luther laughed, raising his gun to aim. "Are you doing math problems with a sword? Must every strike follow a calculated arc?"

A huge red light flashed abruptly, Lion El'Jonson calmly turned around, making a tactical gesture to him—meaning silence—while he himself immediately retorted.

"You old codger who's been here for who knows how many years, you'd better not interfere with my battle strategies," he roared impatiently. But he still offered an explanation. "That sword technique comes from Mortarion's sons, and it has proven effective in numerous battles."

"Is it effective?"

Accompanied by a strange, expanding sound and a gradually rising scream coming from within the earth, Luther shrugged and put his hands back inside his cloak.

No one knows exactly what he did, but miraculously, he pulled another gun from his previously empty belt. It looked like an exquisite revolver, huge in size, with a sealed magazine, an extremely long barrel, and gleaming with a beautiful silver light.

He raised his gun to aim again, and the Lion El'Jonson came to his side, raising its sword to protect him.

"Would you mind telling me this story that worked?" Luther asked.

He was squinting, assessing his gains. Not far from him and the Lion El'Jonson, a huge gap had been punched through the surging black mud tide, roughly large enough for at least two Baneblade to drive in side by side.

It may seem terrifying, but Luther knows very well that for a newborn Daemon built on the trait of "mud," physical damage is actually nothing at all.

Fortunately, although he had been busy traveling back and forth in history all these years, he had not forgotten to steal a few moments to pray. Just now, when he fired the shot, the self-composed prayer he silently recited had obviously injured the thing quite badly, so much so that it even dared to ignore someone's orders for a short time and hesitated in place.

As for what that prayer actually is, it's best not to worry about it.

"Nothing much to say," the Lion El'Jonson said calmly. "It's just an old story, full of Daemon schemes and a huge threat."

"To sum it up in one sentence: Mortarion's stolen body has destroyed six worlds in succession with six different plagues. The Death Guard has mobilized the entire force, determined to utterly destroy it before it can destroy the seventh world."

"This sword technique was created during the war by Orlm, the then -Chapter Master the Death Guard. Over the next twelve centuries, it spread to hundreds of Chapter, saving countless lives."

"But it doesn't look like swordsmanship to me, Lion. You yourself seemed to pause for a moment when you called it that, did I hear you correctly?"

Luther asked lightly, with a hint of sarcasm, but he didn't forget to get down to business. He closed his left eye and began to calibrate the target.

He had already seen a twisted figure slowly approaching through the gap. Wherever he went, the treetops drooped, and faces wailed in agony, as if Caliban's forest was bowing in submission.

But don't get me wrong, he wasn't just asking casually; he was genuinely very interested in the matter.

He was very self-aware, knowing he was too old and possibly quite useless. There was only one thing he could proudly say—he, Luther of Caliban, was quite knowledgeable.

When the Lion El'Jonson raised his sword, Luther immediately saw through the essence of that sword technique.

"This involves an ancient doctrine." The Lion El'Jonson remained silent for a few seconds before reluctantly giving his answer. "You should know its name."

Luther smirked, pretending not to be smiling, and then asked, "Numerology?"

"Yes."

"It seems Lord Mortarion's offspring..." Luther pondered for a moment, finally managing to utter a somewhat sarcastic compliment, "The student has surpassed the master."

"You don't need to flatter him," the Lion El'Jonson said nonchalantly. "You're in charge now, Sir."

Luther smiled slightly, then immediately pulled the trigger, and a deep, deathly light shot out from the barrel.

This was definitely not human technology. Realizing this, the Lion El'Jonson couldn't help but take another look, and then felt a little puzzled—the weapon style of the Necrons was completely different from the gun that Luther was holding.

Could it be that he once persuaded some Necrons to forge a weapon for him?

Filled with questions, the naturally suspicious Caliban savage roared as he charged toward the breach, continuing to swing his sword along the way.

The Mud, already suffering greatly from Luther's prayers, were dealt another heavy blow, and the disintegrating force field began to seriously crumble chunks of mud.

It may look intimidating, but what truly causes Muddy Tide pain is not the blade or the stance itself, but the angle at which the person wielding them deliberately chooses to swing their arm.

Individually, they are nothing, but when combined, they become its natural enemy, causing it to instinctively feel pain and fear. Even with a life form far surpassing that of ordinary beings, this newly born powerful Daemon could not endure this pain.

Finally, when the Lion El'Jonson's charge reached its fourth second, it retreated in fear. The one who summoned and created it didn't care much; he simply raised his left hand at the end of the road, blocking the green beam of death.

Conventionally, he should say something at this point—but not this time.

His enemies wouldn't allow it.

More death rays swarmed in, but in this person's eyes, they were not merely the technological power of the Necrons, but also carried a certain real power of faith.

He saw it clearly, and therefore immediately took it seriously. A few wisps of ash suddenly fell from between his fingers, completely dissolving the power of faith that was even too troublesome for Greater Daemon.

No, it's not about dissolving, it's about assimilation.

Seeing this, Luther's face finally showed a hint of shock.

"Those are ashes, and they must have come from the voluntary offerings of people with the most devout faith." He whispered rapidly, as if Lion El'Jonson about to charge at its enemy could hear what he was saying—and indeed he did.

Lion Aljonsen seized upon this valuable intelligence and immediately changed his battle strategy.

The sword path, which was originally intended to cut an arc, was abruptly halted in mid-air. Behind the crimson visor of the winged helmet, the Lion El'Jonson's pupils suddenly shrank to the size of pinpoints.

The Lion Sword slashed horizontally, embedding itself deep in the decaying chest of a man. Yet no blood gushed out, only dust. In a brief moment that could not be described as a "second," the man placed his hands on the Lion El'Jonson's shoulders.

"Primarch."

A murmur drifted out on the wind, and behind the helmet, the Lion El'Jonson, unsurprisingly, clenched its teeth.

He withdrew, almost wanting to use his unique power to kill the traitor on the spot. But he hadn't forgotten why he had come to this chaotic time, and to avoid being used again, he ultimately didn't summon the forest—which gave Seraphax an opportunity.

Yes, Seraphax, who else could the attacker be but him?

However, the Thousand Eyes Wizard looked truly miserable at this moment. His magnificent robes were gone, and even his body had turned into something like charcoal, no different from those poor souls who had been burned alive.

He stared at his Primarch, and the eyes, set like glass marbles in their sockets, reflected the image of Lion Aljonson in his youth—a tall, blond giant, exuding wildness and majesty in every gesture, inspiring a desire to kneel and submit.

The Lion El'Jonson saw him, as did Luther.

In that instant, before Seraphax's charred hands could reach the Lion El'Jonson's armor and touch his flesh, they attacked simultaneously.

The Lion El'Jonson raised its paw, pressing down on Seraphax's outstretched hands, intending to snap them off and then tear off the head of the charred corpse. Luther, meanwhile, summoned the five silver beams once more. They tore through the air the moment they appeared, hurtling towards Seraphax's crystalline "eyes," determined to shatter those glass spheres into pieces.

Their attacks were successful; the headless and handless corpses stood swaying in place, powerless to resist, awaiting their final judgment.

The Lion El'Jonson released the arms, then pulled the Lion Sword from the man's chest. Several flashes of light swept past as he mercilessly shredded the wizard's remains to pieces.

It seemed to be very effective, but even ignoring the still-dripping black rain in the sky, based solely on intuition, the Lion El'Jonson and Luther would never believe that this was the end.

They had dealt with Chaos far too many times; the experience they had gained through blood and tears could not be erased by a few victories. However, what happened next exceeded the expectations of any of them.

No one could have predicted this; it was absolutely impossible. To contemplate this precious thing, which exists only among a few intelligent races, requires the thinker to possess rationality and basic intelligence, and must have a certain level of understanding of the problem at hand—even the bare minimum will suffice; imagination and intuition can naturally play their role.

But what if there's no understanding, no preparation, and no space to unleash one's imagination?

In the Empyrean, the Tzeentch exclaimed with delight.

"I told you, little sister—this stubborn, crazy human being, yet still clinging to the last vestiges of innocence, would bring us a very interesting drama."

He stretched out his "finger" and touched the corpse of Seraphax through a shimmering mist, his laughter becoming more sincere, yet he began to chatter incessantly.

"Humans are so complex; two seemingly contradictory things can coexist harmoniously within them. Look at Seraphax, didn't he? He's clearly a madman, yet he naively believes he can truly save everyone."

Beside Him, the wanton mist lazily offered its rebuttal.

"His naiveté is built on your madness. You gave him the door, the key, and the lock, and even helped him smuggle himself into another world. Did he bring something back, hmm? Tell me the truth."

The Tzeentch transformed into a smiling man, who, stepping on a galaxy, bowed deeply to the mist, politely declining the request.

"That won't do. We've waited so long, finally reaching the climax. How can we let this supreme enjoyment be diminished to a dull level by a moment of impatience? Please wait a little longer, little sister. I promise you, what follows will be absolutely amazing."

A calm laugh came from the mist, "Keep me in suspense as you like, I don't mind if you make fun of me. But I want to guess."

"Three chances?" the man in the form of the Tzeentch asked thoughtfully.

"Five times," the mist immediately retorted, her tone shifting strangely, becoming incredibly high-pitched and alluring. "I want five chances!"

The man's smile faltered slightly before returning to its bright shape. "How about I give you nine chances?"

"No, I want it five times."

Eighteen times, no more than that.

Five times.

"The stupid thing you're doing now will affect our plans to some extent, do you understand, Slaanesh?" the man asked with a hostile expression.

A chuckle came from within the mist, "Of course I know—but that's what makes it interesting. Five chances, it's a deal, how about it?"

The man sighed deeply, taking it as tacit agreement.

"Very well. I guess you're planning to use that old trick again, intending to leave him with nothing and utterly destroyed at the last minute?"

"I'm not going to actually control how things go." The man shook his head quite seriously. "Besides, like you said, it's an old trick—if he actually gets it done, it'll be a good thing for me."

"Interesting." Mist chuckled softly, interspersed with gasps and seductive singing. "So, the second guess: you no longer know what he's trying to do, do you?"

"Yes," the man said, his brow furrowed and his jaw twitching nervously, as if he were enduring intense pain.

"Very good, the third guess—" The mist lengthened its tone, its panting becoming more pronounced. The singing grew louder and longer, accompanied by the cruel sound of a sharp blade piercing flesh. "—Are you prepared to bear the price of time reversal?"

"No," the man said with difficulty.

Before he finished speaking, one after another, wandering protrusions burst forth beneath his skin. Although they were clearly covered by this human skin, they seemed to exist outside of flesh and blood. Where they wandered, they either protruded teeth or eyeballs, turning a perfectly normal face into an utterly abstract one, like a sponge being squeezed in someone's hand.

Seeing his appearance, the being in the mist finally erupted in a high-pitched cry. Then came a satisfied groan, followed by the renewed soft moans.

"Very good, very good," He said contentedly, and then fell silent, not intending to continue the speculation.

The man immediately clenched his fists, and the enormous form hidden beneath the human skin tore through the disguise with such force that it almost stirred up a tsunami in the Empyrean.

"Continue—ask!" the Tzeentch roared the command.

"Don't rush," Mist said in a more normal tone, but a smile was already taking root within it, and a certain malicious desire was churning within.

"What I know now is enough for me. You gave him authority, but you didn't define the boundaries. You allowed a mad mortal to wield power he should never have touched."

"Therefore, you lose control of the future. You don't know if your existence will be torn apart by time in the next second and then replaced. This sense of emptiness and confusion about the future is almost tearing you apart."

"Isn't that right, brother?"

An arm emerged from the mist, bloodied and raw, the wound gaping open, as if it had just been injured. This hand gently cradled the nebula that the Tzeentch had transformed into, and sadly squeezed it.

"Delicious," Slaanesh whispered. "We're a pair of utterly insane scum, willing to do anything to satisfy ourselves. What will we do if they find out?"

The nebula did not answer, but continued to spin. And within that curtain of water, countless towering trees had completely buried the figures of the Caliban.

Even the gods don't know what will happen next.