Late Judgment (19, 9K Chapter)
The Lion El'Jonson opened its eyes, but saw only darkness.
Ironically, in that instant, the first thought that broke free from his logical thinking was a question: Am I blind?
It wasn't until several seconds later that he realized the answer wasn't that simple. He had merely lost one of the "special abilities" granted by the gene-editing project. But even if he could no longer see the darkness as he used to, the helmet's visor should still be helpful in this situation.
The Lion El'Jonson raised its paw and touched its cheek; the touch was soft, made of flesh and blood, not steel.
This seemed like a subtle reminder—but he wasn't really bothered by it, since his helmet had been taken.
Upon realizing this, a vast, complex, and surging sum of information rushed into his mind without hesitation, and then his senses, which had become very dull to the Primarch, began to rapidly awaken.
The Lion El'Jonson felt the cold on his exposed face, while his sense of smell detected a faint, damp scent of the forest. Together, they began to aid his intuition.
Within two seconds, Lion Aljonson had deduced the general course of events—first, the persistent numbness on his tongue meant that he had recently experienced a Warp magic teleportation, or psionic teleportation.
His experience over the past ten thousand years told him that he would only feel that unpleasant numbness when he experienced either of the two situations mentioned above. Secondly, his weapons and helmet had been taken away, and he hadn't even been left with his belt.
This means that someone could have easily killed him, but chose not to.
The Lion El'Jonson of Seraphax immediately began to chew on the name.
Finally, and most importantly, a faint light appeared in front of him, shining down on his feet and forming a path.
In this situation, it was as if someone had opened a door for him at just the right moment, and behind that door was a bright world; even if it was only slightly ajar, it would be enough to illuminate his path.
A hint of anger rose within the Lion El'Jonson.
He knew Seraphax and could certainly discern the hidden agenda behind this so-called "just right" approach. And it was precisely because of this that his murderous intent intensified.
The Lion El'Jonson, expressionless, stepped onto the so-called path of light. He was unarmed and fearless.
Whatever Seraphax intends to do, his answer will always be "no"—no matter his initial intentions, no matter how excellent his qualities were, once he has compromised with Chaos, there is no turning back.
Chaos doesn't seek out partners; it only needs slaves. Throughout history, anyone who has tried to exploit it, understand it, analyze it, or even just glimpse it from afar has met with disaster.
The most famous of these victims is now worshipped as a god and savior by humanity throughout the galaxy.
The Lion El'Jonson walked into the bright finish line.
He noticed nothing amiss, which led to many cold reflections. However, the world that appeared before him at the end of the path could only be described as "beautiful"—he saw a lush, verdant forest.
Unlike the unpleasant, diseased dark green of Caliban, every tree there was vibrant with life. In the morning dew, their leaves reflected the sunlight like thousands of jewels, stinging the eyes of Lion El'Jonson.
This brought no pain, only waves of escalating anger.
"Come out," he said coldly. "Stop with the sorcery and trickery, Seraphax. You know it won't work on me. Come out and face me, and that will be the end of it."
No one answered; only the soft rustling of leaves in the breeze could be heard. The Lion El'Jonson stood motionless, its gauntlets suddenly creaking.
He turned sharply and caught a glimpse of a semi-transparent curtain of water. In the center of the image, Seraphax, still depicted as a human figure against a backdrop of charred remains, sat on a dark stone chair.
His lost arms had all grown back, and the Lion El'Jonson's lost weapons and belt lay beside him on his right. An old man, covered in wounds, lay motionless beneath the towering steps of the Throne.
"No more witchcraft, no more intrigue, Primarch."
The corpse answered quietly. Its voice was dry, and its pronunciation was like firewood being roasted, its moisture constantly evaporating and crackling.
He only said this one sentence, and after he finished speaking, the water curtain completely disappeared.
The Lion El'Jonson frowned. He had intended to use the conversational style that Seraphax was very familiar with to extract more information, but the traitor seemed to have other plans—a fact that was confirmed after a footstep was heard.
The footsteps were soft yet crisp, the steps skillful, each one landing on the boundary between the soil in a way beyond human imagination. He came from about ten meters behind the Lion El'Jonson, without stepping on a single fallen leaf or brushing against a single blade of grass.
He knew the forest intimately.
Just like me.
The Lion El'Jonson's intuition gave him the answer before he even began to observe, but he still turned around to take a look.
He had witnessed many things that defied common sense, and even this—if it came true—he had prior experience with. Ferrus Manus had spoken to him more than once about the nightmarish, recurring killings and the so-called "Fulgrim."
Lion Alderson finally turned around.
In the real world, less than half a second may have passed, but the long series of considerations that occurred in his mind's eye were enough to make this swift turn seem somewhat impatient.
He wanted to prove something, and he had to prove it with his own eyes. And so, as if to repay his ominous premonition, he saw a young man, as tall as himself, standing right in front of him.
No, he's a bit taller than him. He stands very straight, that's why.
Blonde hair? Yes, blonde hair, long enough to fall over her shoulders, but it's been firmly tied up so it won't hinder the fight in any way.
Broad shoulders, taut muscles—very strong, extremely strong. The muscles stretched his robes taut, yet there was a perfect balance of softness in the details. That was fat; it would be more useful than pure muscle should an unexpected injury occur.
His hands hung naturally at his sides, calloused from his fingers to his palms, with his right hand resting relaxed against his waist.
"Have you seen enough?" the blond young man suddenly asked.
His voice was monotonous and direct, devoid of any politeness or threat; he was simply asking a question. Yet, for a moment, the Lion El'Jonson was at a loss for words.
Faced with his silence, the young man shook his head and couldn't help but complain, "I didn't expect you to be so old."
The Lion El'Jonson remained silent.
He didn't know how to handle the situation, and he didn't want to say anything—in fact, he felt terrible, like he'd punched something a thousand times softer than cotton.
A corner of his mind began to describe the awkwardness of the moment: You're deflated, Lion Aljonsen. Did you think you came here for a great battle? And to bring something noble like self-sacrifice so you could solve everything once and for all?
No, this time it won't be as you wish. You've saved many people in the past, but not this time. This time is different.
He exhaled a deep breath of air, carrying the scent of the forest, yet it was icy cold.
The young man was still looking at him.
He had two swords hanging at his waist, their leather sheaths unadorned and surprisingly simple. The straight hilts gleamed with the unique sheen of brand-new steel. The hilts were wrapped in layers of brown cloth, exceptionally clean, without a trace of sweat, blood, or any signs of friction or bleeding.
From these events, the Lion El'Jonson knew that the two longswords, which conformed to the Primarch's physique, had only recently been forged and assembled.
The young man patted them and said, "I forged these myself, what do you think? Seraphax said you might not accept fighting with a sword, but I think you will."
He spoke to himself, casually unfastening his sword and throwing one of them at the Lion El'Jonson.
He caught it with one hand, instinctively drawing the sword with perfect balance, the resulting sense of equilibrium so exquisite that it could only be described as "wonderful," leaving the Lion El'Jonson momentarily stunned.
He raised his head and looked at the young man, whose gaze was incredibly focused, fixed on his face. The longsword was already drawn and held in his hand, reflecting the morning sunlight.
Let's begin.
The young man spoke, then suddenly swung his arm, the blade flicking, turning the sunlight into a blinding dagger, which he hurled at the Lion El'Jonson. The lion squinted, unmoved by this dirty dueling tactic. He simply raised his hand, his longsword spinning, slashing downwards in a beautiful yet deadly arc. Simple, direct, devoid of technique, it was nothing more than pure power and speed.
Against ordinary enemies, this would undoubtedly be a fatal blow, but for others, it would be nothing more than a test, and the young man would naturally fall into the latter category.
As his blond hair fluttered, he tightened his face, exhaled deeply, and thrust out with both hands, his sword striking out before the Lion El'Jonson's downward slash. He didn't use any special techniques either, but because he was wielding the sword with both hands, this strike was far superior to the Lion El'Jonson's slash in both power and speed.
In the blink of an eye, his longsword had reached the Lion El'Jonson's face.
Wow, that's fast!
Amidst the flashing sword light and the moment of life and death, only this question-like exclamation surfaced in the Lion El'Jonson's mind. He thought of nothing else—in fact, he didn't need to think of anything.
He only needed to take a step back to perfectly dodge the thrust. At the same time, he clenched his left fist and threw a punch that struck the center of the young man's longsword with pinpoint accuracy.
He applied only a little force, yet it was enough to completely destroy the sword's balance. With a muffled thud, the longsword in the young man's hand inevitably lost its accuracy and fell askew downwards.
A shadow of surprise flashed across the young man's face. The Lion El'Jonson glanced at him, then suddenly raised his right leg and viciously kicked at his shin. If this strike landed, the fight would have to end. But the Lion El'Jonson didn't believe his opponent would fall to such a move, so in the next second, as the intercepting kick was blocked by the longsword, he swung his left fist again.
"Bang!"
A heavy thud echoed through the forest, scattering dew across the ground. The grass swayed, happily accepting this generous gift born from cruel violence. If blood were to be shed afterward, they would surely gladly accept it as well.
The young man slowly straightened up.
He was knocked back several meters by the Lion El'Jonson's seemingly simple straight punch. His clothes on his left shoulder were torn, and the skin underneath was bruised and swollen, so it was probably not a good sight to behold.
The Lion El'Jonson remained standing in place, not moving, but simply held the sword to its face, then gripped it with both hands in a dueling salute.
His gaze was calm—in fact, it could even be described as peaceful. It was as if he were not in the midst of a strange yet extremely dangerous battle, but rather educating a younger generation in his own mansion. The two were merely sparring with wooden swords.
Seeing this, the young man's anger was finally ignited.
He frowned, his face, not yet fully covered by a beard, gradually contorting into a shape Lion El'Jonson had never seen before, yet was all too familiar with. Anger flowed through every detail, making his face increasingly inhuman and grotesque, yet the human features remained.
The Lion El'Jonson sighed inwardly, feeling a lump in his throat.
Once again, he reluctantly realized that he had changed. If it were before, he wouldn't have felt any emotional fluctuation at this moment.
In fact, in the past, "this moment" would never have come, because he would have used the most terrifying and brutal tactics from the very beginning to ensure that he could kill the young man in the shortest amount of time, and then try to kill Seraphax and any other possible enemies.
Yes, this is Lion Al-Jonson—an efficient and ruthless predator who doesn't argue, doesn't waver, doesn't hesitate, and only kills.
Many people were deeply confused after learning the true nature of this man hidden beneath the guise of the so-called King of Knights. However, there were others who tried to persuade him.
They failed; instead, they were consumed by that inhuman rage.
"I will be more careful," the young man said in a low, serious voice, ending the Lion El'Jonson's contemplation.
He didn't argue that "this isn't a sword fight," or roar that "you're using underhanded tactics." He simply emphasized that he would be more careful. He didn't even care that the Lion El'Jonson was wearing armor while he wasn't. This meant he accepted it all; he understood that the sword fight was just a pretense.
The truth is, they're going to fight to the death here.
The Lion El'Jonson sighed.
He couldn't recall ever sighing before, and strangely, he didn't find it offensive; rather, he felt a sense of relief. Then he asked, "Before we really begin, is there anything else you'd like to say?"
"What did you say?" the young man retorted.
"Anything is fine." The Lion El'Jonson showed a rare hint of patience. "You're clearly different from me, and I'd like to know where that difference comes from."
Why do you care?
The young man raised his eyebrows impatiently, his eyes gleaming. He raised his sword and began to stretch his shoulders, looking just like a bull poised to pounce.
The Lion El'Jonson casually placed its gaze on his shoulder and calmly delivered the final blow.
"Because you're going to die soon, child," he said gently.
The young man took a deep breath, shut his mouth, and charged at him again, this time even faster than before.
Where he stepped, mud flew everywhere, his footprints so deep they looked as if someone had been bombarded. His golden hair fluttered, his longsword was raised high, and his emerald eyes held only primal and pure killing intent—but the Lion El'Jonson felt only pity.
Why do you fight? For whom do you wield your sword? He wanted to ask these questions, but he didn't. He simply held his sword horizontally and struck, blocking the young man's first slash. He then immediately retreated, dodging the second horizontal slash that followed.
The whole process was as smooth as flowing water; his steel boots creaked, and the air was torn apart by the absurd explosive power of this seemingly old body, producing a hollow, crisp sound.
Seeing that his two sword strikes had missed, the young man immediately withdrew his hand and refused to pursue further. He rallied his strength, returned his sword to the center line, and then assumed a perfectly standard starting stance. He stood solemnly in place, brandished the tip of his sword, and extended an invitation to the Lion El'Jonson.
Although Lion couldn't remember the last time he had done this, he stood in the same position, gripping his sword with both hands, and pressed it against the metal. The two pieces of steel immediately collided with a dull thud.
The young man stepped forward with fury in his eyes, swinging his sword like a storm, shattering the air and even the dust within it. In just two seconds, he unleashed eleven consecutive strikes, each one a perfect display of power and arc.
And what did the Lion El'Jonson do?
He blocked all eleven sword strikes.
He didn't use his intuition, nor did he employ any underhanded tactics; it was simply pure swordsmanship, a pure crushing victory.
Faced with the young man's first five sword strikes, he controlled them using the "balance" technique long practiced in Caliban swordsmanship. He disrupted the balance of each of the five strikes by striking or parrying them, making it difficult for them to cause any damage.
As for the more dangerous latter six sword strikes, he used a completely different technique. It came from a sword manual compiled by Fulgrim and his finest swordsmen, which encouraged and required practitioners to anticipate the enemy's moves and understand their intentions.
In other words, it aims to enable practitioners to intercept enemy attacks before they are even formed and to immediately counterattack using sword techniques.
This sounds like nothing short of a fantasy, and even Fulgrim himself considered whether to remove this actually insignificant section from the book.
Whether he ultimately did it or not, the Lion El'Jonson didn't know, but he had completely mastered it. The young man's last six sword strikes were all intercepted by him using this method, without even a chance to retaliate.
And now, the eleventh sword of the young man has come to an end.
The Lion El'Jonson raised its hand, and before he could sheathe his sword or regain his footing, it casually unleashed its own sword strike.
That is, the twelfth sword.
This sword strike was ordinary, commonplace, a basic, utterly basic forehand slash. Launched with both hands, the blade traced a graceful arc from the back of the shoulder, slashing towards the young man. Its power was so great that it even sent chills down his spine.
Blood splattered out, and several birds flew over the treetops, chirping hoarsely, and gradually disappeared into the distance.
The young man staggered back a few steps, panting, clutching his shoulder as blood trickled between his fingers. He looked bewildered, clearly not expecting things to turn out this way.
The Lion El'Jonson looked at him calmly, then suddenly threw away the sword in its hand.
"What did Seraphax do to you?" Lion Al-Jonson asked earnestly.
Why do you care?
The young man retorted dismissively, then released his grip and glanced at his bloodied shoulder.
The Lion El'Jonson's wound was both long and deep, cutting through the skin, fat, and muscle of his left shoulder, revealing bloody tendons and tendons entwined around the bone.
For an ordinary person, this would be a serious injury. For the Astartes, it would take some time to stop the bleeding. But for the Primarch? In just a few words, he had already stopped the bleeding, and the flesh at the wound had even begun to twitch.
"I'm not concerned about you, I'm just pitying you. You're fighting for someone you don't understand at all, you don't know what he's done, in fact, I think you know absolutely nothing about him."
As the Lion El'Jonson spoke, a dignified air finally appeared on his aged face, befitting his status. Naturally, his words sounded extremely harsh as a result.
He was met with a sneer.
The young man straightened up and shook his head at him. He said nothing, but his figure suddenly vanished from the spot.
Before the Lion El'Jonson could react, an extremely pungent and irritating smell rushed into its nostrils, like a corpse that had been fermenting under rotting leaves for hundreds of days and nights.
And then--
--
--Luther looked up at the water curtain in front of him and saw incredulously that Lion Aljonson had been pierced through the arm by a sword, along with his armor.
Seraphax seemed to say something, but he didn't listen. He just stared intently at the water curtain, watching the battle, not daring to look away for a moment.
He watched as Lion Aljonsen quickly went from being in control to being on the defensive.
Luther knew the reason, but he didn't understand. He had to look up at the charred corpse sitting in the chair.
"Finally, you've spared me some attention, Sir?" Seraphax asked with a touch of humor.
Here, in this vast, dark space, his voice became very soft. In fact, extremely soft, almost excessively so. He sounded less like he was in the same room as Luther and more like...
A flash of inspiration struck Luther's mind.
"Another world--"
He struggled to utter the words through blood and pain, then gasped for breath. Several minutes later, the old knight finally had the strength to finish the sentence.
"--Is that right?" Luther asked angrily, extremely weak, but still daring to unleash his fury.
Seraphax did not answer, but simply gazed into the distance. But there was nothing in the distance, only darkness, endless darkness.
Luther turned his head with difficulty and saw many corpses clinging to the darkness, their hands outstretched, swaying. Some fingers were broken, while others were beginning to melt into blood. They were covered in wounds, exposing sickly yellow layers of fat or sticky internal organs.
For some reason, Luther thought they were crying.
"They are indeed weeping," Seraphax said. "The body is dead, but the soul cannot rest. I need energy, at least inexhaustible energy for the time being, and that is why they suffer here. That is why they weep, Sir."
Luther, panting, slowly sat up straight against the steps and forced himself to calm down.
What did you do to them?
The charred corpse looked down at him, its jaw opening and closing with a creaking sound.
"I killed them, along with their families, friends, and everyone I knew and didn't know. Then I imprisoned them all here, providing them with enormous amounts of energy for my ritual in the most wicked way you can imagine. That's what I did, Sir. So, if you have any judgment to make, you can begin now."
Luther did not get what he wanted; the old knight looked unusually calm, like a blood-stained, broken statue.
"A galaxy?" he whispered his conjecture.
Seraphax shook his head. "It's much more than that."
"A sector?" Luther persisted, throwing out his cold guess.
Once again, Seraphax shook his head.
"You won't guess the right answer, Sir. Planets, galaxies, sectors. If you want, I can even give you a holographic sandbox so you can spend some time pulling up a map of the galaxy and pointing them out one by one. But I can give you a hint—no matter how many dead bodies you see, they're all just Caliban."
Luther fell silent, as if suddenly succumbing to the numbness brought on by his illness. This was the demeanor of those patients who didn't have much time left; terminally ill, they weren't awake like normal people, but they couldn't truly fall asleep either. In this half-dreaming, half-awake state, life became like a long corridor filled with mirrors, each face reflected in them distorted beyond recognition.
The charred corpse looked down at him, awaiting an answer. After a long while, the old knight asked in a hoarse voice.
How many?
The charred corpse let out a hollow laugh, as if in approval.
"You are indeed very knowledgeable, Sir. However, if you wish to obtain a definitive answer, I can only apologize—I haven't calculated it carefully; I once did, but later abandoned the idea."
Luther closed his eyes knowingly.
He understood; there was no way he couldn't understand. Admittedly, he could have used his reason to deceive himself and confine the answer to a quadrant of rules, but unfortunately, he wasn't that kind of person.
Caliban's Knight Luther is a hero, upright and brave; the First Legion's Grand Master Luther is a traitor, despicable and cowardly; the Inquisition's first agent Luther is a madman who knows why the world is so dark, and he can even count how many kinds of man-eating monsters there are in the galaxy—these identities have nothing in common except for their names and faces. What truly connects them, making them all "Luther," is...
From beginning to end, there has only been one quality.
Luther opened his eyes.
"Who gave you permission to do this?" he suddenly asked, his voice still weak.
Before Lion El-Jonson's battle began, he had already endured a fierce struggle. Seraphax summoned a tidal wave of magic that surrounded him.
Luther fought his way out with all his might, intending to rush up the stairs, kill Seraphax, and shove the eagle emblem into his head to end it all. But he had barely reached the bottom of the stairs when he was slammed to the ground by an inexplicable force.
The eagle emblem vanished into the darkness, disappearing without a trace. The demonic tide also vanished in an instant, the roars of the Daemon, yearning for his soul, echoing in the darkness for a very, very long time.
Therefore, from any perspective or by any definition, he was out of ammunition and trapped in a situation where victory was impossible. Yet he still dared to ask this question, and he asked it without Dreadnought or hesitation.
Seraphax looked at him, and when she spoke again, her voice sounded somewhat surprised.
"You—I must admit, Sir, you're quite different from everyone else."
"Who gave you such power?" Luther asked, enunciating each word clearly. He leaned against the steps, unarmed and covered in wounds. He was clearly looking up at the charred corpse that wielded unparalleled strength, yet he remained as calm as the blindfolded knight in the old Aldurukh Monastery.
"You couldn't have obtained them on your own, Seraphax," the old knight said slowly. "So, among those four, there is indeed one extremely shameless evil entity supporting you, even going so far as to grant you this power."
The charred corpse stared at him intently and asked, "Will you reveal His name?"
Luther shrugged a few times with a mocking smirk, then laughed silently.
"Tzeentch," he then said. "I said, so what? Will He show himself and take my soul? Let Him do as He pleases, and you too, Seraphax, do as you please."
"You and the so-called gods behind you are cut from the same cloth, lowly and despicable, only knowing how to hide in the stinking ditch and perform a few petty tricks that are not worthy of being performed in a proper manner. It's like squatting on a second-floor balcony and throwing bricks down, do you understand? If someone unfortunate enough to be killed by you, you immediately burst into laughter, as if there is some extraordinary ingenuity hidden in your constant throwing of bricks."
"Have you finished speaking, Sir?" Charred Corpse asked respectfully.
"Not yet," Luther said, panting. "There's one last thing."
"What's up?"
What are you going to do to me?
"Erase you, replace you, set things right," the charred corpse said, without hesitation or any other attempt to evade the question. His sincerity was astonishing, as if Luther were still the Grand Master he once was, and he himself remained the knight's apprentice.
"In what way?" Luther asked, his eyes almost closed.
"In a way you've never imagined, never seen before, Sir," Seraphax told him softly. "Caliban is where it all began, do you understand? The First Legion, the First Primarch —what honor we once held, my lord. Have you ever thought of this in the endless years you've stood guard here?"
"Our brothers are either too stubborn or too frivolous. Some are too adept at adapting, others only want to focus on killing. They have strayed from the duties set forth by the Emperor and gone astray. Only we are not like that; we are different."
"We are the original prototypes of all legions, the pioneers of their systems and tactics. Even the taboos stored in our arsenal are enough to engulf a thousand worlds—!"
His voice grew increasingly excited and high-pitched, as if he had been holding it in for a very long time, and only today had he finally found someone to confide in.
Luther was still listening, but his eyes were closed; he had no strength left and only wanted to hear Seraphax's final confession.
At the same time, he kept reciting a prayer.
"But we failed," the Dark Angels said bitterly. "We were crippled by the rebellion, we failed in our duty, we neglected our mission."
The charred corpse stood up and walked down the steps. Fresh blood gushed out of its decaying, dried-up skin, rolling down the grayish-white stones like scalding lava.
"But who should be blamed? I searched through time, through every layer of history, and finally came to the same conclusion— the Caliban's rebellion was inevitable."
"Was I behind this, creating the time paradox? No, not me. I was merely a catalyst. Long before me, the seeds of this disaster were sown. The Chaos Contamination, the Rattlesnake's Awakening, the Watchers in the Dark's concealment, even your birth, the Primarch's arrival."
The charred corpse stared wide-eyed, its charred tendons crumbling and rolling off its face, while its eyes, like glass beads embedded in their sockets, began to spin rapidly.
"I can't change anything, I don't know where to begin!" Seraphax roared. "All I know is that things shouldn't be like this!"
He took a fierce step, reaching Luther in a single stride. The old knight was barely breathing, but Seraphax grabbed him without a second thought. He gripped Luther's shoulders tightly with his melting fingers and roared at him.
"We are the primordial Angel of Death, and we were meant to turn things around when that catastrophe occurred. Our Primarch should have done the same."
"He's not Sanguinius, he's not weak. He's not a foolish, ambitious man like Horus. He's not excessively cruel like Ferrus Manus, nor is he as slick as Fulgrim. He's Lion Aljonson, you understand? He can defeat the savage Leman Russ Russ in hand-to-hand combat, he can outmaneuver Angron in military strategy. He has the willpower of Rogal Dorn, but he's not as stubborn. He can be as unyielding as Perturabo, but he will never allow himself to become a laughingstock in the galaxy. I will make him defeat these Primarch, Luther, I will—"
Seraphax hadn't finished speaking when his voice abruptly stopped.
"--Jazz?" he asked cautiously after a few seconds.
The old knight did not answer him. His broken body stood limply, like a rag doll in the enemy's hands, barely able to stand. Pain still lingered on his face, his lips were slightly parted, and his tongue was stuck stiffly in the back of his jaw.
Ten thousand years of perseverance, all alone, past achievements.
All of that vanished with his death. There was no tragic sacrifice, no heroic act of exchanging one life for another, only a few ashes left behind after he had done everything he could.
Seraphax slowly released his grip, letting him fall to the ground.
It was over. He realized. Luther was dead, and now there was only one thing left to do.
Overjoyed, he turned and stepped onto the stone steps.
--
Karyl released his grip, letting half the corpse slip from his hands.
Gunfire roared overhead, and shouts, screams, and screams filled his ears. The chaos on the surface of Kamas was beyond human comprehension; everyone there was slowly succumbing to the madness brought on by war.
Only he remained calm.
He looked up at the crimson sky. Dawn had not yet broken for Kamas, at least not for this hemisphere. What could he see? No one knew.
"I heard you," Karyl Lohars said. "I received your message, Luther."