51: Belated Judgment (20, 8K)
Lion Alderson asked himself – Have I ever thought about this?
Such a thing? Which kind? Oh, excuse me, Great First Army Commander, are you referring to your talent? Your self-proclaimed unique talent, one of a kind in the entire galaxy?
Over the past ten thousand years, you've made it incredibly fascinating. You've led countless armies and countless people into that seemingly silent forest, only to leave from the other side.
On the other side—there was no dampness, no chill, no mist that hung over the tops of every giant tree like a ravenous beast. A safe place, a tranquil place. Like behind a secure fortification, or on a deck of a warship.
But you're wrong. It doesn't belong to you alone.
I was wrong?
For some reason, Lion Aljonsen was not surprised. As the pain surged through his nerves after the blade had left, only one thought crossed the mind of the aged Lion El'Jonson.
What did he sacrifice for this?
The Lion El'Jonson took a step back, stood still, and calmly looked into the young man's eyes.
They were already gleaming, but now they shone with an indescribable brilliance. The Lion El'Jonson surveyed them, and despite his own bleeding, the hostility in his eyes temporarily vanished.
The young man did not press his advantage; he stood still, his face still contorted with rage.
The Lion El'Jonson could see that the fuel for this fire wasn't just the insults he had personally inflicted, but also a different kind of anger towards himself—he seemed to be asking himself: Had I broken the law of fairness?
The Lion El'Jonson revealed a faint smile, then walked aside without any hesitation and bent down to pick up the longsword he had thrown away. Throughout the entire process, the broad-shouldered young man simply stared at him coldly, without saying a word or moving.
"Achieving this level of proficiency is very difficult; you need a lot of practice—tell me, child, have you meditated on it?"
"Don't call me that!" the young man snapped. "This isn't the time for idle chatter!"
The Lion El'Jonson raised his sword, ignoring the pain in his right arm. He deftly twirled the sword and, with extraordinary elegance, performed another swordsman's salute.
So the battle began again, and this time it was far more brutal than the last.
The Lion El'Jonson held back, launching its attack. Each seemingly ordinary strike posed the greatest challenge to the young man, subjecting him to rigorous tests in skill, mentality, and physiology.
If he makes even the slightest mistake or is even a little careless, he will pay the price in blood or even with his life.
A chilling killing intent permeated the forest. The young man, drenched in sweat, wielded his sword with increasing focus. He had temporarily cast aside everything else, throwing himself entirely into this battle—he could not resist the Lion El'Jonson's sincere invitation.
However, the inviters were not always as sincere as they seemed. Soon, in the seventeenth round of the second sword duel, the young man, who had lasted longer than before, was defeated again.
Did he do anything wrong? Probably not. He was wary of the Lion El'Jonson's skill and didn't intend to suffer another loss, but the Lion El'Jonson still found a flaw in a series of sword flashes that wasn't really a flaw at all.
The aged swordsman immediately took advantage of this, interrupting his original sword path and suddenly thrusting out with his sword, accompanied by a series of footsteps as he charged straight at the young man. The young man immediately realized that he could neither retreat nor block.
He couldn't retreat; the sword was much faster than anyone else and could easily catch up with him. He also couldn't block; otherwise, the charging Lion El'Jonson would insidiously trip him, causing him to lose his balance and fall to the ground.
What's the difference between falling to the ground in a sword fight and death?
The young man had no choice but to grit his teeth and endure, ultimately paying the price with a stab wound to his right wrist. He groaned as he staggered back, Lion El'Jonson, having landed a successful blow, did not pursue, remaining standing in place.
His wounds had long since stopped bleeding. Even though the intensity of the battle just now was unimaginable, it couldn't stop his body from healing itself. At this moment, apart from the damaged part of his armor, he looked completely uninjured.
The young man, however, looked quite wretched. The wound on his shoulder was far from healed, and he had a gruesome gash on his wrist, clearly not caused by a simple stab wound.
For Lion El'Jonson, twisting its wrist after a successful thrust is instinctive. In the fight just now, he did not suppress his instincts, so the young man has effectively lost a usable hand.
Even if he could still wield the sword with his right hand, he would never be as agile as before.
"I've never really liked meditation," the Lion El'Jonson said slowly. "It requires the meditator to withdraw all their senses and temporarily immerse themselves in the tranquility of their mind."
"Unfortunately, in the first few decades of my life, I never even experienced the feeling that this word represents, let alone a peaceful place. Moreover, for someone like me, suppressing all senses is tantamount to blinding or deafening an ordinary person."
"It took me a long time to learn how to meditate correctly. How long did it take you, child?"
The young man, panting heavily, looked both resentful and helpless. He finally retorted with a curse from Caliban: "Old man, what are you doing here?"
The Lion El'Jonson simply laughed it off.
"I just wanted to illustrate how much effort it took me to master the ability you just demonstrated."
"Ability?" The young man repeated dismissively, shaking his head. "That's a gift from my father, my honor."
His answer made the Lion El'Jonson frown, but he remained patient.
Even if it originated from the hands of the Emperor, it cannot be called a gift. No matter how you view it, you cannot conceal the fact that its essence actually comes from the very source of nightmares in this world. It is also part of the nightmare, and it is our essence. If we are an oil painting, it is the base color. You must have reverence for it, child.
However, upon hearing this, the young man immediately glared angrily, switched the sword to his equally injured left arm, and raised the longsword at the Lion El'Jonson.
"I'm fed up with your incessant nagging; you're like a complaining old woman! I shouldn't be wasting my breath arguing with you, but nightmares? What do you know about them?!"
"It arrived when I needed it most; it helped me kill those traitors. Without it, I would never have survived their attack! It is the Emperor's affirmation and reward for me! It is a symbol of justice and glory for me and my legion!"
Traitor?
The Lion El'Jonson squinted at him, scrutinized him for a few seconds, and then its expression suddenly turned cold.
"Traitor?" he uttered the unpleasant word softly.
"Yes—" the young man nodded with a cold laugh. " —Konrad Curze Curze, Fulgrim, Angron, and..."
Before he could finish speaking, an old but enraged Lion El'Jonson pounced on him and plunged him into the depths of the forest, followed by a series of brutal blows. A steel sword pierced deep into the young man's abdomen, blood gushing out, his intestines and liver being shredded.
The young man roared in pain and launched a counterattack, delivering several deep and vicious blows to the attacker. The counterweight ball at the hilt of the sword became another weapon, smashing the attacker's head until it bled profusely.
The attacker could have actually dodged the counterattacks, but he didn't. Instead, he chose to continue his work expressionlessly—with one hand, he gripped the two-thirds of the blade of the longsword tightly, using the rest as a short sword.
Before the sword broke from the excessive violence, the young man's abdomen had been completely ripped open, his ribs and internal organs exposed, and thick, fleshy blood splattered all over the ground.
At that moment, just as the Lion El'Jonson's sword broke, the attack had only been going on for two seconds.
The young man roared and shoved him away, staggering to his feet while clutching his injured abdomen. Without even looking at the wound, he stuffed the contents back in, pressed the torn flesh together, and immediately threw himself back into the fight.
Now, he had the advantage in weaponry; his sharp canines gleamed angrily behind his bloodied lips—if possible, he would probably bite the Lion El'Jonson's neck hard.
But Lion Alderson would do it first.
He calmly dodged, searching for an opportunity, waiting patiently, even as the young man's attacks were exceptionally fierce, always managing to inflict new wounds on his armor or cheek.
The calm he displayed at this moment was completely different from before. This emotion did not actually stem from any real peace; on the contrary, it was a disguise of a completely opposing emotion—violence.
Lion Aldridge wanted to kill him, completely.
But why?
The young man was equally puzzled, but don't misunderstand, his question was simply why the Lion El'Jonson had only now revealed its true killing intent—so, as he pursued, he packaged his question and asked it in a provocative manner.
"I'm really curious why you've only just gotten serious now. Is it because you're a traitor like them? If not, why are just a few names enough to provoke you like this?"
He laughed with a fiercely competitive air, behaving like a haughty knight, the kind of knight who occupies the center of every oil painting, raising his flag or sword aloft.
But his eyes remained icy cold, contrasting sharply with the Lion El'Jonson's face, which showed no emotion whatsoever in the face of these words, remaining as rigid as a sculpture.
But he still answered.
"Gifts, honors, rewards—are these the only things you're attached to?"
"I am a knight!"
The young man roared as he quickly caught up with him, slicing off the Lion El'Jonson's left shoulder armor in a few swift movements. The complex components beneath were immediately exposed; the servo components and artificial muscles gleamed with a cold luster. Before he could even catch his breath, another sword struck.
The intense heat and electric current from the destruction coursed through the Lion El'Jonson's body, but he withstood it like steel, even managing to dodge subsequent attacks.
"Foolish," the Lion El'Jonson said coldly. "Knighthood is just a dead title; anyone—even morally corrupt scum—can become a knight. Didn't you learn that in the monastery? Compared to true virtue and justice, honor is but a wisp of smoke."
"Honor is the very foundation of the Order!" the young man retorted sharply. "Without its guidance, how could an ordinary person develop a heart inclined towards goodness within just a few years of training? How many people can truly grasp the virtues you speak of in the first decade or so of their lives? Only by pursuing honor, upholding honor, and defending honor can we find true heroes!"
"Even a deformed tree might occasionally bear the right fruit, but that's just a coincidence. Besides, with a leader like you in charge—"
The Lion El'Jonson smiled wryly and uttered a sentence that spoke volumes more than any harsh words, "--I believe most of them have already fallen?"
The young man's face darkened visibly, just like Lion El'Jonson's.
He stopped, took a deep breath, raised his longsword, and gritted his teeth as he replied, "The traitors are all dead."
The Lion El'Jonson smiled, but there was no warmth in his smile.
"How does it feel to have killed your brother? I bet you're very proud."
They deserve to die!
The young man gritted his teeth, his emerald green eyes gradually becoming bloodshot.
"Do you know how many people, how many worlds, Konrad Curze Curze has slaughtered? Do you know the atrocities committed by Fulgrim and his legions? And Angron, that mindless Butcher's Nails's puppet. How dare you speak for them? You don't deserve your name!"
The Lion El'Jonson clenched his fists, suppressing the urge to say anything more, lest the young man see through him. He didn't want him to gain the upper hand, not even the slightest possibility.
But in that instant, a sharp pain he couldn't even describe erased the shock he felt upon hearing those words.
It seemed to well up from the depths of his mind, but perhaps it didn't. He didn't know how to describe the feeling, only wanting to try to capture it, to adapt to it, just as he adapted to the forest—but the pain was fleeting, replaced by a strange tingling sensation.
He clenched his teeth, trying to endure, but the sensation of thousands of fingers lightly scratching the surface of his brain far outweighed any willpower he could muster at that moment.
A short, muffled groan escaped his throat, followed by a gush of blood from his nose and eyes.
The young man was still angry, but he also seemed quite taken aback.
He seemed to say something, but the Lion El'Jonson could no longer hear clearly; his ears were filled with another sound.
It was a furtive, rustling sound, and if one had to describe it, it was like a master thief trying to pry open Lion El'Jonson's skull with the lightest feather in the world.
No, not just trying, he's already succeeded.
The Lion El'Jonson felt a burning sensation, followed by a dizzying spin. His senses began to malfunction; all his senses, which he used to ascertain his surroundings, began to fail, with his vision being the first to be affected.
In his eyes, the young man was sometimes standing not far away, and sometimes not at all. Then came the other senses, not one after another, but all at once, making a series of mistakes.
One moment he could smell the dampness unique to the forest, and the next he felt the air was extremely dry. For a few seconds, he even had a daze, thinking that he was in the middle of a killing field, and his enemies were the Drukhari. The air was filled with the dusty smell of the flesh and blood of these filthy bastards.
Unlike true decay, it is masked by the frivolous pleasure concocted through various drugs and profane techniques, yet it still cannot escape the stench of someone who should have died long ago.
Where am I? Who am I fighting? Lion Aljonson angrily questioned himself.
His senses were completely confused, and all sorts of cruel scenes from his memories came rushing back one by one. The ghosts that had fallen at his hands were taking Vengeance on him in a bizarre way.
Second Company, they shattered his few remaining moments of clarity, pulling and dragging him away. The Lion El'Jonson vaguely felt himself sinking into the center of a quagmire of rotting carcasses, and just a hair's breadth away, those things would engulf his mouth and nose.
But that won't work.
No.
He must escape.
"You carry too much, Primarch. So many branches have been cut off from our past, and of all the First Primarch among them, only you are so weary. You even have to govern two Legions, but those runaway wolves are not your responsibility at all."
"Ten thousand years have passed. Have you ever had a day of peace? Have you ever been able to lay down this immense burden? Just like our lord, the Emperor of mankind, neither you nor he should have suffered this misfortune."
Shut up. The Lion El'Jonson tried to roar, but he couldn't make a sound, not even the slightest one.
The world before him became a vortex, encompassing everything: his past, his sword, his legion's insignia, his memories, his pride, and the unacknowledged and unnecessarily acknowledged honor.
All of this began to spin, then twist, and gradually become a pale, sinister, and hideous face.
The Lion El'Jonson suddenly heard a sharp sound, not the sound of a sword, but the sound of another weapon. Before he could even think of what this weapon was, his body instinctively raised his hands.
The long-lost Lion Sword inexplicably reappeared in his hand at that moment, blocking a pair of brutally sharp claws.
Electric arcs crackled and crackled as they coiled around the claws, and the collision of claws and sword blades created a blinding flash of light from the disintegrating force field, cruelly illuminating the attacker in the darkness.
With black hair and black eyes, deep-set eye sockets, and cheeks so thin that not a single piece of flesh could be stuck to them, he was a tall, armored but still incredibly thin Nostramo man.
The Lion El'Jonson roared instinctively, "Konrad Curze?"
The Night Haunter burst into loud laughter.
"That's quite an intimate way to address you, brother—" He winked at the Lion El'Jonson. "--I've never heard you call me that before, but it doesn't matter, because I don't like it."
He smiled maliciously, and his figure suddenly disappeared from the spot. When he reappeared, his two sharp claws were already attacking the Lion El'Jonson's back from an angle that was impossible to defend against.
However, just as he was about to succeed, he suddenly stopped his attack and stepped back into the darkness. Only then did the Lion El'Jonson realize something as if waking from a dream.
Some unfamiliar memories seized the opportunity to rush into his brain, pouring in nightmarish things.
His head was throbbing, but his Primarch- level thinking ability still allowed him to quickly extract a few keywords. Some of them were very familiar to him, such as the Horus Heresy; others were completely unfamiliar to him, such as...
Konrad Curze Curze, a traitor?
More things are biting the tail of the word "traitor," rushing in.
Skinning, atrocities, horror, cannibalism, unnecessary violence, mentally deranged madmen, those who need to be reformed, filthy wretches.
Countless titles and countless fragmented flashbacks flooded his mind. The Lion El'Jonson gritted his teeth and let out a low growl, which was met with a suspicious sneer.
"What tricks are you playing, huh, Lion?" The sinister voice came from behind him. "I've never seen you with your back to me before—when did you learn Vulkan's tactics?"
The Lion El'Jonson suddenly turned its head.
"Silence! Shut up!" he roared furiously, his eyes frantically searching the darkness. "You're not my brother!"
"Ha!"
The Night Haunter laughed again, its voice echoing all around, making the deserted ruins even more terrifying. The laughter continued to reverberate as the Lion El'Jonson stood still, pacing back and forth, its Lion Sword twirling restlessly in its hand.
He was starting to lose track of whether it was an illusion or reality, but Curze was always a troublemaker. His voice came from beside the Lion El'Jonson's ear, interrupting his thoughts at just the right moment.
"So you're finally admitting it?"
The Lion El'Jonson instinctively thrust out its sword, sparks flying, its two claws deflecting the blade. A dark shadow flashed by, the still-lit light illuminating his face, revealing sharp teeth and a deathly pale complexion, giving him an utterly ruthless appearance.
"We were never meant to be brothers!" Night Haunter said, charging madly toward him.
His posture was savage, and his face was indescribable. The Lion El'Jonson finally had time to observe him, but felt immense regret—this was no Konrad Curze Curze from his memories; this was a nightmare Ghost!
You are not him.
The Lion El'Jonson, panting, endured the excruciating pain in his mind and the pervasive sense of unreality, while simultaneously parrying with his sword, instinctively ensuring that he was not killed instantly by a surprise attack.
But he was not at his peak fighting strength after all. Faced with this frenzied attack, his armor was cut open in several places in one go. Metal fragments flew everywhere, and Night Haunter's black hair was torn and flew wildly in the gale.
He was still laughing, completely absorbed in his own world, each attack carrying absolute killing intent. The Lion El'Jonson found it increasingly difficult to defend himself; besides dealing with this monster who grew more and more excited with each fight, he also had to manage the pain in his head.
What's worse, just seeing this nightmare intensifies his pain—ultimately, it's the clash between what he sees and the familiar image in his memory. He's never seen Konrad Curze Curze so thin, so ghostly.
Not to mention the blasphemous and depraved armor decorations of human skin, skinned skulls, and broken bones. In a daze, half-asleep, the Lion El'Jonson suddenly had a question that made no sense.
He wondered, if Karyl Lohars saw this, would his first reaction be anger or laughter?
His question was interrupted by the hissing sound of claws cutting through the air, and a sharp pain shot through his flesh from below his left rib.
The Lion El'Jonson grunted, its eyes instinctively flashing with ferocity. With a horizontal punch, it sent the nightmare flying several meters, then pounced forward with a series of unthinking counter-sword techniques, without the slightest hesitation.
"Yes, that's it, Lion!" As he dodged, the monstrous creature, ravaged by madness, laughed maniacally in respect. "We're meant to fight each other! How can this galaxy contain so many terrifying monsters?"
This time, the Lion El'Jonson ignored him. He forced himself to focus all his attention on attacking, but things didn't go as planned. Not only did he fail to do so, but he was also distracted by the pain and even gave his enemy an opening.
The two bloody claws plunged into the sword light, cruelly and precisely piercing his breastplate and shattering the First Legion's insignia. Moreover, after the successful strike, the Night Haunter once again vanished into the darkness, leaving only its voice behind.
"That's really strange, Lion. I smell weakness in you. Were you distracted during the battle? That's not like you."
The Lion El'Jonson lowered his head, his senses still reeling from the chaos. Besides, even if they were fully conscious, tracking the monster while suffering from a constant, excruciating pain in his head would be no easy task. He simply closed his eyes, feeling his rapid heartbeat, and held his sword horizontally in front of his chest.
"Have you decided to stand there and wait to die?" Night Haunter asked.
He was taunting, the voice brushing past the Lion El'Jonson's ear and silently disappearing into the darkness, like a mischievous child. But the Lion El'Jonson remained unmoved, breathing rhythmically, ignoring the Wraith's words.
He angered him, and the monster roared as it burst out of the darkness, bringing with it a chilling whirlwind that stung the Lion El'Jonson's skin.
Two sharp claws lightly grazed his nose a fraction of a second later. The Lion El'Jonson opened its eyes at the perfect moment and saw an indescribable face. Time seemed to stand still at that moment.
The attack missed, and the Night Haunter, intending to disappear into the darkness once more, remained expressionless, yet his eyes held a complex Lion El'Jonson, his hands slowly clenching.
A roar resounded, and blood splattered. The Night Haunter began to bleed.
"Amazing," he exclaimed in surprise, seemingly oblivious to his injuries, his voice filled with a wisdom that was a stark contrast to the beast-like roars he had emitted when wounded.
"That's truly remarkable. How did you do that, Lion?"
His voice sounded confused, the emotion so genuine that the Lion El'Jonson was once again thrown into disarray.
He forced himself to remain calm, hoping to find an opportunity to break through the illusion set up by Seraphax, but the monster in the darkness spoke again, its voice, unique to the Nostramo people and possessing both cruelty and elegance, capturing his attention.
"Hissing. Damn it, "the Lion El'Jonson thought angrily.
"You've become silent—what? Are you tired of these verbal exchanges? Fine, fine, how about I reveal a secret to you, Lion? They don't know this secret, but you can."
A face emerged from the darkness; a pale Ghost stepped out with a smile, comically raising his hands, a series of skulls at his waist clattering together with muffled thuds. He bowed, then straightened up and gave another comical bow before speaking, his voice still soft.
"You asked me before, why betray?" Night Haunter's eyes widened, a frenzy raging within them. "The answer is actually quite simple, Lion, why not?"
The Lion El'Jonson clearly heard the sound of a nerve in its body taut to its limit and then snapping. Snap, just like that, it broke, without causing pain, only indescribable rage.
"Shut your filthy mouth!" Lion roared furiously. "You have no right to say such things with that face, you have no right!"
After he finished speaking, he paced back and forth, his entire face twitching nervously. This behavior even momentarily bewildered Night Haunter, who had initially tensed his body, bracing for a foreseeable attack, but—
" --Konrad Curze Curze will not betray you." Suddenly, the Lion El'Jonson said to him in a strong voice, but his eyes were as numb as those of an addict taking chemical drugs.
The Night Haunter stared at him, bewildered.
They also said I was crazy.
He shrugged, raised his paws, and walked playfully toward the Lion El'Jonson, who was still convulsing in place, a strange smile already appearing on his face.
--
The young man looked at his opponent, the elderly man, in confusion. He didn't understand what had happened, only that the old man was probably seriously injured and was now lying on the ground, convulsing.
Blood gushed from inside the armor, staining the ground red. This sight even extinguished his fighting spirit; after all, attacking someone who had lost the ability to resist was hardly the act of a knight.
"Sometimes, you have to learn to set aside honor for a Primarch. He is powerless to resist now. His spirit is fighting other enemies in the past. You only need to swing your sword once," a voice said to him.
The young man shook his head without turning his head. "No, Seraphax. I promised to fight him, but that was on a fair basis."
"If you kill him now, we'll have far fewer problems," the voice in the forest patiently advised. "We're just one last push away from turning things around. Don't let your guard down now, my lord."
The young man frowned, looking somewhat reluctant. He refused again, saying, "You've recounted his life story, and frankly, I see a flawed hero. You taught me that heroes should not be stripped of their honor; have you forgotten, Seraphax?"
A sigh came from the forest.
"Perhaps I've made you a little too stubborn," he said, his voice now very calm.
The young man suddenly sensed something was wrong; his instincts were warning him. However, the conclusion of this warning was something he absolutely refused to believe—this was the first and last time he would go against his intuition.
A charred, withered hand pierced his chest, ripped out his heart, and crushed it to pieces. The young man didn't even have time to look back before his consciousness was completely plunged into darkness.
His corpse crashed to the ground, and Seraphax flicked his right hand. Without making any other move, the sky suddenly darkened. The ground trembled, and two thick roots tore through the earth, dragging the Lion El'Jonson and the young man's corpses into the ground. Seraphax looked down and stared, his vision unobstructed, seeing through all obstacles.
He can only see the truth.
The truth is, there is nothing underground, no soil, only endless roots, clustered together like a massive continental plate. And within them lie many corpses. Some are young, some are old, some have been dead for a long time, and some have ruddy complexions, as if they were still alive.
There were only three exceptions: first, the elderly Lion El'Jonson, with a full head of white hair and bristling beard, who was the only one of his kind; second, Zabriel, with his eyes closed, already on the verge of death; and third, a young child.
Seraphax gave him a deep look.
The last hope. No sin, no past, no shackles.
Once he has done all this, and learned from his experiences, the ideal Knight King will truly be born. He will surpass all Primarch and become the only one.
The charred corpse took a deep breath and vanished from the spot.
The matter wasn't finished yet, he told himself. He had to stay calm.
And so, he walked into the Lion El'Jonson's past.