52. Delayed Judgment (21)

When Konrad Curze Curze lunged at him with those two bloody claws, Lion Aljonsen didn't think of anything.

His mind was blank, like a package that had been opened, all that gave it value had been quietly taken away by someone. Now all that remained was an empty box.

However, in any case, there will always be some lingering "feeling" here.

It originates from an irrational world, from a place that humans call "spirituality" and other strange things. There, one does not need eyes to observe things, nor does one need language to communicate with one another.

There, Lion Aljonson was roaring.

Tragically, even this last sound could not penetrate his mind, which had become an empty wasteland. For now, all it could do was echo here, echoing endlessly.

But he is still fighting.

To reiterate: Lion Aljonsen is still fighting.

His armor was stained with blood, and the damage to many joints was so severe that it caused a loss of balance, forcing him to pay more attention to the left side of his body when moving, or he would lose his balance.

In addition, there are seven penetrating wounds. Starting from the chest, they extend to the right knee joint, with the most serious one being the abdomen, which is almost a laceration and has not yet stopped bleeding. Besides these, there are countless abrasions and bruises.

Without a doubt, he was at a disadvantage in this battle.

However, Lion Aljonson held his sword tightly, as if it were part of his bones, as if he were born with it. No external force could force him to drop the sword unless he himself was willing to let go.

His enemies were furious about this.

What else do you have to resist?

Between attacks, the emaciated monster uttered questions in the darkness, questions tinged with annoyance, curiosity, and a sadness it itself was unaware of.

"Do you really think you've won, Lion? I'm about to kill you. The only reason I'm not speeding things up is that I want to play a little longer, that's all."

The Lion El'Jonson did not answer.

"Okay, I knew it was pointless to ask --"

A fierce wind howled, and the monster descended from the sky, laughing maniacally, and pinned him to the ground.

The two sharp claws could have easily pierced the Lion El'Jonson's exposed neck, ending the fight once and for all, but instead, it chose a different spot. Black scales flew everywhere, and the Lion El'Jonson's breastplate was once again severely damaged.

Night Haunter meticulously and flawlessly executed his altered strategy, extending his brother's life by several more seconds.

This so-called "good deed" brought him serious consequences. The Lion El'Jonson drew his short sword from his waist and forced him to stand up and retreat.

The Wraith squinted, and its mouth, which was filled with the smell of blood, suddenly secreted a lot of saliva, like a wild beast that had sensed hunger.

He forcibly suppressed his rising murderous intent, took a few steps back, and silently waited for the Lion El'Jonson to stand up.

"Save some self-respect, how about this, Lion?" The Wraith rubbed its claws together, a sly smile spreading across its face. "You and I both know I could have easily killed you just now."

The Lion El'Jonson charged at him without a word, delivering a direct, powerful strike. The Wraith nimbly dodged, his movements as graceful as a dancer. Nevertheless, his expression twisted, a vague, boiling resentment rising within him.

Pretending to be mute won't solve anything!

He disappeared into the darkness and roared at the bleeding Lion El'Jonson, his voice piercingly mournful, like the cold wind that swept across the face of the corpse at the alleyway on a winter's night.

Then, a short sword came hurtling towards him. By the slightest margin, it grazed the Wraith's left cheek, leaving a deep wound. Flesh and skin burst open from the wound, as if someone had drawn two lines on his pale face with a flesh-colored pen.

Only after that did the blood gush out.

The Wraith was stunned. In his past life, whether in lucidity or madness, he had never encountered anything like this before. But the fact remained unchanged: the Lion El'Jonson had not only found him with a short sword, but had even made him bleed.

Unconsciously, the Wraith's facial muscles began to twitch, and he raised the corners of his mouth, forcing out a sharp, fanged smile.

"Very well, very well," he said in a sinister yet insincere tone. "You truly have no idea how to treat the kindness of others, Lion. No wonder you let your legion fall apart. Tell me, how does it feel to kill your own offspring?"

The Lion El'Jonson ignored him completely, charging towards him with its sword drawn. The Wraith immediately moved to another spot, its eyes twitching uncontrollably.

"You Caliban bastard!"

The Lion El'Jonson drew Boltgun from his belt and began firing. Each shot was exceptionally accurate and deadly. A normal shooter like Wraith would have been confident he could dodge every bullet, but not this time. At least four bombs hit him in this barrage of fire, and his attempts to dodge were futile.

They seemed not to have come from the Lion El'Jonson's gun barrel, but from a world that could not be observed or understood. The most dangerous one even exploded on his neck guard, causing an explosion, shock, and splattering flesh.

The Wraith screamed, its steps slowing for a split second—and in that very instant, a whirlwind blew it down.

The Lion El'Jonson, wielding Lion Sword, trampled him underfoot, its expressionless face covered in blood.

The Wraith stared at him in astonishment; two sword marks remained on his breastplate, from which arcs of electricity leaped.

The Lion El'Jonson raised its paws again--

In that instant, the Night Haunter's mind helped him understand one thing with unimaginable speed: defeat was inevitable.

In any case, he couldn't possibly dodge the next sword strike. Lion El-Jonson's foot, pressing down on his chest, felt like it weighed a ton, eliminating any possibility of evasion. And if he tried to block with his claws, the Lion Sword would immediately turn from a slash into a thrust.

But how could this be? Wraith couldn't help but feel puzzled. He couldn't understand why Lion Aljonson would suddenly possess such combat power; just a few minutes ago, he had completely gained the upper hand.

The most crucial point is that Lion Aljonsen seems very familiar with his movement style.

The sharp edge of the Lion Sword was reflected in the dark pupils of the Night Haunter.

--"Bang!"

The blade missed its target, Lion Sword, like a cannonball, buried itself in the black soil beside his ear, exploding into countless things that were not flesh and blood, but even more like flesh and blood.

The Wraith slowly looked up, and following the gleaming blade, he stared in disbelief at a pair of eyes that were struggling to suppress their pain.

This wasn't the look in Lion Aljonson's eyes that he remembered. The Caliban was, in some ways, like him—a cold-blooded, ruthless killer. They wouldn't waver in battle; they would never cease fighting unless the enemy was dead.

But now, those pained eyes were clearly telling him something.

"I will not kill you," roared Lion El'Jonson from a very, very far place. "I will never kill my brother."

Konrad Curze Curze was momentarily speechless, even forgetting the urge that his madness was calling: seize this moment of pity and kill him! Let this weak fool taste his own blood!

"You"

He got up from the ground, speechless, wanting to say something, but unable to utter a single word.

The madness in his mind intensified, and the delirious voices that had tormented him for nearly a decade, along with the Ghost of the past, crawled out of the graveyard, stretching out their rotting claws, trying to drag him back into that chaotic disorder.

They even promised that as long as you return, return to the darkness, there will be no more pain.

Once you kill him, you won't have to suffer any more torment.

Konrad Curze Curze shook his head, thick blood gushing from his nose, along with something else, like bits of flesh.

He lowered his head, clenching his fists tightly, as if experiencing an epileptic seizure. A large amount of blood dripped from his tightly closed mouth, his sharp canines already deeply embedded in his flesh. It wasn't until much later that he recovered from this stiffness.

"Look what you've done, Lion."

Curze said, seemingly complaining, as he wiped his nose, a mixture of brain tissue and blood smeared all over his arm guard. "Now what? How are we going to clean this up?"

The Lion El'Jonson ignored him, standing quietly in place, holding the Lion Sword in its right hand with four fingers and its thumb suspended in the air.

This was a relaxed posture that made it easy for him to be disarmed, and he should never have shown such a posture in front of the Night Haunter —but he did just that, and not only that, he even lowered his head, letting sticky blood drip down his mouth, nose, eyes and ears.

"Say something, say something," Curze told him patiently, the electric current throbbing in his claws having subsided sometime earlier. "I know this is difficult for you right now, I can see that."

He suddenly moved closer to the Lion El'Jonson and waved his left hand at it.

"But don't give in," Konrad Curze Curze whispered. "Not even once, brother. Remember who you are, always remember that, and then take it slow. Don't listen to those voices, don't think about them, just remember who you really are."

A deep sadness was evident on his face.

--

"Don't give in"

Lion walked along, his mouth dry, listening to that familiar voice, feeling an intense ache.

He seemed to know who was speaking; he recognized him—or should he? But it seemed that wasn't the case; he had never met such a twisted soul.

He walked on, dazed and numb, like a walking corpse. He didn't know where he was or where he was going; he just walked, with a simple and pure thought in mind: I can't stop.

He walked until the nothingness beneath his feet turned into soil, fragments of the world rushed in, memories regressed wildly, returning to a forest one day, where a wild boy was patrolling his territory.

Lion watched this scene from an outsider's perspective, and a word faintly surfaced in his mind: behemoth.

So he knew that the boy was hunting giant beasts. But why? The boy wasn't hunting them for food or clothing; he simply wanted to kill them, as if he were born to be at odds with the giant beasts.

Then, more people appeared in the forest. They were dressed in gleaming silver armor, riding horses, with swords at their waists and guns in their hands, and many flags waving behind them.

They were tense, facing off against the boy, both wary of each other, almost escalating into hostility until someone stepped in front of the boy and the others.

Who is this person?

Lion looked at him and saw a head of fiery red hair and a young face.

One name came to mind: Seraphax.

"Don't shoot, brothers!" Seraphax shouted to the group of knights. "Trust me, he won't attack!"

Then, he turned to the boy and asked in a low voice, "Isn't that right? You won't attack, will you, Lion?"

Lion felt a splitting headache, and his vision seemed to be double.

In that instant, Seraphax almost didn't look like himself anymore, but someone else—a dark-haired man with a beard and deep-set eyes beneath thick eyebrows, serious and tired, yet without any hostility.

Who are you?

No one answered, only more images flooded in, and more Seraphax.

In the cold winter courtyard, on the battlefield where two armies clashed, in the fortress, in the study, surrounded by behemoths— Seraphax spoke again and again, sometimes serious, sometimes lighthearted, sometimes even earnest instruction.

But the double images never stopped; they kept flashing back. No matter what Seraphax said or did, his face would change into someone else's appearance for a fleeting moment.

Lion tried to remember who he was; he felt it was important, but he just couldn't.

Why can't I remember? He asked himself blankly.

There was no answer, only one voice telling him: Don't give in.

The sound was so faint that several times he doubted it existed at all, that it was just a figment of his imagination, but he always managed to find new evidence.

When Seraphax told him in the middle of the battlefield, "I will watch your back," the voice followed closely behind, like a ghost. And when Seraphax, too old to join the legion, the voice came again.

Even when he stripped Seraphax of his command, the voice remained. Countless moments, countless flashes, countless repetitions, constantly deepening the fragmented images of his memories related to "Seraphax."

Don't give in. It says it over and over again. Remember who you really are.

Who I am?

In the forests of Caliban, Lion asked himself this question. Coincidentally, he uttered the same question in his study, on his flagship, and on Terra.

Who I am?

After this problem was repeated hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands, millions of times, and even by an unknowable vast unknown, he finally heard a sigh.

"I'll be leaving for a little while, Primarch," someone said to him.

Then came a sharp pain, and everything fell silent and dark. Lion thought it was over, but he could still hear the voice.

Don't give in.

It came from the darkness, from a very far place. Lion turned his head and looked in that direction, and saw a light, and a person.

He was mortally wounded, practically on the verge of death. A giant sword had pierced through his chest; no one could ignore such an injury.

The man was deathly pale, his cheeks sunken, and his eyes gleaming black. He was vomiting blood, and fragments of his internal organs were constantly spilling out, but he was laughing. The laughter was extremely unrestrained, carrying a pungent, bloody stench, and it looked utterly grotesque.

Lion felt he looked familiar. For no reason, his fingers suddenly twitched, a heavy sensation passing through them, as if he were holding a sword.

Another voice rang out in the darkness; it was the same person who had spoken before.

"You've really given me a lot of trouble."

The pale-faced person seemed to have heard his voice as well, and their smile became even more cheerful, "Then I am truly honored. As a fabricated illusion, it seems I have exceeded my mission?"

The speaker paused for a moment, then spoke again, his voice tinged with surprise. "What do you know?"

"Oh, I've learned a lot, Seraphax," the pale man said with a grin, his sharp teeth gleaming and his dark eyes filled with delight.

"For example?"

"For example, you threw him into many memories from other timelines, and I'm just a Shadow in one of them. You want to confuse him, to make him unable to distinguish who he really is, so that you can manipulate the memories of your Primarch, no, I think it's probably not just about memories, right? Going to such lengths, are you trying to do something unprecedented, something that will never be repeated, isn't that right, you little traitor?"

The pale-faced man couldn't help but burst into wild laughter.

What are you laughing at?

"I'm laughing at you," the pale-faced man replied, the laughter continuing. "Even a mere illusion can reveal just how stupid you are."

"At least I still have a chance, while you—frankly, across so many timeline branches, you're the worst Konrad Curze Curze I've ever seen."

The pale-faced man coughed twice nonchalantly, vomiting up more blood. "Is that so? So what?"

"This means you have no right to judge my actions. You abandoned your legion, your homeworld. You had countless opportunities to set things right, but you chose not to."

"You are clearly a Primarch, yet you chose to succumb to those so-called nightmares and moral dilemmas, letting yourself become a madman, torturing your most loyal son. What was his name again? Jago Sevatarion? Thanks to you, he's dead. We caught him, skinned him alive, just as you often do to others. But I am different from you."

"So—" the pale-faced man slowly began, "What's the difference?"

"You're a coward, but I'm not."

As the words fell, the light faded. The voice that had been haunting Lion's ears finally disappeared, no longer ringing. He sat blankly and numbly in the darkness, alone, his fingers twitching incessantly.

Don't give in.