53. Delayed Judgment (22, Twists)

If possible, Seraphax hopes to have an opportunity to sit down and have a calm talk with Lion Aljonson.

There was no deception, no scheming, not even hostility—but he also knew very well that Lion Aljonson would never agree to this.

The Lion El'Jonson he knew was a man of extremely strong willpower. He was overly cold-blooded in his youth, and became even more hardened in his old age. No matter how hard you tried, whether it was wind and rain or crashing waves, he would just stand there, holding his Lion Sword, waiting for the moment to strike a fatal blow.

Lion Aljonsen sees himself as the protector of humanity—and for that, he would do anything.

However, there is still a long way to go between "doing" and "achieving".

He could certainly continue to fight, continue to resist the effects of the Warp magic with a willpower that Seraphax had never seen in any other Lion Aljonson, and even briefly regain his senses and speak.

However, he could not overcome all of this.

Seraphax turned and gave his Primarch a deep look.

All around was darkness. The Lion El'Jonson sat on his Throne with his eyes closed, his Lion Sword at his side. A faint beam of light descended from the sky and shone on his face. Although he was covered in blood, his majesty was not diminished. At this moment, he looked like a king of blood and battle, with a murderous aura rising between his tightly furrowed brows.

Seraphax couldn't help but let out a sigh.

He was exhausted, truly exhausted. Even the power bestowed upon him by the gods could not alleviate his weariness in the slightest. Never in his life had he been more acutely aware of his own insignificance than he was now.

I am, after all, just a mortal with a mortal mind. I am neither immortal nor a saint. Seraphax thought about this, reminding himself of it again, and felt a sense of peace.

Yes, calm.

Unlike other self-important Tzeentch collaborators who gradually descended into madness, he did not fall into any inevitable traps shaped by human nature. He did not forget his goal—in a sense, this was the best proof of his status as a son of Lion El-Jonson: he possessed the same willpower and drive as his Primarch.

Of course, the Lion El'Jonson would never be proud of this.

Seraphax couldn't help but laugh, and at the same time, he flicked his finger, causing the undead in the darkness to groan in unison. He didn't want to torture them, but he had no other choice. Tzeentch had indeed given him power, but He had never said He wouldn't hinder or tempt him along the way.

The magic He provides is one part of the endless temptations that Seraphax must face.

In essence, this magic circle is very simple. It requires human pain and despair, absorbs it, and refines the souls of the sacrifices into pure energy to feed back to the caster. It gives back as much as you give.

It sounds simple, but the simpler it is, the harder it is—the reason is simple: it has no side effects, absolutely no side effects.

If it's called energy, then it is energy, containing absolutely no other impurities. If it's said to be given back to the caster, then it is; it will never accept or transfer even a single bit of it.

Think about it carefully, how tempting would that be for a normal Chaos Sorcerer? And think about it again, how incredible would that be for any magic originating from Chaos?

Tzeentch offered far too much, but Seraphax still chose not to accept it.

He focused intently on manipulating the magic circle, unaffected by the constant wails and screams around him. Once a person has truly made up their mind, nothing but death can hold them back.

This applies to all humans, even the lowest, most shameless, and weakest scum. The thought always revitalized his weary heart—and strangely enough, he even felt proud of it.

Not for myself, but for them.

Which "them"?

Were they the ordinary soldiers who dared and still dared to charge against him? Were they his brothers who let the civilians board the ships first while they remained on land, raising the Order banner? Or were they the bureaucrats who dared to openly denounce him as a traitor?

Seraphax has no answer.

He had seen people kneeling and begging for mercy, people trying to cooperate with him and become a member of the so-called "new god," and people who betrayed everything to survive. But what he saw most were those who refused to submit to him.

A vast number of timelines connected to this world, countless similar or different Caliban. Slaughter, bloodshed, betrayal, sacrifice—never-ending, and the number of victims is countless.

Soaked to the bone, a soldier, trembling, gripped his rifle and fired at him from the trench, stepping over the corpses of his comrades. The crew leader, limping, charged at him from the burning tank. Having emptied his ammunition, his Power Sword worn down by the resurrected dead, the broken knight shielded the few remaining civilians behind him, using the company flag as a weapon, and roared at him.

There are too many, far too many.

Seraphax felt tears streaming down his charred face. It was strange, because he probably hadn't cried in many years.

He had once gone mad, broken down and wept in the face of endless slaughter. Those tears were tears of pain and self-reproach for the atrocities he had committed out of his own stupidity. But these tears now stemmed from grief, a grief that had existed since the time of the apes.

If he could, he wouldn't want to kill any of them. If he could, he would prefer to be the sacrifice himself. If the most beautiful, most dreamlike, and most painful word in the world—if he could just utter it, his mind would begin to fantasize. If he could just utter it, the beautiful things he longed for but could not have would appear before his eyes.

Then the pain intensifies because of the disparity, because reality doesn't accept "what ifs."

Reality rejects all beautiful fantasies; reality is cold and cruel. Otherwise, why would people use it to describe or even criticize someone for being particularly pragmatic? Ultimately, everyone has moments or thoughts that can only be replaced by "if," and the difference between Seraphax and them lies here—he takes action.

At all costs.

"We were born of the Great Crusade, Primarch."

With his back to the sleeping Lion El'Jonson, the voice of the traitor who had committed the most horrific atrocities in the history of the Black Legion opened calmly, beginning to recount his purpose and plans to his Gene-Father, word by word.

"This is a noble and arduous task, but also a task that must be carried out. Since the Old Night, humanity has been separated from one another for far too long. Our fellow human beings are struggling to survive in misery, and some have even become slaves to Xenos."

"The Emperor could not tolerate this, so he created us. He needed us as tools to make humanity a unified whole again. He trusted us so much, therefore we must not betray him. But in the end, we still failed."

The charred corpse turned around, and two pitch-black ropes suddenly sprang out from the darkness, wrapping around his wrists. A dim light flashed in his eyes, and terrifying energy began to flow from his hands outwards.

"The Emperor is mortally wounded, Terra is shattered, superstition runs rampant, and bureaucracy makes life unbearable. You can freely choose a thousand worlds in the galaxy, put them on a list, observe them closely, and then you will hear their screams, you will hear the cries of our own people." "I believe you can hear them, Primarch, and you must also realize the absurdity of this—we have clearly won, yet why do our people still live in such agony?"

"You must have seen this mistake, otherwise you wouldn't have undertaken such sweeping reforms within your own domain. I understand, Primarch, I know your difficulties. Even as Primarch, you are human, not a god. What makes you think you can do what even the Emperor couldn't? Managing these worlds is already quite an achievement."

"But have we really won?" the charred corpse asked the Lion El'Jonson, looking up.

The Lion El'Jonson neither answered nor could provide an answer, so it was more as if he was asking and answering himself.

"In the official narrative, we won, and won a great victory. The traitors Horus and Alpharius have been executed, and their treacherous offspring can only hide and flee, awaiting judgment. But what is the truth?"

"Chaos doesn't care about the deaths of Horus and Alpharius; they never have. They only want the Emperor to sit on that instrument of torture. Ha, the Ecclesiarchy proudly calls it the abode of the gods, the Golden Throne. What utter nonsense!"

"That chair was just another tool of the Emperor, one he used to burn himself to protect humanity. So accept reality, Primarch."

Seraphax sighed in shame, sorrow, and anger.

"Humanity lost, and we did nothing," he said. "I can't accept that, so I'm going to change it."

He paused for a few seconds, his cheek twitched suddenly, and a hollow, distant echo came from the darkness.

"This matter requires a tremendous amount of energy and power. I must be able to participate on that day and influence the situation. But what if I fail?"

Seraphax lowered his head and began to climb. He walked slowly, each step up the stairs feeling like a struggle. The ropes wrapped around his wrists were taut, and two more heavy thuds echoed in the darkness, followed by a sticky, chilling crushing sound.

"I must prepare for both possibilities, have a backup plan, just as you taught us, just as Sir Luther told us—before initiating a battle or stepping into one, always make sure you have at least two options. Don't just think about how to win, but also how to deal with failure."

Seraphax walked step by step to his Primarch, then knelt on one knee. His arm was bent into a ridiculous position, the weight of his sins hanging over his wrist, inflicting unparalleled torment upon him.

Another spell is taking effect, greedily devouring the pain squeezed from human souls and craving more.

And there happened to be someone here who was in great pain, and had been in pain for a very long time.

Seraphax is powering it himself.

"My second solution is you, Primarch," the Dark Angels said calmly. "I don't believe I can simply return to the day Terra shattered and undo everything. No, it's impossible, even if I wiped out ten thousand more Caliban. The longer I kill, the more I kill, the more I understand just how powerful the enemies of Chaos truly are, and how powerful the Emperor is."

He is our only guiding light, our only shield and sword. If I cannot change all of this, I hope I can at least do something for him. Therefore, I need you—or rather, a better you.

The ground, except for the Throne, began to melt, the darkness dissipated, and the corpses were exposed. The Lion Eljons, enveloped by roots, rose one by one and floated around the Throne.

A blond boy floated forward; he was still alive, his eyes closed.

"The body," Seraphax said. "The purest and most innocent version of you across countless timelines; he will become your vessel for returning to the past."

A Dark Angels floated forward; it was Zabriel, who had fallen into a deep slumber. Many roots pierced his face, subtly altering everything, making him look remarkably like Seraphax in his features.

"The Guardian," Seraphax said. "A loyal man, an exceptionally steadfast one. I will tell him everything, and then let him accompany you back to the past. Trust him, Primarch, just as you once trusted me and Ser Luther."

He closed his mouth, as if he had finished speaking, and his charred face began to recover rapidly.

The bones became strong and white again, and the places that had been injured or tainted by Chaos were erased. Then came the nerves and flesh, and finally the skin, and even the tattoo returned—an emblem with a winged sword, engraved on the left side of the chest.

Seraphax slowly stood up, and a suit of armor flew out of the darkness, as if manipulated by an invisible hand, dispersing and floating onto his body, aligning with the neural interface, and he began to put on the armor.

This is a very old MK2 set. The distinctive black color of the First Legion makes it look extremely majestic. The unique reliefs of Astartes during the Great Crusade shine brightly on the shoulder and arm armor. A Power Sword hangs at the waist, and a Boltgun is held in the hand.

The Dark Angels Seraphax tilted his head back, letting his helmet drop to cover his face. The crimson visors flashed rapidly, and then, his deep voice, altered by the breathing grille, rang out one last time in the Lion El'Jonson's ears.

"But you must first prove yourself, Primarch. Not to me, but to them."

Who? To whom should we prove it?

Looking at the surrounding corpses, the answer is self-evident.

Seraphax turned around, and a door appeared before him. There were no markings, only pure light condensed into form.

Behind him, Zabriel, who had been sleeping, suddenly opened his eyes. He clearly didn't know what had happened, but his eyes were instinctively fixed on Seraphax, who had his back to him.

Without turning his head, the Dark Angels said, "Do what you must, Zabriel. Do not betray the Emperor and the Lion El'Jonson."

Having said that, he stepped through the gate of light, and a war-torn world that he and many other Dark Angels had failed to reach rushed in and engulfed him.