55. Interlude: Overcoming the Self (Two-in-One)

He's going to die.

He knew in his heart that he was going to die. But how many days had passed? How long had this been going on? Weeks, months, years?

He wasn't sure of the answer, only that he felt he had rarely had those completely lucid moments lately, and that wasn't right—deep down, he vaguely knew this.

This is wrong. He told himself over and over again, constantly denying it, repeating this simple conclusion, solidifying his thoughts into a castle. He remained at the very top of the castle, devoid of emotion and awareness, his eyes like two polished green agates, gazing at the endless void below.

But this was just his imagination; in reality, he was struggling to walk through a frozen wasteland.

The snow was deep and solid; he had to pull his legs out completely with every step, otherwise he couldn't move at all. All around him was a vast expanse of white, with nothing to indicate direction. To make matters worse, it was snowing.

Oh, this is not a good thing, this is the worst thing. Because snow doesn't just come on its own, it comes with the wind. Snow and wind, a deadly duo.

Even the hungriest wild animals wouldn't venture out in such weather; they would freeze to death before finding prey.

So clever, aren't they? Animals are always very clever when it comes to survival. They know where they can go and where they can't, how to stay alert while eating, and how to move silently.

He knew about these things before, didn't he?

He asked himself—I used to know these things, didn't I? I knew how to tell time by the sun's position, I knew how to find food, how to dispose of carcasses, and how to skin them.

I know how to kill.

Just like this wind and snow, I know how to kill quickly and effectively. Killing people is one thing, killing other things is another, but I understand both.

Do I still know about these things now?

He stopped walking, and his thoughts stopped as well; he inevitably felt tired.

It's always like this; whenever he thinks too much, his energy is quickly depleted. He was almost unable to stand, and if it weren't for the wooden stick in his hand, he probably would have already fallen face-first into the snow.

He managed to stand up straight, wiped his face, and the ice that had formed on his beard shattered into tiny specks on his tattered woolen gloves. He clenched his fists and began to wait patiently. A few minutes later, he used the little body heat he had left to melt the ice into snow water, which he then immediately tilted his head back and drank.

This was certainly not a good choice, but he had no other option.

I had many choices, didn't I?

Once again, he asked himself in a daze—but where did this problem come from? Damn it, who is asking this question?

Sometimes, he felt puzzled because he didn't think these utterly "stupid" thoughts wouldn't pop into his head, but they did, and he even had to answer them.

It was an extremely strong sense of strangeness, as if another person was inside his body, using his mind to throw out one stupid question after another.

Yes. In the end, he couldn't help but answer in his heart. I've had many choices, and I always have many choices.

The person inside his body asked again: So, what's the choice?

I don't know, he thought.

In the wind and snow, a pair of green agate beads blinked, finally seeming to come to life. He pursed his lips and decided to set off again. This time, he walked for a long time before the next problem arose.

Do you remember Chloe Dacour's group of Xenos?

What?

He was somewhat confused, completely unable to understand what the tongue-twisting word was describing. But the word that followed it, that short, powerful word that ignited his genuine anger.

Ah, the Xenos. He suddenly realized.

Yes, of course I remember. A bunch of white-skinned scum, looking like albino lizards. They were technologically advanced, but their society was extremely barbaric and warlike.

A family typically has two children. These offspring undergo brutal training from birth and are not recognized as members of society until they complete their rite of passage—surviving a fight with their twin siblings. Only the survivor then truly becomes the parents' child.

In addition, their social systems were relatively fragmented and they were hostile to each other, with fourteen different political systems of varying sizes constantly engaged in endless wars. This provided us with great help.

"Did you kill them all?" the voice asked again.

Certainly.

Don't you think genocide is too cruel?

He paused for a moment, then furrowed his brow in disbelief.

"What are you saying?" he roared at the voice. "These Xenos betrayed humanity in the Old Night and enslaved our people for eleven centuries afterward. They deserved to die, do you understand?"

What do you think ended those eleven centuries of enslavement? Was it a sudden act of kindness? No, I've read their own history, which clearly records their atrocities against humanity. They wrote these things down even just for amusement, so they could use the same methods to inflict violence on us when they encountered humans again!

So, you killed them all?

No, not just that. He said, and suddenly became somewhat smug—or rather, pleased.

"What else did you do?" the voice asked softly.

Destroy.

He uttered the word, and then heard a sigh. The snowstorm suddenly subsided, and a blond man in a fur cloak broke through the snow curtain and stood wearily before him.

"You're much better than me," the man said. "I was stuck there."

He frowned, staring at the man without speaking. It wasn't that he didn't want to communicate; he simply didn't know what to say—the topics of Xenos, betrayal, and killing had left him deeply confused.

"Was that really something I experienced?" he wondered to himself.

The man ignored him, sighed again, and said, "That battle was very difficult for us; most of our legion was bogged down. We had barely gained a foothold when Kolo Dakol's Xenos launched an attack on us from every angle in the galaxy."

"We're bogged down and haven't received any resupply. The system is blockaded, making logistics impossible. Three years into the war, I had to take the remaining warships into the asteroid belt to hide, and then plunder their combat satellites for supplies. So, defeat was only a matter of time."

The more he listened, the more he couldn't hold back, and finally spoke up, officially entering the conversation and taking on another role.

"Didn't you send out destroyers to conduct reconnaissance before launching the attack?"

The man shook his head, looking dejected.

"Of course I have them. But most of them are well hidden. The spies I sent out only brought back intelligence on two regimes in total. That was at the beginning of the Great Crusade, and I had only recently returned to the Legion. I needed to lead them to achieve some great feats to stabilize morale, so I launched an attack immediately."

"Foolish!" Upon hearing this, he couldn't help but curse. "An entire star system is so vast; how can we attack rashly without conducting a complete reconnaissance? In void naval warfare, the worst thing is to have flawed intelligence. A single mistake can have far-reaching consequences, plunging the entire battle into utter ruin!"

The man looked up at him, clenched his fists repeatedly, then relaxed them, a bitter smile, somewhat unfamiliar to his face, slowly spreading across his cheeks.

"You're right." He actually nodded in agreement. "So I died, and you're still standing here."

The man stepped aside to make way for him.

"Let it go," the man said softly. "You're much stronger than me, but that might not be the case next time."

What? What does that mean? He was confused again, but his intuition drove his body to take steps before his mind could process them.

He walked past the dejected man, and his persistent weariness seemed to lessen. The wind and snow gradually subsided, and he looked into the distance, suddenly spotting a patch of scorched earth. This made him frown, pause for a moment, and decide to examine it more closely.

The man's voice came from behind him, though it was only a few steps away, it now sounded very distant.

"Do you remember your name?" the man asked.

He turned around and saw that the snow had started falling again. The blond man had inexplicably collapsed to the ground, his blood staining the surrounding area.

He was startled and immediately turned back to offer help, but the man raised his hand to stop him.

"Don't turn around," the man whispered. As he spoke, blood gushed straight from his mouth, nose, and ears.

Do you still remember your name?

He shook his head.

"Lion Aljonsen," the man told him calmly, "Make sure you remember that."

The wind and snow howled, and the dense, white snowflakes crowded every inch of space in front of him, falling from the sky like bullets, covering the man completely, burying him without a sound.

Lion Aljonsen

He turned around thoughtfully, murmured the name, and walked step by step toward the scorched earth.

The journey was far from easy; the ground was riddled with shell craters. He had to climb up and down every short stretch of good ground, a tremendous challenge for his current physical condition. Fortunately, the wooden stick was still in his hand, faithfully providing assistance.

Once its tail was firmly covered by mud, he finally entered the scorched earth. A thick, pungent smell of blood immediately filled his nostrils, involuntarily invigorating him. He instinctively gripped the wooden stick in his hand, his muscles tensing involuntarily.

Something slowly surfaced, a wild instinct that led him to turn his head and look at a mound on his right.

There was an empty, deserted position, with damaged troop carriers and tanks lying pitifully with their bellies exposed, their mechanical parts hissing and crackling. The ground was covered with blood, shell craters, and traces of bombing.

Strangely, he didn't see a single corpse.

After hesitating for a moment, he walked in that direction. The closer he got to the position, the stronger the stench of blood became. His temples began to throb, and his gait gradually became incredibly light, making no sound.

He suddenly became incredibly focused, his eyes scanning his surroundings warily. At the same time, a question inevitably arose: how many people had died here?

In his search for answers, he began to wander around. From trenches to safety bunkers, from foxholes to the command post, which had been opened up.

He searched the entire position but still didn't see a single person, not even a weapon. This was illogical and defied common sense—unless someone had cleared the battlefield before he arrived, taking away all the dead and their weapons.

With questions in mind, he walked to a half-broken stone, sat down gently, and looked up at the sky.

Compared to the scorching white of the snowfields, the sky here is a thick, blood-red color. The lingering dust and smoke fill the air, wantonly invading every corner. Whatever its original color was, it is now unrecognizable.

This incident inexplicably displeased him, and he couldn't help but sigh. For the next few minutes, he didn't go anywhere, but simply picked up a stone and tapped the end of the stick to knock off the semi-solidified soil.

They clumped together, crumbled on the ground, and the murky black and bloody stench grew increasingly pungent. He frowned, suddenly losing all desire to continue working. He simply picked up the wooden stick in his hand, tapped the stones a few times, and hastily finished, considering the job done.

The small tapping sound echoed and spread across the empty battlefield, gradually turning into a hollow echo. He stood up, looked into the distance, and discovered that fog had risen over the battlefield.

The temperature began to drop, and although it still couldn't penetrate his thick cotton coat, it brought a chill different from the wind and snow. He frowned again, then suddenly took a step and fearlessly walked into the depths of the thin mist.

In just a few hundred meters, the position was left behind, and what came into view was a mass grave.

A hunched figure is working here.

He wore tattered armor, the faded red obscuring every detail. He wore no helmet, and his hair, also dyed dark red, hung haphazardly down his back. He held a longsword covered in mud upside down in his hand, swinging it like a hoe.

Seemingly sensing his arrival, the man paused, lowering his raised hands. He turned around, his face hidden behind wounds, blood, and mud, his eyes as dull as twilight.

"He said you'd come," the man said hoarsely. "But I didn't expect you to come so quickly."

"What do you mean?" He wanted to ask, but cautiously remained silent, offering no response. The man seemed unconcerned, turning away to continue his work.

Before long, a deep pit was dug out. He straightened up, threw the sword in his hand aside, and walked into the mist, carrying out a corpse.

It was a black-armored warrior, slightly shorter than him, missing an arm, and half of his body had been ripped open by something, his internal organs exposed in a bloody mess.

"What are you doing?" he finally asked.

Without turning his head, the man jumped into the pit, answering in a very calm and deep voice, "To be the last thing a failed commander can do for his soldiers."

Soldier?

He involuntarily took a few steps closer, looked at the corpse, and felt a stinging familiarity. For no reason, he thought: these people were not soldiers, or perhaps they were more than just soldiers.

The man ignored him, simply bent down, put down the body, and began to tidy up his remains.

His helmet was removed and placed in front of his chest, his left hand resting on its side. The belt around his waist was fastened again, and an assault shield, which had been waiting at the bottom of the pit, was placed over him from the right, concealing the gruesome wound and making him appear as if he had merely fallen into a deep sleep rather than dying. After doing all this, the man climbed out of the pit. He was panting heavily, as if he had just gone through an unparalleled battle, and he couldn't even stand up. He could only kneel on the ground, barely managing to grab his sword and use it to support himself as he stood up.

Then he began to swing his sword—or rather, his hoe, it made no difference. Dirt flew everywhere, handfuls of blood-stained earth flying and landing on the warrior, making a soft scraping sound.

Minutes later, the pit was filled in. The man threw down his sword again, walked into the mist, and then took out a spotless Power Sword with both hands. He knelt on the grave mound, touched it with his forehead, and then raised his hands, pouring the weapon, scabbard and all, into the soil.

"Have you seen enough?" the man suddenly asked.

He hesitated, unsure how to answer, as the tone of his question was far from pleasant. He didn't want to rashly provoke a conflict with this person.

"If you haven't seen enough—" The man slowly stood up. His tone remained calm, without a trace of hostility, as if it truly were just an invitation. "—You can continue looking; I still have many people to bury."

"Who are they?" he finally couldn't help but ask.

"My soldiers," the man said, "Died because of me."

"What have you been doing?" he couldn't help but ask. However, remembering how the previous man had clenched and unclenched his fists when faced with the same situation, he ultimately didn't ask the question. But the other man seemed to sense what he wanted to ask and took the initiative to speak.

"I was sent on a mission, the target being my brother and his legion. My orders were to leave no one alive, to kill them all, and to erase every trace of their existence."

"My brother knew I was coming. Before the war began, he found me and begged me with his life to spare his children. He thought that was enough, after all—"

The man paused, then fell silent. Time seemed to slow down, and the sharp pain returned, making the listener almost dizzy.

He clenched his fists tightly to remind himself where he was, but once the box of disaster containing something was opened, it could never be closed by human power again.

A painful flash of inspiration overwhelmed his mind, rendering him speechless. His eyes turned bloodshot as he collapsed to the ground, nearly losing consciousness. At the critical moment, it was the name told to him by the man he had met on the snowfield that helped him.

Lion Alderson.

The name suddenly brought back many memories for him. And many more.

"--He committed suicide? Right in front of you?" He looked up and asked the man.

"Yes," the man said. "He thought our father only wanted his death; after all, he was the only one who crossed that forbidden line, and his sons were innocent. He begged me to take them back so they could continue fighting for the Imperium against humanity."

Do you agree?

"I"

"Do you agree?!" he almost roared.

"No." The man took a breath, his voice finally changing. "But I didn't stop him either, and his sons couldn't accept his death, believing I must have done something. They had no intention of listening to their Gene-Father's self-recorded final words; the entire legion went mad."

"They accuse you of killing their Gene-Father?"

"Yes."

He slowly stood up, his expression turning icy, a change he himself didn't even realize. "When they accuse you of things that don't exist, you'd better have actually done those things."

The man stared at him and said, "But I didn't do it. I didn't kill my brother."

"Then you should kill him."

The man's face twitched visibly; he seemed enraged, his features contorting in an instant, his expression becoming utterly terrifying. "I am not the executioner."

"Arguing about yes or no is pointless in this conversation. Whether you like it or not, the order has been given to you. You have only one choice: to obey or disobey. But you accepted the order, while still hoping to resolve the matter in another way. So, as I said, you should kill him yourself."

The man slowly tightened his grip on the longsword, crushing the blood-stained mud in his hand, which then trickled down like dust through the gaps in his gauntlets. He was gritting his teeth, a fact clearly visible to the listeners.

After a long while, the person took a deep breath, trying hard to control himself, and slowly opened his mouth.

"Then what should I do? Blast him and his ship to cosmic rubble the moment he comes to me alone in his ship? He's my brother—"

"--That's not important," the listener interrupted coldly. "He crossed the line; he's researching things he shouldn't even be touching. The Emperor has warned us, repeatedly, against attempting to dabble in those forbidden things, and he hasn't listened."

"The Emperor has been lenient enough, only issuing the order after confirming that he had truly crossed the line. Do you understand what that means?"

"Traitors must die. There's no point in reasoning or sentimentality in this matter. What if he's your brother? Even if he was truly as close to you as a sibling, growing up alongside you, he has already lost the right to live."

"Ultimately, this has absolutely nothing to do with what you perceive as family conflict. The Emperor ordered his execution not because he disobeyed him, but because he was a Primarch. Being Primarch means being responsible for countless humans, and he crossed that line. If one day he makes a grave mistake, have you considered how many people will die because of it?"

The man stared blankly at the listener, his grip on the longsword tightening unconsciously. He was stunned by the barrage of words, unable to utter a single sentence. He still wanted to retort, but deep down, he knew the listener was right.

If the listener wasn't right, this mass grave wouldn't exist.

"You win," the man said with difficulty. "But I have one last question."

"Ask away," the listener said calmly, as if giving an order.

Did you kill him with your own hands?

"Yes," Lion El-Jonson said. "I killed him with my own hands."

The man lowered his head and fell silent. A thin mist rolled in, obscuring him and the mass grave, from which a heart-wrenching scream faintly echoed. The Lion El'Jonson watched this scene expressionlessly, his mind blank and devoid of thought.

He has remembered many things.

He turned and continued walking forward, much faster than before. The mad words Seraphax had uttered while kneeling before him flooded his mind, one phrase in particular bothered him—to prove them right.

Them

These people?

The Lion El'Jonson snorted and plunged its club into the sand, settling firmly on a hot dune. It wasn't surprised by the new sight before it; in fact, it found it somewhat irritating.

If all those who share the name Lion El-Jonson are fools like the previous two, then he's too lazy to argue anymore. He'd rather find a place to rest for a few days, recover his strength, and prepare for battle.

He didn't have time to linger here. What Seraphax had done had gone beyond his understanding of the word "madness." The Lion El'Jonson could never have imagined that a seasoned Chaos Sorcerer would have such a crazy dream as altering the timeline.

That eternal day is beyond human control to break; the Imperium has made such a tremendous effort, yet it has only barely maintained the scope of that day. What makes Seraphax think he can play any crucial role in it?

The Lion El'Jonson grew angrier the more he thought about it, wishing he had that kind of power to go back in time and strangle that red-haired fool with his own hands.

He walked forward with a grim face, tucked the wooden stick into his waistband, and began to take off his cotton-padded coat. Although the temperature shouldn't be an obstacle for him, his current physical condition was different from before. He had to conserve every bit of strength to deal with what might happen next.

Anything. Well, that naturally includes things like this.

The Lion El'Jonson stopped in its tracks.

"You came quickly," one of them said to him. "You seem much stronger than those two weaklings."

The Lion El'Jonson raised its head and coldly scrutinized him. The desert sun was blinding and enormous. The man stood with his back to the sun on a sand dune, looking down at him. He wore a long white robe, and his golden hair was tied back in a warrior's braid.

The man stepped down the hill, bent his knees, and slid down, his voice carrying an unexpected arrogance. "But I am different from them."

"What's the difference? You're here too."

The man laughed and said, "They all died halfway, but I am different; I did it all. During the Great Crusade, my legion had the most honors and the widest conquests. Even Horus Lupercal agreed that I should be the Warmaster."

The Lion El'Jonson looked at him coldly and remained silent—he disliked this excessive arrogance and overbearing manner. Although he had indeed been immersed in pride for a time in the past, it was only temporary. He never thought he would become such a repulsive person.

"Of course, I ultimately didn't become the Warmaster." The man said, his smile slowly fading. "My father disagreed with me taking on this position tailor-made for me; he actually gave it to Ferrus Manus. So I challenged him to a duel."

The Lion El'Jonson finally frowned.

What did you do?

"Can't you understand me? I challenge him to a duel."

The Lion El'Jonson roared, "If the Emperor has issued a decree, you should obey!"

"Why should I?" the man immediately retorted.

"During the Great Crusade, I fought from beginning to end without a single day of rest. While Roboute Guilliman was busy building universities and libraries in the colonies, I was expanding my territory at the farthest reaches of the galaxy. While Lorgar Aurelian was preaching to those ignorant masses, I was waging war against the Orks. Ferrus Manus returned so much earlier than me, but does his achievement even come close to half of mine? Every Primarch's legion received my support, while I never asked for anyone's help. I contributed the most and achieved the most, so why shouldn't I be Warmaster?"

The Lion El'Jonson stared at him intently, its mind dissecting the arguments and discontent in his words with surgical precision, tearing open a festering sore.

"Are you doing all this just because you want to become Warmaster?"

The man slowly smiled and changed the subject, "Seraphax told me that your way of thinking is very different from mine. It seems that's true, but you're too old. I really don't know how you're going to beat me."

The Lion El'Jonson shook its head.

"What? You're planning to admit defeat?"

"I don't fight with idiots," the Lion El'Jonson said calmly, mimicking that arrogance. "Now, get out."

After saying this, a terrifying smile was forcibly stretched onto that familiar yet unpleasant face of the Lion El'Jonson.

"I'm afraid I'll have to kill you, old man."

--

Zabriel struggled to his feet.

How long had he been trapped? By the Emperor's name, this was unbelievable. He remembered how his Power Armour had been completely destroyed, but why had he lost even the strength to stand up? To be this weak was simply unimaginable for an Astartes.

He raised his hand and touched his face. The unfamiliar curve of his face made his eyes twitch.

Seraphax, you piece of trash who deserves to have your bones crushed by a giant beast!

Filled with rage, he crawled on all fours toward the sleeping Lion El'Jonson's Throne.

He thought that Seraphax was wrong in every way, but he was right in one thing: he was indeed very loyal.

Once declared a traitor and having been on the run for so many years, Zabriel never imagined he would one day describe himself this way, but it was the truth.

As Lion Aldoussen said—

He raised his head and looked at the sleeping Primarch.

"Loyalty itself is the reward."

Gritting his teeth, the Dark Angels slowly climbed upwards. He still had a badge in his hand. At this moment, he had no other way to break the deadlock but to try his best.