Interlude 56: Defeating the Self (II)

If one day you are old, tired, and unarmed, how will you defeat a wild beast in its prime, full of ambition?

Lion Aldoussen is trying to find the answer.

A tremendous force struck him head-on, easily knocking him to the ground. Lion El'Jonson lion rolled around in a disheveled state, trying to get back up, but was then kicked hard and fell straight down the sand dune.

The scalding sand clung to his skin, soaked with sweat and blood, and the already blinding sunlight now made him feel even more dizzy. The Lion El'Jonson silently used his elbows to prop himself up, slowly making his way to his feet.

And his enemies? They didn't press their advantage; they simply remained arrogantly in place.

"What are you going to use to fight me, old man?" he asked slowly. "This broken wooden stick?"

He raised his hand, held the mud-covered stick up to his eyes for a moment, examined it, and then casually tossed it into the Lion El'Jonson's paw.

"To be honest, I feel a little sorry for you. Look at yourself, even the worst of us wouldn't be like you—"

As he spoke, his expression suddenly turned to disgust, and he paused for a few seconds before uttering a single word.

"--fail."

Failure?

The Lion El'Jonson lowered its head, swallowing the blood that surged from the kick it had just received, and pulled out the wooden stick in front of it. Ignoring the dizziness that kept coming back to him, he grabbed it with both hands and held it horizontally in front of him like a sword.

His enemy, surprisingly, stopped mocking him and instead drew a long sword from his waist with a serious expression.

This sword was not comparable in length to the Lion Sword, and its lines were very elegant, with a touch of light purple swaying at the end of the hilt. He held the sword in one hand, leaped down the sand dune, stopped five feet away from the Lion El'Jonson, raised the sword, and solemnly spoke.

"Now, you finally look like one of us."

The Lion El'Jonson ignored his words, staring intently at the one-handed sword in his hand. "Whose weapon is this?"

"Mine."

"No," said the Lion El'Jonson. "Fulgrim's personal coat of arms and his legion's insignia are on it."

"At least it belongs to me now, old man. Enough with the gossip, let's finish this quickly. I've given you the utmost respect—now, come and die."

As soon as he finished speaking, dust rose, and before his footsteps could truly reach the Lion El'Jonson's ears, a sword light suddenly struck.

The Lion El'Jonson instinctively raised his sword—or rather, his staff—to block, but felt no pressure on his hands. Instead, a piercing pain shot through his side. Clearly, his enemy was faster and more agile than him.

A combination of factors led to this simple slash transforming into a thrust, achieving a terrifying result.

The Lion El'Jonson retreated swiftly, as if it felt no pain, but this was not the case.

Those who lack concrete knowledge of combat and only have romantic imaginations might think that being hit once or twice in a sword fight is not a big deal, but the truth is that in unarmored combat, any injury is extremely fatal, let alone the wounds the Lion El'Jonson is in at this moment.

His left abdomen had been pierced through. The assailant had dragged the blade a short distance after the attack, resulting in massive bleeding that left a large red stain along his retreat path and also stained the spot where he was standing. In addition, several severed pieces of intestine and fragments of ribs hung precariously from the edge of the wound.

The Lion El'Jonson reached out and covered its wound.

Thanks to the Primarch's constitution, he could still stand for the time being, but he couldn't hold on for much longer. Upon reflection, this seemed to be the most serious injury he had ever suffered in battle. Looking back, no enemy had ever caused him such pain.

The Lion El'Jonson looked at his enemy, and his enemy stared back at him.

One face is young, the other is old; they are similar yet different. The young one is confident and arrogant, radiating strong vitality. The old one is weathered by life, with perpetually furrowed brows, tightly pursed lips, and a pale complexion, appearing particularly weak.

Being hurt by myself is exactly what I wanted.

The Lion El'Jonson took a deep breath, then suddenly groaned, and his left hand fell down. He was still bleeding, but the wound looked like a jumbled mess, with bones and internal organs pushed back in.

He assumed his stance again, but his enemy, seeing this, narrowed his eyes, clearly displeased.

"Do you really think—"

His words were interrupted by a slow but resolute charge. The Lion El'Jonson, dragging its useless body, charged at him with its sword raised, leaving more scarlet marks like raindrops scattered across the yellow sand.

As expected, his attack missed, and his enemy showed no mercy, dodging the deadly, throat-targeting thrust before striking the Lion El'Jonson to the ground with a backhand punch.

The punch was swift and brutal; the Lion El'Jonson's vision went black, and he almost fainted on the spot. It took him several seconds to realize the discomfort in his mouth, his tongue curling as he spat out a few teeth. At the same time, the pain in his cheek told him that his cheekbone was most likely shattered.

A voice came from above him. "Lie down, don't get up."

The Lion El'Jonson said no with its actions.

He swayed as he straightened up, his brow furrowed as he stared at his enemy, their faces almost touching. The Lion El'Jonson could even see his own reflection in those emerald eyes—how pathetic, the great First Army Commander!

His face was covered in blood, his cheeks were swollen, and he could barely stand.

No problem, the plan is already halfway to success.

The Lion El'Jonson swung his right fist, and miraculously, it struck. His enemy stood there expressionless, his head not even swaying from the blow. He simply stood there, then with a slight swing of his arm, the blade pierced right through the Lion El'Jonson's body.

The Lion El'Jonson froze for a moment. His enemy sighed, released his sword, raised his hand to press down on the Lion El'Jonson's shoulder, and lowered his head, as if he wanted to say something, but was sprayed in the face with a mouthful of blood.

Before he could act, he felt the old Lion in his arms suddenly unleash a power that astonished him, followed by a pain in his eyes that felt like being hit by a bomb.

Before he even realized what was happening, his body immediately prepared to retaliate, but all his punches and kicks landed on empty air—where did that old man get his strength? He was clearly about to die!

The thought flashed through his mind, and almost instantly, his right knee was struck hard, causing him to fall uncontrollably to the ground.

He was plunged into darkness. When he reached out to touch his eyeballs, he found only a sticky, empty shell. A terrifying thought surfaced in his mind, causing him to tremble and become so enraged that he could barely control himself.

He roared as he struggled to his feet, dragging his crippled leg and wildly throwing punches. He kept sniffing the air, trying to find the enemy. But the air was thick with the stench of blood, mixed with his own, indistinguishable from it. He couldn't find the old man anywhere.

He could only hear a slow sound of a sword being drawn in the darkness, the sound of metal rubbing against flesh and bone, which used to be so pleasant to hear, but now sounded like a death knell.

"Bastard! Despicable scum!"

He roared angrily, trying to provoke his enemy into speaking with this reckless display, but his enemy said nothing or did nothing at all.

For the next three minutes, the surroundings were eerily quiet, save for his own panting, his heartbeat, and the hissing sound of blood being dried by the scalding sand. He even wondered if the old man was dead. However, he knew very well that it was impossible. Three more minutes passed, and he gasped for breath, shifting his position to avoid any potential harm, when he heard a whooshing sound beside his ear. He immediately ducked to avoid it, but the hot, scattered sound that brushed past his ear told him that it was nothing more than a clump of sand being thrown at him.

So, where is the real enemy? Is it ahead? Or somewhere else? He roared and flexed his muscles, as if he had truly become a Lion, lunging forward with both hands and feet—of course, this time, he still didn't touch anything.

At this moment, his enemy finally spoke.

How did you get this sword?

As soon as he finished speaking, a piercing pain shot through his back.

This seemed to be more than just a simple stab, because he immediately realized that his perception of his entire body was malfunctioning—the pain that had been radiating from his right leg had disappeared, as if he hadn't been injured at all. But it wasn't just that; he couldn't feel the pain anymore, he couldn't even feel his entire right leg.

And the left leg, and the waist.

I'm going to kill you!

He roared, but his enemy simply stepped on his back and thrust the sword in at another angle. In less than half a second, he ceased struggling, his heart filled with despair. It wasn't that he didn't want to, but that he couldn't; his hands had lost all feeling.

"What have you done?" his enemy asked in his ear, his voice calm but filled with an undisguised rage.

"Is that all you wanted to ask? I'll kill you—"

With a soft thud, the blade pierced his body, penetrating deep into the top of his skull and exiting through his jaw. It nailed his anger, shame, fear, and desire for death to the scorching yellow sand.

Fresh blood flowed out.

The Lion El'Jonson slowly fell to the ground.

He was exhausted, perhaps more exhausted than ever before, but thankfully the plan succeeded. Feigning weakness was a tried-and-true tactic, effective against any arrogant opponent. However, the price he paid was far too high.

Lion Aljonson lowered his head and touched the wound on his chest. His heart was beating very slowly, a pace he had never experienced before. There were probably two reasons for this: firstly, he was deliberately controlling it, and secondly, he had almost no blood left to bleed.

He raised his head and looked at the corpse. At this critical moment of life and death, he inexplicably thought of something completely unrelated.

It was the second century after the Battle of Terra. He launched an expedition to the far reaches of the Misty Sector to investigate whether any Orks were roaming there. Since the day it was named "Misty," this starfield had never been far from the threat of Orks.

These abominable Xenos always manage to grow wildly in some obscure corners, and by the time the Imperium discovers them, they are often so large that a heavy blow is needed to suppress them.

To prevent a similar situation from happening again, and also to leave behind a contactable monitoring station, the Lion El'Jonson launched this expedition.

Interestingly, he didn't fight a single battle along the way, but he kept seeing large numbers of Orks warships that had been destroyed and turned into space debris. Finally, at the end of the expedition, he met Ferrus Manus, who had set off before him.

The atmosphere was naturally not pleasant. The Lion El'Jonson wanted to question his brother about why he hadn't been informed of the military operation, but the Space Wolves residing within the Dionysian Spear mocked him viciously.

"You didn't plan to discuss it with him either, Lion? You two sometimes act like this, it's really infuriating. I don't think the old man arranged for you two to be together just because you're close by."

These words angered the Lion El'Jonson, but also made him swallow the accusations he was about to utter. From then on, the two Primarch and their offspring truly began to cooperate in the Misty Sector, instead of just going through the motions as before.

Perhaps I should have informed Ferrus before I set off.

The Lion El'Jonson thought to himself, and suddenly felt an urge to laugh: If I were to die like this, he would probably tear down my coffin at the funeral and berate me for breaking my promise.

And that damned wolf. What will he do? Will he pour me wine from behind a spear?

Lion Aljonson sighed, bent down, and began to crawl in the exact opposite direction from the corpse. He was exhausted, but he still didn't intend to stay there.

He did not yield.

--

Finally.

Zabriel had lost count of how many steps he had climbed—but he finally reached the top, and the emblem was firmly in his hand.

Seraphax had taken this trump card from his belt, but for some reason returned it. The Dark Angels didn't want to know the reason; he simply pulled open his Primarch's blood-soaked right hand and placed the insignia inside.

However, nothing happened.

Zabriel stared at the emblem, his breath catching in his throat. Several seconds later, he belatedly clenched the Lion El'Jonson's separated fingers, then took its hand and began to pray.

He was still a stranger to this matter. Zabriel was not a believer, never had been. He was loyal to the Emperor, but had never thought of worshipping him as a god—but now it seemed there was no other choice.

The Dark Angels gritted his teeth and trembled as he imitated the priests he had seen in the past.

He murmured, "Your the Emperor, please give your son some strength. He has reached the end of his road and needs your Radiance."

No response.

He murmured, "Your the Emperor, please look here. Your son needs you. Lion Aljonsen needs you."

No response.

He murmured to himself, "The Emperor."

No response.

He choked, he didn't know what to say, he only knew that the muscles in his throat were spasming, and his vision was incredibly sore.

As a Dark Angels, how could Zabriel not sense the unusual coldness of his Primarch's skin, the cessation of his heartbeat and breathing, and his lifeless face?

Tears of blood streamed down his face as Zabriel looked at his father—never before had his gaze been so sorrowful.

"Save him," a child murmured. "I would give my own life to save him."

Nothing answered him, only darkness and silence remained. Zabriel looked around and saw many similar faces. These people, wrapped in roots, looked almost identical to his Primarch, yet each was different.

Looking at them, a sudden surge of hatred rose in Zabriel's heart. He didn't know where it came from, but it was as intense as his love for his Gene-Father.

Love and hate are two sides of the same coin.

The surrounding darkness began to surge, or more accurately, to flee. They were lifeless, yet they still exhibited the emotion of "fear," as if something far darker than themselves was approaching.