Interlude 58: Lion, Wolf, God (I)

Lion Alderson felt he was about to fall asleep.

He felt warm and comfortable all over, as if he were in a perfectly fitting bed. His windows were closed, the stove was burning quietly, and the temperature inside was just right, regardless of the heavy snow falling outside.

This is unrealistic; it's just an illusion.

He struggled to open his eyes, using the last of his strength to try to breathe and stay awake, but he was too exhausted. Even with this much effort, he could only inhale a little bit of hot air.

At the same time, that intense feeling of comfort returned, gently enveloping him like a reassuring blanket, whispering to him: Sleep, just close your eyes, there's no need to struggle anymore.

Lion seemed to have heard the voice, and his eyes slowly closed.

The desert was still scorching hot. He lay on the ground, motionless, not even breathing. However, just a few seconds later, he opened his eyes again. Slowly and with difficulty, he opened his eyes and tried to breathe again.

A tiny bit of air flowed through his nose into his trachea, into his lungs, and then out. This simple process took Lion Aljonson a full ten seconds—ten seconds of utter exhaustion—and what did he gain from all that effort?

The answer is a few grains of sand that were blown away.

His extraordinary physique, born from the knowledge and genetic engineering of the Emperor, was still helping him, but that was all it could do. His injuries were far too severe, enough to kill an ordinary person a thousand times over.

He knew this himself, but the Lion El'Jonson of Caliban could not allow himself to fall and surrender like this. His last vestiges of lucidity were replaying the past in his mind's eye.

Forests, Legions, Terra; fathers, brothers, offspring. His captains, his mortal officers, his pedantic yet courageous officials, and the civilians torn apart by Xenos before him are finally captured on a banner upon which the eagle for which he fought his entire life is poised to take flight.

Just then, that reassuring voice returned, asking, "Isn't this ending unworthy of you, Lion? You've given everything, even bled to death. In this situation, death is like a natural law."

Man cannot fight nature. You can fight it, but nature will always win—just like now. You can resist, but death will always come. Just this once, let go, Lion, and make things easier for yourself.

Once again, the Lion El'Jonson trembled and closed his eyes, seemingly giving up. His body began to slowly sink, embraced by the hot, desolate desert.

The sand rubbed against his rough face, the scorching wind blew across his dried wounds, his full head of white hair lost its luster, and his dignified face even looked somewhat serene.

A few seconds later, the Lion El'Jonson convulsed and opened his eyes, as if waking from a dream. He was experiencing a violent spasm, and nothing could explain why this dying body could unleash such strength at this moment, enough to even sit up.

However, his eyes can no longer be easily reconciled with those of ordinary people, or with the eyes he once had.

Those once vibrant green, now deep emeralds, were now completely murky, devoid of any life. Their pupils were dilated, and they showed no reaction to the blinding sunlight shining on their faces.

So the fact is, Lion Aljonsen is dead.

He sat half-sitting on the ground, his head stiffly tilted back, staring at the sky, his entire body covered in unscathed flesh.

If someone were to perform an autopsy on him, they would find that the First Legion Primarch had bled to death, which is the main reason why he looks so old and emaciated at this moment.

They also discovered that he had suffered multiple fatal wounds, each of which should have been enough to kill him.

Finally, and most importantly, they will notice that he is clenching his fists.

The voice did not sound again.

So, is this the end?

The answer is no.

Suddenly, a gaping hole appeared in the desert sky. It wasn't huge, but it was quite noticeable. It was straight and sharp, like a black knife. But it only appeared for a very short time, less than a second, before disappearing as if it were an illusion.

However, a black dot appearing directly below where it had been contradicted by its own presence. It fell at breakneck speed, streaking across the horizon, seemingly insignificant. Finally, it landed not far from Lion El-Jonson's body.

With a deafening roar, countless plumes of yellow sand soared high into the air, first splashing and then cascading down like a waterfall, before being blown about by the gale like a sandstorm.

Leman Russ Russ smashed through the sand curtain and appeared silently. His steps were slow but focused, but his gaze was completely different—he didn't look at the Lion El'Jonson, not even once; his gaze wasn't on his brother, but rather on an empty space. Finally, he walked step by step to Lion's side, shielding him from the blinding sunlight, and then slowly crouched down.

Finally, he focused his attention on the Lion El'Jonson. The Fenrisian's exceptional observational skills, even among Primarch, began to take effect, and many conclusions were drawn, which were then passively summarized and refined.

He sighed softly, already understanding that his brother's death had not been easy. On the contrary, Lion Aljonsen's death was extremely painful. He had lingered on for at least ten minutes before dying, and during that time, was he even capable of thought?

Russ believed the answer was no. If Lion were still of sound mind, he would have tried to leave some trace around him or climbed further away.

Therefore, during that painful final moments, his brother had already entered an unknowable vortex, where neither reason nor logic existed.

At that point, he mostly had only the most basic instincts left, such as trying to breathe or some twitching at the extremities. From a medical perspective, he could have been declared dead at that time.

Russ shook her head.

"You stubborn bastard," he spoke softly, his voice devoid of sadness. "So what if you're Primarch? You're still bound to get hurt, to bleed, and you bled to death, you fool."

He stood up and turned to look at the path the Lion El'Jonson had taken. The yellow sand had buried all traces, but for the Primarch's eyesight, it was not difficult to see the corpse nailed to the ground.

So he turned back, picked up his brother's body, and walked steadily toward it.

In three minutes and forty-one seconds, Russ walked the 1,761-meter distance at a relatively slow pace, measuring Lion Aljonson's final struggle before his death with his own steps.

Then he saw that young face.

A few seconds of silence quickly passed, and Russ heard himself grinding his teeth.

The corpse's eyelids were shriveled, and its face was contorted. A sword had pierced its skull, pinning the entire body to the ground in the desert, where the sand, scalded by blood and semi-solidified, bore the brunt of the blow.

The stench of blood lingered in the air, an odor identical to that of Lion El'Jonson.

Just like his face, it was exactly like Lion El'Jonson's.

The Fenrisian suddenly shut his mouth, his teeth clattering together with a tremendous force. Drops of blood slid down his chin from his lips. Russ remained expressionless, yet his lips twitched nervously as the blood dripped down.

He was an exceptional hunter; even across the entire galaxy, few could rival him in this skill. In his arms lay one dead brother, another dead brother, and a missing brother.

Therefore, long before Russ realized—or rather, accepted—the truth, he had already seen some details beyond the corpse.

For example, the traces of the fight and the splattered blood could help him roughly reconstruct the scene of the two fighting. Without much effort, Russ knew that his brother had used that old trick again.

"Playing the enemy weak, huh?" the Fenrisian asked the corpse in his arms with a cheerful tone, his face devoid of any smile. "An old dog can't produce new teeth."

He casually uttered this comment and then focused all his attention on the sword. Logically, he should have only needed to glance at it to obtain all the useful information, but the reality was quite strange. Russ stared at the sword without saying a word for a full five minutes.

Then he turned and left without the slightest hesitation. However, a sudden gust of wind arose, and the once calm sky was suddenly covered with dark clouds. In the blink of an eye, the scorching sun was obscured.

Russ squinted, watching the sandstorm sweep in, unmoved. Soon, the sudden sandstorm engulfed him and the Lion El'Jonson. The Fenrisian remained silent, simply curling up and using his own body to form a barrier around his brother's corpse.

It's unclear how much time passed before the storm finally subsided, but the desert had vanished, replaced by an indescribable scene of devastation. If Russ had to describe it in one word, he would choose "apocalypse"—and indeed it was.

Countless suspended corpses were strung together by chains blazing with azure flames, forming the sky and the earth, as well as mountains and hills composed of even more fragmented corpses. The one who created this hell was probably a very meticulous bastard, who didn't even forget the forests and rivers.

At first glance, there seems to be nothing wrong with them. If a normal person came here, his brain would tell him, in a semi- Deceit way, that nothing is wrong.

But if that person has keen enough observation skills, he will see the truth.

He will see riverbeds made of dead men's teeth and their viscous blood; he will see so-called "land" paved with withered bones and flesh, and on it, trees with human faces that seem to be wailing.

Then he'll go mad, but Russ won't.

Compared to the apocalypses he had seen, this was nothing.

The Fenrisian watched all this calmly, not even bothering to offer any comment. He slowly stood up, sand spilling from the gaps in his armor. The Lion El'Jonson's battered body, now appearing more than twice its original size, was gently laid down by him.

Leman Russ Russ looked around, licked his blood-stained lips, and suddenly smiled slightly. But this smile was far from gentle and friendly; it was full of murderous intent.

He extended his right hand, and without any apparent movement, a pale golden spear suddenly appeared in his hand, though its surface was already cracked, as if it would shatter at any moment. Russ ignored this, simply holding the spear in his hand, then raising his arm and pointing it straight ahead.

"Come out," he urged with a smile.

A giant arrived as promised.

He was very tall, at least considerably taller than Russ and the Lion El'Jonson when he was still alive. His golden hair was wildly disheveled, his muscles were bulging, and he was extremely strong, like a human tank. His cheeks were covered with scars left from life-and-death battles.

He wasn't wearing Power Armour, but rather animal skin clothing, with many bone ornaments and prey skulls hanging from the hem of his clothes and waist, clinking softly as he moved. Similarly, he carried a long spear, but it was made of bone, and reeked of the stench of Chaos.

The giant walked calmly to a spot not far from Russ, then stopped and nodded in greeting.

"Hello, Russ," he said, his voice low but devoid of any madness or even fighting spirit.

Russ did not answer his greeting, but merely sniffed the air a few times before turning his gaze to the bone spear in the giant's hand.

"How many Daemons have you killed?" Russ asked.

"Too many to count."

The giant answered, his brow furrowing slightly. Such a simple gesture carried immense intimidation, but it was merely an unconscious act when he spoke of Daemon.

"Ever since I developed self-awareness, I have been fighting against them," the giant said, reaching up to lift a necklace hanging around his neck as proof.

He seemed to want to say something, but whether it was his nature or because he rarely communicated with others, he ultimately said nothing, only tugging at the necklace so that Russ could see it clearly.

Like other ornaments, it was made of bone, polished to a shine and then strung together. Russ stared at it for a moment, then suddenly raised an eyebrow. His wild instincts told him that each segment of the necklace was a creation of a different Daemon.

He looked up at the giant again and asked, "Has it never stopped? They shouldn't have been this active in the early stages of the Great Crusade."

The giant shook his head and replied, "In my world, it wasn't like that Great Crusade was only halfway through before it was forced to stop. Countless Daemon leaped from the void, attacking every planet we reclaimed simultaneously."

He fell silent again, this time because of memories. A deep-seated hatred flashed across his face, just for a moment, but enough for Russ to catch in an instant.

"And then? What happened?" Russ asked softly.

The giant looked up at him and shook his head. "We lost contact with each other. The Warp began to fluctuate, unleashing endless storms. We could no longer travel through the Warp, nor could we communicate across star systems. Even the Radiance of the Astronomican was obscured. Later, I learned that I had lost nine brothers the very moment the war began."

He stared at Russ, who grinned. "Me too?"

The giant nodded.

Who else?

"Everyone except me," the giant said calmly. "I mean, everyone. Father, Malcador, Luther, the other Primarch, the other Legions, my own Legion. Chaos has won, and humanity is enslaved forever."

Russ took a deep breath to calm herself. "And what about you?"

The giant brandished his spear, and the answer became self-evident.

"Very well—" Russ sighed, raising the Dionysian Spear in his hand. "But why then, do you stand before me and my brothers?"

"For nothing, Russ." The giant suddenly became somewhat agitated upon hearing this. "I don't want to fight another version of myself, let alone you. I was forced to come here."

"Who forced you?"

The giant took a deep breath, suppressing his anger, and slowly said, "Who else could it be? That traitor, Seraphax."

"He appeared before me, imprisoned me with Warp magic, and brought me here to meet other Lion Aljons like me. He said it was for humanity's sake, but I don't believe him. Look around, what kind of savior could do such a thing? And if it wasn't him—"

The giant suddenly gripped his spear tightly.

"--I've already killed that Daemon."

Russ glanced at him but offered no comment. It might sound a little cold, but he didn't want to get involved in these things. He had only one goal right now, and he didn't want to touch anything else.

The silence lasted for several minutes before the giant finally managed to calm down. "How did you get here?"

"No comment." Russ shrugged. "All I can tell you is that I just want to take him away."

The giant lowered his head and glanced at the corpse behind Russ. Its excessive age and emaciation seemed to pique his curiosity, so he asked, "How old is he?"

"Does this make sense to you?" Russ asked rhetorically.

Upon hearing this, the giant remained silent for a few seconds before nodding firmly.

"I've been here a long time, unable to leave, as have the others. They've all told their stories, some dying from stupidity, others from arrogance, and without exception, they all mention Seraphax, as if he played some significant role in their lives. But it's different for me; he was just a traitor in my legion, neither an elder nor a teacher. Then I learned that this man was the same."

Russ narrowed his eyes, raising Seraphax's ranking on one of his mental lists by one level, then asked, "So? What do you want to know?"

"He just wanted to find someone who shared his weakness; he had failed to protect or save anyone, so he wanted to find some solace in someone with a similar experience."

Another voice suddenly rang out, speaking with a chilling coldness.

Russ took a deep breath and looked over there with considerable unease—his wild instincts were warning him, as if a very dangerous creature was approaching.

And indeed, that was the case. The speaker was dressed in black armor, with a scarlet cloak draped over his back and a golden crown on his head. He was neither old nor young, yet he was simply irresistible.

The giant moved swiftly, blocking his path between him and Russ.

"Leave!" he growled. "You're not welcome here!"

"This is a prison, big guy, and you and I are prisoners—we're not really welcome here. Haven't you heard the cries of these dead?"

The crowned figure ignored his warning and continued walking at his leisurely pace. Without hesitation, the giant hurled his spear with such speed that Russ's hand twitched involuntarily.

However, this terrifying blow was caught by that person with one hand as if it were nothing, and he even continued to stroll leisurely.

"I forgive your rudeness," he said calmly to the giant. "But you'd better not do anything foolish afterward, boy, or I'll teach you a lesson."

His words provoked a real roar, but Russ spoke up at that moment, easing the increasingly tense atmosphere just in time.

"You look like a king, don't you?" the Fenrisian asked in a deliberately flippant tone.

The crowned figure looked at him, stopped, nodded solemnly, and acknowledged his identity.

"Indeed, Leman Russ Russ, I am the Lord Regent of the Imperium of Man. My father was gravely wounded, my brothers were either injured or dead, and the remaining few either became disheartened and secluded themselves, or were deemed incapable of great responsibility and wallowed in misery. Only I did not flee; the Imperium is in my hands—"

"--Ha!" The giant let out an undisguised laugh. "How will you fare in your hands? Shrinking territory, skyrocketing death rates, extreme oppression and conscription policies? Don't think I don't know your capabilities. What are you pretending to be, King of Kings?"

The king calmly shook his head, without anger, and even began to explain, "It was maintained in my hands."

"My father's injuries are so severe that he can no longer maintain the Astronomican. Keeping the Imperium's territory within the Sol System and a portion of its surroundings is the best I can do."

"As for the rising mortality rate and those extreme policies, I won't argue, but I will tell you that at least I didn't waste a single soldier's life. They all died worthy deaths, all died on the road to resisting Chaos and traitors."

"Without them, the Imperium and humanity would have been destroyed long ago. I have never called myself the King of Kings; I am merely a Lord Regent. My power comes from my father's trust and the weakness of others."

Russ twitched his eyelids, rubbing his temples—he rarely felt so mentally exhausted, or rather, there were very few things in the universe that could make him feel so mentally drained.

The argument unfolding before his eyes revealed too many things that Russ had never imagined before. He couldn't help but look down at the old Lion lying behind him, thinking to himself: At least you're not like them.