Interlude 61: Wolf, Lion, God (III)

For Leman Russ Russ, those days spent on Fenris would never be forgotten.

Yes, everyone has a hometown. Yes, the Primarch hometown is more precious. Yes, a hometown is a place you must leave even if you cherish it deeply.

But Russ will not leave.

He howled in the wind as the tundra cattle huddled together for warmth on the migrating winter plains; he drank blood from his blade as one tribe raided another; he was also present when the stars rose in broad daylight, the fires brought chills, and deformed monsters and the skeletons of the dead, emerging from the earth with the arrival of spring, gazed with their empty eyes at the living who passed by.

No one could understand this feeling; no one could. His children couldn't, his brothers couldn't, and even his father could only try.

Countless winters, barren, desolate, savage, violent, and nightmarish. The people living on this land have to endure almost all of this just to barely survive, and usually don't live long.

Even if they barely survive the winter, they will be killed in the spring by another group of starving and poorly clothed people. Then, those who kill them will be cut down by another group of hungry people with axes or knives.

A spiral.

Has no one tried to change it? Yes, of course, but they all failed.

So, what about Leman Russ H. Russ?

A Primarch, one of the most exalted beings in the galaxy, wields unimaginable power. With a single command, countless people would flock from all corners of the galaxy to transform Fenris into a normal, peaceful world, just as he desires.

But Russ said no.

Leman Russ of the Russ Tribe once said to his father: I have no right to do this.

Why? Where is the answer? Was he a sadist who enjoyed watching the people of his homeland suffer day after day? Or did he firmly believe in some cruel philosophy, thinking that only those who have endured the trials of winter can rise above the rest? Or perhaps, he simply hadn't thought that far ahead?

The Fenrisian reached out and summoned a gust of wind.

Suddenly, a heavy axe appeared in his previously empty left palm. It didn't look very sharp, nor was it one of those battle axes capable of cutting through helmets and bones; it was just an old, small hand axe.

For a Primarch, it might even seem a little comical—but that does not diminish the violence he is about to wield with it.

Russ dropped his spear, and a giant wolf tilted its head back and bit it, while another wolf strolled over to Lion Eljonsson, its eyes fixed on another spot in the snowstorm.

Neither it, nor its companions, nor Leman Russ Russ, glanced at the hunter and the king even once. Their gazes were fixed on the depths of the snowstorm, on the edge of this winter of Fenris.

Russ raised his axe high.

This was the first gift he had ever received, presented by the last king of the Russ Tribe. It had an ironwood handle, was made of highland steel, and had twenty-five exorcising charms carved on its surface by the best craftsmen.

And now, they are shining, a blazing light, as if bursting forth from the deepest depths of hell.

The axe struck, producing a heavy thud, like chopping wood or smashing someone's bones, not at all like a sharp weapon entering a body.

However, a dull axe should make this kind of noise; it can still tear flesh, though not as smoothly as it used to be. But it is still a weapon, and it can still kill, only the process is a bit longer.

The victims will not die a quick death under it; they can only plead and scream until the killing ends.

Yes, that's what Russ is doing right now.

But who exactly was he killing? Or rather, what was he killing?

The hunter stared angrily at the figure in the snowstorm, who seemed stunned by his sudden injury. His eyes began to churn, and the emeralds were gradually obscured by bloodshot veins.

Without hesitation, he grabbed his bone spear and rushed into the snowstorm.

A fraction of a second later, accompanied by a tremendous explosion, the thick snow curtain, which was almost like a white cloth covering the surroundings, was violently torn open. A bone spear pierced through the chest of something, forcing it to howl in pain and hunch its body, which was exactly what the hunter wanted.

He swung his right fist upwards with great force, knocking out half of its fangs. Then, he reached out with his strong arm, grabbed its twisted horns, and slammed it downwards with tremendous force.

With another loud bang, snowflakes fluttered down, and thick, scalding blood splattered all around, corroding the snow and creating pits and steam rising into the air, followed by a painful roar.

Only then did the hunter's voice reach the king's ears like a gloomy and furious wind.

"Daemon."

Daemon?

The king couldn't help but feel somewhat puzzled.

He had been here for a very, very long time, long enough to know the lives of everyone else intimately, but he had never seen any Daemon here. In the king's mind, this was an isolated island created by Seraphax himself, cut off from the world, where only they and countless other endless dead resided.

But he soon noticed the slightest clue—after leading his army against Chaos for so many years, fighting again and again against his brothers who died but could not rest in peace, the king's understanding of Chaos and the Warp had already reached a level that ordinary people could not even imagine.

He knew, of course, that everything in the real world would affect the Warp, and then the Warp would in turn affect the material world.

And here.

He looked around.

With so many dead, what kind of thing will their deaths create?

I couldn't possibly overlook this, unless...

The king's expression grew increasingly grim.

With a whoosh, he drew his sword and slowly approached Lion Eljonsson, who was surrounded by two giant wolves. Facing their wild, vertical pupils, the king simply raised his longsword.

This is a rather ornate one-handed sword, befitting his status and perfectly suited for a king to wield, but for a warrior, it is still somewhat lacking.

But the king doesn't care now.

He suddenly charged forward, his cloak billowing wildly. The crimson hue was reflected in his wolf-like eyes, and snowflakes followed closely behind, perfectly concealing the glint of the sword, but they could not hide the blood and the scream of something.

"Back off!"

The king, sword in hand, stood before the gaunt yet unusually tall monster and gave it his command. His authority was not as strong as before; instead, his murderous intent was so intense that it overshadowed his aura.

One of the wolves suddenly growled.

As the snowstorm struck, the Daemon, bleeding, vanished.

"Leman Russ Russ!" the king shouted, raising his sword again. "I demand that you share your intelligence with us temporarily!"

Upon hearing this, the Fenrisian, who was holding an axe and waiting for the next arrival of firewood, couldn't help but laugh out loud. Despite the bizarre and bloody moment, he laughed unusually loudly.

But after laughing, he actually spoke.

"What other information is there to share? You know this place far better than I do, and that thing is undoubtedly a Daemon —just kill it. Do you need a reason?"

"It's not that kind of ordinary Daemon."

The hunter broke through the snowstorm and returned to his original spot, his entire body drenched in foul-smelling, scalding blood.

He said expressionlessly, "I've killed too many of the Four Gods' minions, and I can smell their unique stench. But this one smells different from all of them. I'm going to skin it alive."

"Of course I want to kill it, but what consequences will it bring?"

The king asked this question while gazing at the snow-covered landscape. His shoulders were covered in snow, and the melted snow, warmed by his body heat, slid down his cheeks and dampened his gray hair, making him look dejected and helpless.

Russ grinned.

"Very good, very good."

As he spoke, he turned around, showing no concern whatsoever for the monster that might reappear at any moment. He even raised his axe and pointed it at the king a few times in the distance before launching into a long-winded speech, as if he had been holding it in for a long time.

"You asked a very crucial question, which reminds me of a story I once heard. The protagonist came from a tribe that has disappeared, but his name still lives on; people call him Big-Bellied Man. But that's strange, isn't it?"

He was neither a warrior nor a priest in the tribe, much less a chief or elder. He was just a lazy bum who idled away his time whenever hunters or warriors returned laden with their spoils. He would be the first to rush over, shamelessly following them around, shouting and celebrating as if it all belonged to him.

"--You intend to tell a story at this time?!" the king roared, his hair and beard bristling. At this moment, he resembled the man Russ knew.

The Fenrisian grinned from ear to ear, for this was the second time he had seen this reaction. He nodded and immediately continued speaking.

"In short, the big-bellied man wasn't well-liked in his tribe. Although he was somewhat strong and knew a few fighting moves, had he ever really accomplished anything? Nothing. He had never received any honor. And what about shame? Alas, he didn't even bear the slightest bit of shame."

"The children in the tribe sometimes even called him Taus, meaning 'penniless.' But the big-bellied man never cared about these things. As long as he had wine to drink, food to eat, and a smelly, warm fur cloak to sleep in, he didn't care about anything else."

"Many people had objections to this, but the big-bellied man had lived for far too long. The longer he lived, the more stable the tribe's life was, so people tacitly accepted it and planned to keep the big-bellied man until he died."

"But then one day, the tribe suffered a defeat. Of the hundred warriors who went out to plunder, fewer than twenty returned. Everyone was dejected, and the chief felt as if the sky had fallen when he saw this. He went to the priest, but the priest didn't know what to do either. The whole tribe began to weep—the people knew in their hearts that they wouldn't survive the winter."

"Only the pot-bellied man remained unchanged. He pulled together the children who liked to play with him and began to dance a celebratory dance and sing cheerful songs at the village entrance, just like in the past. The children were quickly pulled away by the adults who arrived, and the defeated warriors, their faces ashen, walked up to the pot-bellied man, wanting to teach this shameless man a lesson."

"But no matter how the warriors beat him, the pot-bellied man never fought back, and even continued to smile. Finally, an enraged warrior stabbed him in the belly with a knife and roared: 'Now let's see how you can still smile!'"

The crowd froze instantly. No one had expected such a thing to happen; in the tribe, it was an absolute taboo. Even the one who had done it was stunned, looking somewhat regretful. But the pot-bellied man not only didn't die, he even got up from the ground with surprising energy.

He gripped the knife embedded in his stomach, pulled it up, and with a soft thud, ripped open his belly, only to find it empty. The people were terrified; even the priests began shouting cries of "Break away, evil spirit!"

"Only then did the pot-bellied man speak to them, his tone as friendly and humorous as ever. However, he no longer called himself the pot-bellied man, but rather Taus. He told the tribespeople that he had a way to help them get through the winter."

The chief immediately asked, "What's the plan?" Taus laughed, threw down his knife, and ripped open his belly. A gust of wind swept through, and the flesh and blood of the people gushed from their skin, being stuffed into Taus's belly amidst endless screams.

"Taus departed, leaving behind only empty human skins, but he did not disappear. On the contrary, he remains, and one day he may snatch the skin from any idle person in the tribe."

A cold wind howled, Russ finished her storytelling with satisfaction. The king frowned and said, "So, this is a fable?"

"Pretty much," Russ replied with a smile. "Almost no one has actually seen Taus, but at least no one would really be as idle as him. As a cautionary tale, the story is quite successful, isn't it?"

"But you have more to say than that," the hunter said, drawing two bone knives from his belt. They weren't large, just the size of skinning knives, but both blades were intricately engraved with the Imperial Aquila.

Russ glanced at him and nodded. "But I've seen Taus. It was an evil spirit, sealed beneath the abyss of Fenris. When I killed it, its belly overflowed with enough human corpses to flood a river."

"It seemed to contain another world within its belly, an empty, void world that wouldn't even digest those people, who all died of starvation, old age, or disease, their hands piled high with scrolls containing warnings for future generations."

Before he could finish speaking, the dull chopping sound rang out again. Without any warning, Russ's voice remained calm, yet the axe in his hand was already embedded in the neck of a Daemon.

Blood splattered, and the Fenrisian's Long Fang gleamed.

"So? Does the sequel to the story sound familiar?" he asked softly.

The hunter and the king exchanged a glance, both gripping their weapons tightly in a serious manner.