I Am Zabriel! I Am Your Father!
The tangible reality is palpable.
The fragrance of earth, the scent of grass, the gentle breeze caressing my cheek.
That was the smell of the Material Universe, the smell of the real world, the smell a soldier knew best and cherished most.
Lion took a deep breath.
How many years has it been?
No, how many tens of thousands of years?
How long has it been since he truly stood on solid ground and felt this most basic, authentic sensation?
But he had no time to indulge in it.
A bomb tore through the air and shot straight toward him.
The speed was so fast that it could turn mortals into a bloody mist before they could even react.
But in the Primarch's perception, the trajectory was clearly visible, as slow as a child throwing a pebble.
Lion even had time to admire the accuracy of the shot—the shooter was clearly a veteran; the angle, timing, and power of the shot were impeccable.
He was able to easily block that attack.
The Emperor's Shield was in his hand; with just a slight lift, the explosive bomb would be completely deflected.
He could imagine the shooter's fate—hit by his own bullet, falling down before he could even react.
But the instant he raised his shield, he saw the shooter.
That was a Dark Angels.
Lion would never admit his mistake.
The attire—the MKII Expeditionary Power Armour, predominantly Caliban green, with the Dark Angels Chapter insignia on the right shoulder armor, the company number on the left shoulder armor, and the Imperial Aquila on the breastplate.
That was clothing from ten thousand years ago, standard equipment from the Great Crusade.
The Imperium today has absolutely no technology capable of manufacturing such ancient armor.
It was a living, breathing Dark Angels from ten thousand years ago.
Lion stopped moving.
His gaze went past the explosive shell that was about to hit him, past the shooter, and looked behind him.
That was a campsite.
The campsite was heartbreakingly rudimentary.
Some tents made of rags and canvas barely provided shelter from the wind and rain, and several campfires burned in the center of the camp, where some ragged mortals huddled together.
Women, children, and the elderly.
There was no light in their eyes, only deep weariness and numbness.
They seemed completely unfazed by the sudden attack, as if they were already accustomed to danger, fear, and the ever-present threat of death.
What place is this?
Who are these mortals?
Why is that Dark Angels from ten thousand years ago here?
Countless questions flashed through Lion's mind, but he had no time to think about them.
The bomb has arrived.
He had to make a decision in less than a hundredth of a second.
Raise your shield—that Dark Angels is doomed.
With the power of the Emperor's Shield, the explosive projectile would be completely deflected, piercing the warrior's chest with the same speed and force.
He could even foresee the scene—the confusion and resentment in the eyes of the warrior as he fell, and the even deeper despair of the ordinary people.
If you don't raise your shield, you will take the hit yourself.
He is the Primarch, the perfect warrior created by the Emperor.
A single bomb wouldn't kill him, or even cause him serious harm.
But the pain was real, the impact was real, the blood was real.
Why should he endure this?
The soldier was attacking him.
The soldier was his son, yet he was shooting at his own Gene-Father.
He should be angry, he should be punished, and that arrogant soldier should be made to understand what he was doing.
But Lion was not angry.
He just looked at the soldier.
Looking at that face, twisted with anger and confusion.
There was confusion on that face.
Deeply confused.
That confusion told Lion that the warrior didn't believe it was true.
The warrior believed he was a disguise of Chaos, an incarnation of the devil, an illusion trying to deceive him.
This warrior is defending his loyalty in his own way, defending his faith in the Emperor, the Dark Angels, and the Lion.
He was defending Lion Johnson.
Even if he believed that the Lion Johnson in front of him was fake.
Lion lowered his shield.
He held the Emperor's Shield to his side and took the blow with his chest.
The bomb exploded.
Blood splattered.
The pain was real, burning and sharp.
Shrapnel embedded itself in flesh, and the shockwave vibrated through bones.
Lion's body swayed slightly, but he did not fall, did not retreat, and did not even utter a groan.
He just looked at the soldier.
The soldier was stunned.
He stared blankly at Lion, at the splattered blood, at the body swaying slightly from the impact of the bomb, at the face as calm as an ancient well.
Chaos, in its disguise, cannot bleed.
The embodiment of the demon cannot be harmed.
Illusions cannot withstand attacks from the real world.
unless--
A flicker of hesitation crossed the soldier's eyes.
But that wavering was quickly replaced by an even more intense anger.
He suddenly let out a wild roar, a roar filled with pain, confusion, and resentment, like a wild beast caught in a trap.
He rushed forward.
Lion noticed his condition—he wasn't wearing a sword.
The Power Sword that should have been hanging at his waist was nowhere to be found, leaving only an empty scabbard swaying beside him.
His armor was also tattered and damaged in many places, as if it had been used for hundreds or thousands of years.
The damage wasn't caused by battle, but by the erosion of time, the marks left on the ancient armor by the long years.
But he remained Dreadnought.
He charged at Lion bare-handed and delivered a powerful punch to the lion's face.
The force of that punch would be astonishing for a mortal, but for the Primarch, it was merely a slight touch.
But Lion neither dodged nor retaliated; he simply endured it silently, as if he were enduring a bomb explosion.
"You Chaos scum, don't even think about deceiving me!"
The warrior roared, his voice hoarse yet full of power.
His eyes were bloodshot, tears and rage mingled together.
"I am a soldier of the First Legion! I am Zabriel!"
He swung his fist again, striking Lion in the face once more.
Lion remained motionless.
"I accompanied the Emperor on the sacred campaign to reclaim Terra! I witnessed the Emperor ascend the throne! I saw the Primarch embark on their expeditions! I witnessed the greatest era of humankind!"
The third punch, the fourth punch, the fifth punch.
Every punch spoke of his pride, his loyalty, and his pain.
Even ten thousand years from now! Even if everyone says the Lion is dead! Even if everyone says the Dark Angels has fallen! I will still stand firm! I will still believe! I will still be here to protect these mortals!
The sixth punch, the seventh punch, the eighth punch.
His voice was so hoarse it was almost broken.
"I will never be disturbed by your Chaos scum! I will never believe your pretense! I will never bow down to the devil!"
Ninth punch, tenth punch--
"Strip off your despicable disguise! Face me squarely, you scum!!!"
He finally collapsed from exhaustion, his fists hanging limply at his sides as he gasped for breath.
Tears mingled with sweat, streaming down his face.
He stood there before Lion, trembling, his blood-red eyes fixed on the Primarch.
In those eyes, there was anger, confusion, and resentment.
There was still a faint trace, like a candle flickering in the wind, that he desperately tried to suppress.
hope.
Lion looked at him.
Looking at this warrior who has lived from ten thousand years ago to the present day.
Looking at this Dark Angels who has persevered through endless years.
Looking at this offspring who would rather attack the illusion of his own Gene-Father than succumb to despair.
He smiled.
The smile started as a slight upturn of the corners of the mouth, then became more and more obvious and radiant, finally turning into a loud laugh.
It was a smile of satisfaction, a smile of pride, a smile from the bottom of my heart.
Even after ten thousand years, his descendants are still outstanding!
Even with incomplete equipment, even with shattered armor, even after enduring countless years alone—this warrior still dared to attack the fully armed Primarch.
They still dared to use their own flesh and blood to fight against what they considered to be demons.
He still dared to use his last strength to defend his beliefs.
excellent.
Unparalleled excellence.
This is the Dark Angels.
These are his offspring.
Lion's laughter gradually subsided.
He looked at the exhausted but still standing warrior before him, at those eyes filled with a mixture of anger and hope, at that face etched with the marks of ten thousand years of history.
Then--
He threw a powerful punch.
The fist struck Zabriel's face with just the right amount of force—enough to make a Space Marines feel the impact, but not enough to cause serious injury.
Zabriel staggered back a few steps, nearly falling, but eventually regained his balance.
He covered his face, staring at Lion in disbelief.
"Feel this punch properly."
Lion's voice boomed like thunder, echoing at the edge of the forest.
His eyes burned with a light, the light of a lion, the light of the First Primarch, the light of the Emperor's Children.
"I am the Gene-Father."
He took a step forward, and each step made the earth tremble.
"Kneel down before me, child!"
His shout was powerful and resounding.
Like a lion asserting its sovereignty over its jungle.