This Is the Lion
Lion looked at him quietly.
Looking at this offspring who was just kneeling and repenting, looking at this veteran who was just a second ago tearfully accusing others, looking at this warrior who is now threatening his Gene-Father with his life.
A strange light appeared in his eyes.
The light shone with surprise, relief, admiration, and a deep sense of respect.
Because he saw himself in this offspring.
That furious posture, that unwavering determination to protect, that courage to sacrifice everything for what they believe in—that was clearly the shadow of a lion, clearly the genetic imprint passed down through generations of the First Legion.
Zabriel means lion.
Even if he was just an ordinary Space Marines, even if he had been stranded here for thousands of years, even if his armor was tattered, his weapons incomplete, and his strength far less than a fraction of that of the Primarch —at this moment, he was a lion.
Lion's lips curled up slightly.
"I will not harm humans, child."
His voice was as calm as a still lake, without a trace of offended anger or threatened tension.
"At least on this point, please believe me."
He slowly raised his hand and gently pushed aside the Bolter pressed against his forehead.
The movements were gentle yet firm, brooking no refusal yet devoid of any violence.
"I am the Primarch."
His gaze passed over Zabriel and fell upon the mortals in the distance.
Those people in tattered clothes, those people who still live in despair, those people whose eyes still hold light.
"Like my father, I deeply love everyone."
Zabriel was stunned.
His hand holding the Bolter trembled slightly; although the muzzle had been pried open, he maintained his attack stance.
He looked at Lion, into those calm and sincere eyes, and an indescribable emotion welled up inside him.
That emotion contained confusion, wavering, and disbelief.
There was also a trace of... a tenderness that even he himself was unwilling to admit, a tenderness that had been touched.
Lion looked at him, his eyes full of understanding.
"Your face looks sad, child."
He spoke softly, his voice as gentle as a father stroking a child's head:
"Ten thousand years ago, you must have been the person in this world who understood me the most."
But as a result, you completely misunderstood me.
He paused, a bitter smile appearing on his lips:
"But I can't refute that."
He slowly stood up, his imposing figure casting a long shadow in the sunlight.
"Because those misunderstandings are all based on my actions."
He raised his head, looking at the sunlight filtering through the leaves, at the distant, unseen sky, and at the figure that might or might not exist, sitting forlornly on Golden Throne.
"I was such a bastard ten thousand years ago."
He spoke softly, his voice filled with deep emotion:
"Just as much of a bastard as my father, the Emperor."
As soon as the words were spoken, the giant, Psionic Energy bag fell from the sky.
There was no thunder, no lightning, no punishment from the Golden Throne.
Only silence.
The only sounds were the wind whistling through the branches, the faint voices from the distant camp, and the suppressed breathing of the fifty Dark Angels warriors.
The Emperor remained silent.
He acknowledged his son's assessment of him.
Lion lowered his head and looked at Zabriel again.
In his eyes, there was something Zabriel had never seen before—the look of a father looking at his child.
"I apologize to you, child."
His voice was deep and sincere, each word like an inscription carved on a stone tablet:
"I've done so many wrong things."
He took a step forward, a step that was steady and powerful:
"However, I now also need to give you an order for a Primarch."
His gaze suddenly turned serious, and there was an undeniable majesty in that seriousness—the majesty a monarch should possess at a crucial moment.
"The Imperium of Man is falling apart."
His voice was like a war drum, a bugle call, a declaration of the start of an expedition:
"The Imperium needs our help."
I beg you—come back with me to the Imperium and continue to serve all of humanity."
His expression was so serious it was almost solemn, a solemnity that contained deep remorse, a sincere plea, and a heavy sense of responsibility.
If he could, he would kneel down right now, on this unfamiliar land, under the astonished gazes of the mortals, and under the incredulous stares of his descendants, and deeply repent for his past deeds.
But he couldn't.
There's no time left.
He didn't know what the Imperium was going through, where his brothers were, or whether his father was still on the Golden Throne.
But he knew— the Imperium must be enduring something, waiting for something, and calling for something.
He must return to Terra quickly.
He must assume the responsibilities of a Primarch.
This is his mission, his destiny, the meaning of his existence.
Zabriel looked at him.
Looking at that sincere face, those serious eyes, and the unwavering determination emanating from that imposing figure.
A wait of ten thousand years.
Ten thousand years of solitude.
Ten thousand years of perseverance.
Ten thousand years of grievances, anger, resentment, and humiliation.
At this moment, it all turned into a sigh.
I believe you.
His voice was deep, yet clear as a bell.
"From this moment on—I believe in you."
He slowly knelt down. This time, his kneeling was without hesitation, without concealment, and without any insincere pretense.
His head was bowed deeply, and that bowed posture contained true submission, heartfelt recognition, and a son's purest trust in his father.
"Lion Al Johnson from ten thousand years ago would never have done what he is doing now."
Lion looked at him.
Looking at this son who was finally willing to truly submit, looking at this warrior who had remained true to himself after ten thousand years of perseverance, looking at this offspring who taught him how to love in his own way.
An indescribable warmth welled up in his heart.
That warmth is called the love between father and son.
Zabriel slowly raised his head and looked at Lion.
His eyes no longer held anger, doubt, or resentment, but a completely new light.
In that light, there was recognition, trust, and hope.
And a deep sense of pride.
Because the person before him was no longer the stubborn dictator he remembered, no longer the suspicious and distrustful tyrant, but a true monarch.
He no longer strategizes in the shadows, no longer treats everything around him with suspicion and doubt, and no longer isolates himself in a lonely fortress.
He came out.
He stepped forward.
He dared to face his past mistakes, dared to accept his children's scolding, dared to humble himself and sincerely apologize, and dared to issue orders at critical moments.
He displayed true kingly qualities.
This temperament is not bestowed by Emperor, not determined by genes, and not something one is born with.
He learned it during his millennia-long slumber.
It was realized during countless lonely days and nights.
It is at this moment, on this unfamiliar land, in the face of the scolding of one's own offspring, that one truly possesses.
Zabriel stood up.
He stood ramrod straight, like a sword drawn from its sheath, like a majestic mountain peak, like a lion that had finally found its way.
"This is a true lion."
He spoke softly, and in that voice lay a son's highest praise for his father:
"With an invincible aura, looking down upon the world."