This Is the Lion!

The roar was like a lion's howl, like thunder exploding, like a war god descending.

Lion Al Johnson laid down Seraphax's body and slowly stood up.

Golden flames burned in his eyes.

There was sorrow, anger, and an indescribable complex emotion in the flames.

But more than anything, it was a resolute determination—a determination to slaughter all the enemies before him.

He invoked "loyalty" and raised the Emperor's Shield.

Then—he rushed out.

At that moment, everyone on the battlefield saw the same scene—

A towering figure, four meters tall, enveloped in four-colored light, wielding a golden sword and shield, charged into the Chaos army like a war god descended to earth.

With a flash of sword light, the head of an Ork Warboss flew high into the air.

With a swing of their shields, the chests of three Chaos Space Marines caved in.

He charged forward, leaving a trail of corpses and rivers of blood in his wake.

Those Chaos Warriors who once made countless worlds tremble were like paper before him; those raging Beastmen were like straws under his sword; those massive numbers of Cultists couldn't even see his figure before being torn to shreds by the shockwave.

He fought his way from east to west, and from south to north.

He fought his way in and out of the crowd seven times.

With each charge, dozens of enemies fell.

With each swing of the sword, splattered blood.

Each shield bash was accompanied by the sound of countless bones shattering.

The Chaos Cultist began to feel fear.

They once believed that the Chaos Gods were the most powerful force in the universe.

They once believed that by following the Thousand Eyes Warband and the Seraphax, they could achieve eternal victory and glory.

But at this moment, they were not facing ordinary people, not Space Marines, and not even ordinary Primarch.

They were facing a lion.

It is the first Primarch.

It was the first masterpiece created by the Emperor himself.

It was a being that struck fear into the hearts of countless enemies ten thousand years ago.

He's back now.

It has returned, carrying with it millennia of slumber, millennia of accumulated power, and millennia of unreleased strength.

"Demon!"

A Chaos Cultist screamed:

"He's a demon!"

But he was immediately slapped to the ground by someone next to him.

"Fool! Demons aren't that scary!"

Yes.

Demons are not scary.

Demons can be banished, sealed away, or deceived.

But the Primarch — the Primarch is real.

The Primarch's sword is real, the Primarch's shield is real, the Primarch's wrath is real.

Every person the Primarch kills is truly dead.

Every corpse slaughtered by the Primarch will lie here forever, turning into soil, into dust, into remains that will never disappear from this battlefield.

Lion raised his sword once more.

His entire body was soaked in blood—the blood of his enemies, his own blood, and the blood of his son who had just died in his arms.

But his movements did not slow down in the slightest, his steps did not falter, and there was no sign of fatigue in his eyes.

He had only one thought—to kill.

Kill all the murderers who destroyed his son.

Slaughter all these Chaos scum who have defiled his offspring.

Kill all those scum who dare to swagger in front of him.

The final sword strike landed.

The last Orks warrior fell.

The final scream faded away on the battlefield.

Lion stood amidst mountains of corpses and seas of blood, atop the remains of countless enemies, amidst the pervasive smoke and stench of blood.

He raised his head, looking at the sky obscured by thick smoke, at the distant, unseen stars, and at the figure that might or might not exist, sitting forlornly on Golden Throne.

He raised the sword in his hand.

Blood was still flowing from the sword.

Among that blood were the blood of enemies, the blood of one's own children, and the blood of countless others who perished in this battle.

He took a deep breath.

Then--

"Long live the Emperor!"

The roar, like thunder, shattered the silence of the battlefield, tore apart the thick smoke that blotted out the sky, and ripped open the millennia-old darkness of the Imperium Nihilus.

The roar echoed through the mountains, traveled across the starry sky, and exploded in the heart of every living Dark Angels.

"Now, this planet—"

His gaze swept over the land he had liberated with his own hands, over the distant settlements of ordinary people, and over the people who peered out from the ruins, staring at him in disbelief:

"It belongs to the Emperor!"

The fifty-one Dark Angels warriors had already gathered behind him.

They were covered in blood, exhausted, but their eyes burned with the same flame as a lion.

That is the flame of loyalty, the flame of victory, the flame of hope that will never be extinguished for mankind.

They gazed at the imposing figure before them.

Looking at this Primarch, who had just awakened from a ten-thousand-year slumber and was leading them to conquer the stars.

Looking at this Gene-Father who had just personally slain his corrupt offspring yet still stood tall.

In their minds, there was only one thought—

This is a true lion.

This is the First Primarch.

This is the kind of leader they are willing to follow to the death.

The Golden Throne still shines brightly.

But beneath that light, a blue figure was striding through the palace corridors.

His steps were steady, his gaze piercing, and he exuded an indescribable air of authority.

That is the dignity a ruler should have, and the demeanor a leader should possess.

It is the kind of resolute determination one would have to make when returning after ten thousand years only to find the Imperium completely changed.

This person is:

Robert Guilliman, heir to the Imperial Family, regent, Lord of Ultramar, Primarch of the Ultramarines, creator of the Second Imperium, successor of the Great Crusade, regent of the Imperium, commander of all armies, progenitor of the Codex, guardian before the Golden Throne, pillar of the Imperium of Man, hope of all people, shield of the Imperium, torch of civilization, immortal Robert Guilliman.

Behind him followed a group of officials, clerks, and messengers.

Everyone is busy recording something, conveying something, and carrying out something.

That was the daily operation of the Imperium's central hub, one of the countless gears that kept this vast Imperium from collapsing.

But at this moment, Guilliman's attention was focused on one person.

The man stood in the center of the hall, his posture as upright as a pine tree.

His armor was engraved with the mark of the Blood Angels, his face was so handsome that he seemed almost otherworldly, and his eyes held the vicissitudes and perseverance of countless years.

Louis Dante.

The Chapter Master Blood Angels, Lord Baal, a legendary warrior who has guarded the legacy of Sanguinius for nine hundred years.

He was too old, so old that most Space Marines couldn't imagine how many battles he had fought; but he still stood, still fought, still protected everything he had sworn to protect.

Guilliman walked up to him.

Dante bowed slightly as a sign of respect.

But Guilliman waved his hand, indicating that he didn't need to be so polite.

"Dante."

Guilliman's voice was calm, yet it contained an undeniable authority:

"I have a task for you."