Defeat

The loud noise came from the direction of the Chaos Landing Ship.

On the bridge of the Rock ship, all the Dark Angels stopped what they were doing.

They all turned to look out the porthole, to the Chaos warship that was slowly disintegrating, and to the figure that flew out from it.

That's Azrael.

The Supreme Grand Master's body was like a meteorite, blasted out of the Chaos Warship by some terrifying force, leaving a bloody trail in the void before crashing heavily into the armor of the Rock.

The force of the impact was so great that the entire warship trembled.

"Grown ups!"

Ezekiel's screams ripped through the communication channel.

He was the first to rush towards the airlock, towards the figure sliding down the armored plate.

But when he arrived, what he saw was Azrael lying in a pool of blood.

His armor was shattered, his body was covered with deep, bone-revealing wounds, and his left arm was gone, leaving only a mangled, bloody limb.

His eyes were open, gazing at the endless void, at the direction of Dragon Spirit Star, at that—defeat.

"Grown ups..."

Ezekiel knelt beside him, his hands trembling as he reached out, wanting to do something, but not knowing what to do.

Azrael's lips trembled slightly, uttering a faint sound.

"Retreat..."

His voice was like a candle flickering in the wind.

"Quickly... retreat..."

Then, his eyes slowly closed.

Ezekiel's pupils suddenly contracted.

He abruptly raised his head, looking at the approaching Chaos Fleet in the void, at the countless Chaos landing ships pouring out, at that—utter annihilation.

"Everyone--"

His voice was hoarse, yet it carried a final, resolute tone.

"Prepare for battle!"

The Dark Angels ' battle was fraught with despair from the very beginning.

Their Supreme Grand Master fell, their morale plummeted, and their defenses crumbled under the onslaught of the Chaos Alliance.

But they continued to fight, continued to resist, and continued to defend that last vestige of dignity with their own flesh and blood.

The Deathwing Terminators lined up in the ruins of the hangar, attempting to stop the Chaos Space Marines surging in like a tide.

But the enemy was too numerous— the Black Legion's elite, the Iron Warriors ' siege forces, the Word Bearers ' fanatical followers, and the Daemon Engine modified by Vashtorr, crashing against their lines like endless tsunamis.

Ravenwing Knights traversed the void, attempting to intercept the approaching Chaos Landing Ships.

But for every ship they shot down, ten more would take their place; for every enemy they killed, a hundred more would surge forward.

Meanwhile, the main warships of the Chaos Fleet were methodically bombarding the fortified gun emplacements of the Rock.

One cannon after another was destroyed, one section of armor after another was torn apart, and one defensive node after another was paralyzed.

The Dark Angels are in defeat.

It wasn't because they weren't brave enough, nor because they weren't loyal enough, but because—the enemy was too strong.

That's incredible.

At the heart of the Chaos Fleet, aboard the Iron Blood Lord of Iron, a figure silently observed everything.

Perturabo.

The Primarch of the Lord of Iron, the Daemon Prince of Chaos Undivided, once the greatest siege master.

He stood there in the center of the bridge, his hands behind his back, watching the crumbling Dark Angels with an almost indifferent gaze.

Surrounding him were busy Chaos Commanders.

They were relaying his orders, directing his troops, and orchestrating the massacre into a perfect art form.

"The third wave of attacks is coming in from the west."

Perturabo's voice was calm, without any emotional fluctuation.

"Daemon Engine Cluster, advance forward and compress their defenses."

The Black Legion flanked them from both sides, cutting off their retreat.

His fingers traced lightly across the star chart, the movement elegant and precise, like an artist sketching his work.

"Watch out for their Deathwing Commandos."

Those were their last elite troops.

Suppress the enemy with artillery fire; avoid direct confrontation.

A Chaos Lord spoke cautiously.

"My lord, those Dark Angels have already been routed. Do we need to be so cautious?"

Perturabo turned his head and looked at him.

There was no expression in his eyes.

Only cold, chilling contempt.

The Chaos Lord immediately shut his mouth and retreated, trembling all over.

Perturabo did not scold him, did not punish him, and did not even say another word.

He simply turned his head and continued to gaze at the battlefield.

But that one glance was enough.

That's enough to make it clear to anyone—in his eyes, they are nothing but ants.

Including those Dark Angels who are in defeat.

This also includes the Chaos Lord around him.

Including everything.

His gaze fell on the distant the Rock, on the fortress that once symbolized the glory of the First Legion.

The corners of his mouth turned up slightly.

It was a cold laugh.

"The lion..."

He muttered to himself, a hint of complexity in his voice.

"Look at your offspring."

Look at them now."

His gaze deepened.

Where will you be?

despair.

That was the only feeling in the heart of every Dark Angels at that moment.

Deathwing's shield wall has been breached.

One by one, the bone-white Terminator fell, their corpses carpeting the hangar floor, their blood staining every corner of the Rock.

The Ravenwing Knights have already lost more than half their force.

Those figures that once roamed the void are now reduced to only a few dozen, still desperately resisting the endless enemy.

Ezekiel stood amidst the ruins of the bridge, his body enveloped in golden Psionic Energy light.

He had fought for far too long; his soul was on the verge of collapse, yet he persisted, still unleashing that final storm of Psionic Energy, trying to buy his brothers a chance to survive.

But his strength is waning.

His vision is blurring.

He heard that last communication.

"The western defensive line has fallen..."

"The entire hangar has fallen..."

"The enemy has breached the core area..."

"We... can't hold out any longer..."

Ezekiel closed his eyes.

He knew it was over.

Ten thousand years of protection, ten thousand years of glory, ten thousand years of waiting—it's over.

He looked one last time in the direction of Dragon Spirit Star, towards the former Caliban, towards the desecrated holy land.

A final thought surged into his mind.

Lion King...

Where are you...?

Just then—a golden light shone from the edge of the Milky Way.

The light was moving at an astonishing speed; one second it was at the edge of the field of vision, and the next it was already approaching the battlefield.

It was a fleet—a vast fleet composed of countless warships, each with a lion totem engraved on its bow, and flames of revenge burning in the portholes of every ship.

At the very front of that fleet, atop the flagship named "Sword of Truth," stood a figure, proud and unyielding.

It was a towering figure, nearly four meters tall, enveloped in golden light.

He held a gleaming golden sword in his hand and a gleaming golden shield on his arm.

His face was dignified and solemn, and his eyes burned with a fury powerful enough to incinerate the stars.

Lion Al Johnsen.

A male lion.

First Primarch.

I'm back.

Lion's gaze immediately fell on Dragon Spirit Star.

At that moment, the whole world stood still.

What did he see?

He saw Caliban.

He saw that familiar outline, that familiar shape, that familiar yet unfamiliar everything.

Those ancient forests that once covered the entire planet have been transformed into a factory jungle made of metal and flesh.

The wild beasts that once inhabited the forest have been replaced by the Daemon Engine.

The ancient forces that once flowed through the land have been corrupted by Chaos energy.

That's Caliban.

But that's not the Caliban.

Those are Caliban's corpses.

That was a desecrated sacred site.

That was what Vashtorr did to his home planet.