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[Naruto: The Strongest Ninja System]
Can a Primarch tank ship-mounted macro-batteries or melta weapons with his body alone?!
Eden went quiet for a moment, then sighed.
"You might as well ask if a Primarch can die and then pop back up."
This is realspace—we still play by physics. No matter how tough the flesh, there's a limit. It's not the Warp, where nonsense rules.
Take himself: with a top-end warsuit or high-order psykana, he could probably eat a volley from ship guns.
Provided it's not too many.
Or he could rely on extreme speed—short-hop translations and spacefold jukes—to avoid getting hit.
As for ultra-high-temperature melta—forget it. That cooks you to charcoal at the cell level. Even Greater Daemons struggle to tank that.
It's a literal eraser for warp-taint and xeno residues.
Even Eden's baseline body would have a rough time if he took a direct melta hit—though with psykana and spare clones, he doesn't plan on letting it get that far.
The Lion, though, is different.
He doesn't throw witch-fire. He hasn't embraced his warp-nature. If he meets capital-grade barrages, odds are… bad.
Worse, the man's riding a dinky shuttle—no void shields, no proper translation banks.
If the Ten Thousand Eyes spot him, they'll pin him with sorcery, constrain space—and then wash him from range with shipfire: plasma, melta, dark-matter beams—saturation strikes.
At that point you don't just scour flesh or warp-taint. You sandblast principles.
"Optimistic take? Maybe they don't find him. Or those 'dutiful sons' won't murder their gene-sire outright."
Eden tried to think positive.
Either way, they'd put him down to cripple and capture.
Best case, the Lion's shuttle gets slagged and he's left drifting in the void—or marooned on some rock—waiting for Eden's people to fish him out.
Beep-beep-beep—
Klaxons. Red strobes. Crew to stations. Fleet translating together into the Warp. Expect some chop.
With a grind of steel, the armored shutters slid over the observation dome; the light dimmed to iron gray.
The ship shivered; prismatic glints leaked through seam-gaps.
Translation complete.
The Redemption Fleet would ride a high-current warp-lane, arriving by echelons near Avalonis—
—to hunt a fight and to retrieve the Fallen.
Eden dispatched orders to search for and rendezvous with the Lion, then flopped back, stealing rest during the long translation—banking focus for the war to come.
Warp light painted his face in murk and shifting color.
"Man… I hope the Lion's okay."
…
Zzzla—
A feral world.
Three suns baked the ochre canopy; the jungle ran to a heat-hazed horizon.
In a clearing not far from the tree line, a broken shuttle sat half-buried in a crater, spitting sparks.
The damaged voice-announcer crackled the same line on loop:
"Warning, warning, hull integrity at—zzzt—percent. All personnel… evacuate…"
The Lion stood before the wreck, silent.
Behind him, Zahariel and some twenty knights in personal panoply wore matching frowns.
"Your Highness."
Zahariel tried to speak—to lighten the mood.
After all, led by their gene-sire, they had… wiped out. Stranded on a world with nothing.
Worse than that jungle death-world Kamas.
The Lion raised a gloved hand to still his son. The Lord of Caliban's knights remained steady.
"Do not worry. We can repair the ship, and then—"
BOOM—
Before he finished, the shuttle ripped apart in a blossom of flame—torn to glowing shards.
A lone bolt flew from the blast and smacked the Lion's brow, then pinged away—
—leaving a faint red mark.
The First Primarch's face tightened—shadowed. The air itself seemed to hold its breath.
No one dared speak. The legend looked… a little shut down.
"What a fate…"
The Lion worked the tension from his jaw, drew a deep breath, forced down the weight.
It felt like something—luck, doom, a hand—kept pressing him into misfortune. Every step.
But he would not let his black mood poison his men. That was not the way of Caliban's lord.
Not long ago—
He'd been chugging along in the shuttle with his knights, hunting the Fallen.
They broke the Warp's skin—and blundered straight into a hostile Chaos flotilla. Barrages followed.
By superb piloting he saved the ship from immediate annihilation and re-entered the Warp, but the hasty jump bucked them senseless.
When they crashed back into realspace, control was gone. A feral world's gravity well snared them and slammed them down.
Bad. Very bad.
The road home had barely started—and now slammed shut.
"Gravity at one-point-five gee; oxygen half standard; water scarce; no sign of civilization…"
The Lion checked the vambrace display, brow narrowing.
Surviving here would be harder than on Kamas. The whole party would be back to wildcraft and last-stand living.
The shuttle had spat a distress pulse.
How long until that signal drifted through the stars—and actually reached Imperial ears? How long until a ship came?
He could already see it—they would be savages here. For a long, long while.
"The Savior… might be in a nearby volume."
For some reason, the Lion thought of that arrogant 'self-crowned Emperor.'
Mostly, he missed the man's supply drops—warm tents, field kitchens, clean water, ships.
If that fellow could just seed this world with crates—or catch the SOS and send a ride.
He gave himself a wry smile—and then snapped his head up to the sky.
Because… a ship came.
A vast shadow slid in from afar, covering the light—eclipsing the suns.
Whoosh—whoosh—whoosh—
Realspace trembled; eldritch gleams flickered. A fleet, all teeth and knives, wavered out of a prismatic rent like deep-sea predators.
Not Imperial Navy—an irregular Chaos flotilla, types all over the place.
At the fore, a Slaughter-class cruiser, saw-toothed hull soaked in old blood; then three barbed light cruisers.
At the center loomed a battleship named Oath of Blasphemy, her plates veined with crawling meats, tentacles idly tasting the void.
Escorts swarmed around them like flies.
A small Ten Thousand Eyes task group—sniffing down the shuttle's trail—hungry for a truth.
Oath of Blasphemy, command deck.
Holos crackled and danced.
"Found you."
The warhost's controller, Belaral the Impostor, smiled a thin, cruel smile. The twisted First Legion sigil on his armor marked him for what he was—a Fallen in thrall to Chaos.
He tapped a rune.
Lines of light resolved into the image of a Khornate champion—the Crimson Vakkan—all murder-haze and breath like hot iron.
"Impostor!"
Vakkan's voice bled slaughterlust.
"Did your witch truly find him—and why did you halt my strike?!"
"Yes. The Lion is very likely aboard—and he crashed on the planet below.
Lord Seraphax foresaw his return."
Belaral's pulse quickened.
A returning Imperial Primarch—their gene-sire—and the only confirmed one at that.
If they caught him—and executed him—the glory…
Too bad their lord forbade killing the Lion. He wanted him alive—to savor pain.
Belaral's mouth soured.
"By our lord's order: if he's shipboard, no total destruction—board and seize. If he's groundside, no orbital cleanse—land and assault.
We muster more troops and coordinate the drop."
"Unfortunate.
My warriors already made planetfall—to hunt the Lion."
Vakkan bared a grin like a trap—acid-scarred fangs catching the light.
As they spoke, the tac-plot bloomed red pips.
Above, dozens of Dreadclaw assault pods burned like meteors—vanishing into the atmosphere, streaking toward the beacon.
Khorne's hounds never wait.
"If they kill him, that's not on me. You know how my boys get."
Belaral seethed. The Ten Thousand Eyes weren't pure Fallen; they'd drawn in many other renegades.
He despised these low-grade beasts—and couldn't fathom why his lord tolerated them.
They were never truly his. They were owned—by the ugly entities called gods in the Immaterium.
They knelt to false divinities. Their loyalty was suspect.
Belaral's gaze hardened.
"You truly think that handful can slay a legend—slay my gene-sire?"
Vakkan shrugged, knuckles cracking.
"Who can say? Besides… I will go myself."
He'd never cared for legends.
They were just old men of ten millennia past. He had Khorne's favor. Why shouldn't he win?
Then—
Their channel filled with continuous bolter-thunder—then a roar that clawed the spine—then screaming. Wet. Rending.
Something enormous—something merciless—was making meat of men.
Silence fell on the bridge.
Belaral and Vakkan went still—newly aware of the foe they faced.
In the briefest span, multiple Khorne packs were gone—Terminator elites among them, even a Dreadnought or two.
Unthinkable for any of them.
"Tha… that is the Lion?!"
Vakkan's throat bobbed. His rage shook.
He had underestimated the Lion.
The Imperium's side would gain its deadliest champion. Perhaps the deadliest.
Even that whispered figure from across the Warp—the 'Savior'—wasn't this overpowering, was he?
Maybe the Savior was all smoke and shine—while the Lion was proven myth.
If such a Primarch led the Imperium, the Ten Thousand Eyes would be in dire straits.
Zzzla—
"I am Lion El'Jonson, faithful son of the Emperor—an unbending warrior of the Imperium…"
The voice rolled like a battlefield drum, iron and scorn.
"Whoever you are—you sent too few. This number won't do. Perhaps send more.
Do try not to tremble and bolt, you shivering cowards and sniveling wretches. I'll be right here—waiting."
"Raaagh—
Lion! I, Vakkan the Crimson—Khorne's champion—will kill you. Landers—down!"
Humiliation curdled in Vakkan's gut. He would lead more warriors and daemon-engines to the hunt.
Legend or not—
The Lion stood alone. No one could stand against an army.
"Vakkan, stand down. We need a plan!"
Belaral tried to leash him. Too late—the channel cut.
Soon, multiple landing barges dropped toward the surface.
"…Trouble."
Belaral watched the plot flood with more red—each a barge.
He narrowed his eyes.
He knew too well what it meant to fight a Primarch—what it meant when it was his gene-sire.
Vakkan's recklessness would give the Lion exactly what he wanted—a window to counterstrike—and their encirclement would fail.
Perhaps something worse.
…
On the ground—
The field was a churned scar, as if ploughed by machines—choking with cordite fog.
Chaos bodies lay in quarters—scattered like dice.
"Lord Lion!"
Hada stared, slack-jawed, at the towering figure on a Chaos Dread's carcass—cloak snapping in the heat.
Their sense of his power had multiplied. Their hearts bowed. Worship came easy.
"We follow an invincible legend," Hada whispered.
Zahariel shook to the soul.
His gene-sire was stronger than ten millennia ago—near unstoppable—hope incarnate against the dark.
Most of all, he was unchanged in the ways that mattered. However bleak the odds, he seized the turn and broke the foe.
When the Chaos fleet arrived, Zahariel had felt only despair.
The Lion reversed the board.
From the pit, they had a path to strike back.
The son of the Lion looked skyward, hope blooming.
"Heh. They're coming."
The Lion watched the plunging landing barges and smiled.
At last they dared to descend. Numbers didn't scare him—only the thought that they would skulk in low orbit, sniping from afar.
There, he'd be stymied.
But if they brought him transports full of troops… he could board them.
Seize the barges.
Blast up through atmo.
Leap to a capital hull.
All he needed was proximity—to the enemy's warships.
In low orbit, their formation was packed tight. Plenty of chances to break their order—board—steal their flagship.
Yes—the Lion intended to solo the entire Chaos flotilla.
The Ten Thousand Eyes' hundred-meter landing craft dropped through clouds—closing fast.
"No more waiting."
The Lion sealed his helm—and fired the jump pack—screaming up toward the nearest barge.
He had to bet before the fleet realized what he was—had to gamble on their contempt.
On their slow reaction.
Thump-thump-thump—
The barge sensed the incoming threat, flak spitting to swat him.
The Lion never flinched—flickering through the bursts—then, as he knifed across the forward quarter, he lobbed a string of melta grenades.
"Good thing the Savior packed enough breaching toys. Otherwise I'd be sawing at her plates all day."
The charges bit—temperatures spiked—steel ran cherry-red and softened.
The Lion didn't pause. In the instant the glare peaked he slammed through—shoulder first—ripping into the ductile plate.
When the glare died—
He was already in the corridor, blade nailing a Khornate warrior to the bulkhead. Still-molten iron dribbled down the armor.
Clean. Efficient.
At first contact, the hallway's defenders were gone—never even reacting.
This was what a Primarch meant.
The Lion was older now, sterner, colder—beyond what he'd been—beyond what his brothers had been.
Perhaps no Primarch still abroad could match him. He radiated absolute authority.
Dee-dee-dee!
Alarms wailed; more Berzerkers charged.
"You cannot bar my path."
The Lion's voice was steady—native certainty. Irrefutable.
Force rolled off him—like a field of will.
His blade flared—his body blurred—soft sounds of parting meat answered.
"No—"
A warrior of Khorne stared in infant terror—then his knees hit the deck and his upper torso slid askew—blood painting the ceiling.
"Th-the Lion… that's the Lion… no one can stop him!"
Another heretic stumbled back until his spine hit the bulkhead. His chainsword clanged to the deck.
The champion of Khorne had never known fear like this.
The Lion was already gone—down the corridor.
Only the butchered lay behind—walls raked deep—holes punched through—Chaos blood slicking the plates—fear like oil.
KRASH!!!
The bridge bastion blew inward; a black form hurled across the decking—armor smashing like pottery.
A dead Terminator.
"Traitors. I… am here."
The Lion strode into the bridge—eyes like winter on a panicked champion of Khorne.
A sleeper had awakened—irresistible—declaring a legend's return.
He would set his hands on the helm of the Imperium…
(End of Chapter)
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