The battle and clean-up in the Belisarius system continued for approximately sixty Terra Standard days, but it would be another sixty days until the last alien shot was fired.
The invincible fleet belonging to the Rendan Empire finally collapsed at the very last moment of the campaign. Those twisted, dark void engines relentlessly entangled with the warships of the Human Imperium over a long period, until one of the two was completely reduced to dust, dissipating in the heat of the star.
And just as in most times past, in this battle, it was still Rendan that fell, it was the xenos, it was the enemy of the Human Imperium.
After all, the Human Imperium, though it could fail, its failures were never a sudden end: no matter how devastating the losses, they could not prevent the Emperor's followers from reorganizing an even larger, more resolute, and more ruthless army of vengeance, repeatedly striking down their fortunate opponents until their blood flowed freely, until they were ground to dust.
The Imperium's Titans were falling, the Imperium's fleets were disintegrating, the Imperium's warriors were bleeding, shedding blood like the most boundless oceans, soaking countless worlds and star systems.
But despite this, the Imperium was still winning, the Imperium was still advancing, the Imperium was still completely erasing one after another once-glorious alien nations from the galaxy, reclaiming all its ancient territories upon their accumulated corpses: until the great rise of humanity was once again achieved, the people of Holy Terra would not stop.
And the remains of four million Rendan warriors, drifting between the stars and planets of Belisarius, were but another roar and demonstration from this awakened ancient hegemonic revivalist against the myriad upstarts who had usurped its territory in the galaxy.
The Emperor's will, through countless warships and legions, ultimately converged into a Dragon-Slaying Sword even larger than the most expansive star sector. And the Primarch of the First Legion was wielding this very sword, once again carving an unhealing wound into the Rendan Empire's relentless ambition for supremacy.
Four million battle-hardened warriors, along with several colossal supporting fleets, a vast ocean of slaves and logistical supplies, and permanent fortresses built on sixteen worlds...
Compared to these tangible losses, the intangible value of Belisarius as a [Strategic Chokepoint] was rather negligible.
As an alien hegemony slightly superior in technology but clearly inferior in scale to the Human Imperium, such enormous losses were enough to cause Rendan bone-chilling pain: these blasphemous xenos, for the ambition burning in their hearts, forged their entire race into an incredibly bloodthirsty army.
Coupled with thousands of years of dormancy and accumulation, and having rallied and controlled countless similarly vast alien races, they possessed the foundation to contend with the Human Imperium, with the entire galaxy as their frontline, their chessboard, their slaughterhouse.
But now, this foundation was rapidly depleting. Countless frontlines were riddled with weaknesses, numerous occupied territories were stirring due to sparse garrisons, and countless so-called [allies] were greedily eyeing their rich homeworlds, plotting one unspoken conspiracy after another.
And more importantly, despite having paid such a huge price and achieved so many battle results, the Emperor's domain still stood like a silent temple of war, continuously sending forth more legions and fleets, returning to the gambling table with even greater strength, time and again, whenever Rendan believed victory was in their grasp.
This wasn't even the full power of the Human Imperium; perhaps not even half was used: although the northern galaxy was ravaged by war, in the western, eastern, and southern parts of the galaxy,
vast armies led by the Shadow Moon Wolves and the Space Marines were calmly harvesting immense territories, subduing one rich pocket empire after another. The fervent blood shed by Holy Terra in its war with Rendan couldn't even compare to the energy gained from its continuous encroachment and annexation.
Upon realizing this, a long-unseen shadow began to coalesce over the head of this once glorious alien hegemony.
Fear.
Fear of humanity, of the Emperor, of His Imperium.
It was an unshakeable, unbeatable, irresistible, and even unstruggleable fear.
This most desperate emotion accumulated with repeated failures, repeated annihilations, and repeated deaths of renowned kings and commanders. Until the Belisarius system, one of Rendan's most core frontline military strongholds,
finally succumbed under the fierce assault of the First Legion. Even the most obtuse general of the Human Imperium could sense that in the boundless void of the galactic northeast, Rendan's legions were gradually fading into the shadows, and a mindset of evasion and retreat was clearly evident.
Countless fortresses were abandoned, countless star systems were emptied, countless worlds and peoples were subjected to bloody massacres due to untimely transfers, leaving only vast, barren areas for the Imperial vanguard fleets.
The xenos hegemony's blood-drinking blades drained the fat and life from countless star systems, creating a pale and barren cordon sanitaire that temporarily halted the First Legion's advance. Rashly crossing these uninhabited areas and pushing deep into the Rendan Empire's core for a distant expedition would undoubtedly be an extremely dangerous and reckless act.
Thus, under the directives of Holy Terra, in the sixth year that the flames of war had raged, the Dark Angels Legion finally received its first substantial respite, even though its brother legions had already, either openly or secretly, withdrawn from the war some time ago.
The Fourteenth Legion had already departed. Mortarion led his sons back to Barbarus, recruiting new blood in the only place in the entire galaxy he truly appreciated.
The Nineteenth Legion was ordered to go to Ri'bya to destroy a rather threatening knowledge vault on that world.
And the Fifth Legion had already reunited with their mysterious gene-father, and they had thus gained a new name: White Scars. Now, this swift, high-morale legion was gathering massive forces, preparing to answer a sacred call: the Lord of Humanity had issued a fatherly call to several of his sons, including Jaghatai Khan, Fulgrim, Horus, and Lion El'Jonson.
The Emperor decided to conquer a lost Knight World named [Moloch]. Apparently, that world held a great secret that was worthy of the Emperor's attention.
In addition, the Sixth Legion, this array of barbarian kings from Fenris, had, under the leadership of their Primarch Leman Russ, unknowingly disengaged from their clashes with Rendan, leaving no trace.
Naturally, many people were dissatisfied with this, but when critics compiled the battle reports of the Sixth Legion, they had to admit: the Wolf King and his sons had completed every combat mission, even if their attitude was poor, their execution slow, and their methods reckless. However, the Sixth Legion was not derelict in its duty.
So, in a fit of almost humiliated rage, another mission was thrust upon Leman Russ. The King of Fenris laughed heartily, leading his sons to once again vanish into the warp's tides.
Thus, in the sixth year of the war, after billions of Imperial soldiers had shed their blood on countless battlefields, and as Rendan's "nails" were being pried from Imperial soil, with the simultaneous silence of both sides, the rhythm of the war seemed to enter a slow period of recuperation. Only the Eleventh Legion's northern front occasionally reported news of pursuit and annihilation.
This alien hegemony, which sought to contend with the Imperium, seemed to have been heavily struck. They continuously contracted their spheres of influence, clustering more and more fleets together, no longer launching active offensives. Instead, they met the Imperium's probes with a stance of forbearance and retreat.
Rendan seemed to be retreating.
Even Lion El'Jonson thought so.
——————
But retreat and abandonment do not seem to be the same thing.
——————
[How long has she been down there?]
"One Terra Standard Hour, My Lord."
[...]
[Prepare a drop pod for me.]
"My Lord, you ordered Lady Morgana to prepare for at least two Terra Standard Hours before you went to [assault the stronghold]."
[A surprise beginning is an inescapable part of any war, Kros.]
Corswain witnessed Lion El'Jonson's pure black drop pod streak across the atmosphere of the death world like a crimson, dazzling meteor. He could only sigh inwardly.
After the victory in the Belisarius campaign, everything seemed to be a happy ending. The Legion finally had a long-awaited respite, and even the Primarch's stern face softened slightly. A relaxed atmosphere began to envelop the Unbending Truth.
It wasn't until the fifth day after the campaign ended that Lion El'Jonson summoned his most trusted son.
Corswain stayed in the Lion's office for ten minutes. When he emerged, he held a secret order from the Lion and headed to the most secluded corner of the Unbending Truth. When he reappeared, he was clutching a weapon capable of killing almost all psykers, and similar deadly anti-psyker devices quietly began to appear in the hands of more Dark Angels.
Under these circumstances, they finally arrived at Sisyphus III, a death world located in the Far East Sector, north of the Maelstrom region. It had no oceans, deserts, or frozen tundra. The entire world was shrouded in sunless, wild, deep forests and thick mist. Carnivorous plants several stories high and cunning, poisonous beasts ruled everything. Even the Catachans had to advance cautiously here.
And this was the place Lion El'Jonson had chosen.
——————
The Primarch's oversized drop pod crashed into the deep forest, like an exploding meteor. A rumbling sound spread through the endless trees and vines, even dispersing the thick mist.
Bolts loosened, the hatch peeled away. The Primarch, without waiting for the trembling outer shell to completely fall to the ground, strode out.
He was fully armed but wore no helmet. The famously potent [Lion Sword] was gripped tightly in his right hand, while the plasma pistol [Aktinanus Flintlock], not always used by the Primarch, hung at his other hip, adjacent to several stasis grenades.
His emerald green eyes, more vibrant than the endless deep forest, ruthlessly scanned everything before him, yet he only saw unprecedented silence and stillness: no birdsong, no flowing water, no rustling sound of tall trees rubbing against each other in the wind, not even the sound of wind itself.
Lion El'Jonson took a deep breath. The highly oxygenated air filled his throat and lungs. The richness in this air nourished the strange, giant life forms here, and also made this lush world a death world for humans.
The Primarch began to walk. He did not deliberately conceal the sound of his advance. His massive steel boots crushed rocks and rotten wood that blocked his path, producing sounds like a colossal forest beast, echoing long in the sea of trees.
He left the small clearing created by the drop pod's landing and entered the shadows of the deep forest. The light from the stars was completely blocked here. The Primarch's glowing green eyes were the brightest colors in the darkness.
He walked, advancing, until the last glimmer of light behind him was cast out of sight, never to be seen again.
Lion El'Jonson looked up, listening to the sounds of the deep forest.
The forest was silent, eerily silent.
But he could still hear it, when he lived in the cannibal forests of Caliban; when he joined the Knights and returned there as a killer; when he witnessed the Imperium's industrialization harvest vast tracts of Caliban's primeval forests. He could hear these sounds, the sounds of the forest.
It was howling, a silent howl, a howl that could only be emitted by a pathetic beast that had lost itself, wantonly controlled by countless threads and steel cables.
The Primarch's pupils radiated dangerous light.
Lion El'Jonson raised his sword, planted it in the ground, and it emitted a piercing sound.
[To this day, no human has ever dared to challenge me in this forest.]
His voice, like a god's judgment, echoed among millions of towering trees, traversed countless mountain peaks until it vanished beyond the horizon, spreading to the most distant places.
In the next instant, much later, at the second when the Primarch's two hearts beat in unison, Lion El'Jonson finally received a response.
It was laughter.
Cold, hollow, chaotic, meaningless, light laughter. It seemed to come from the sky, and also seemed to emanate from a beautiful face devoid of expression.
[Then may I ask, do your kind often do this?]
The air fell silent for a moment.
Lion El'Jonson swallowed, letting out a grunt of displeasure.
He drew the sword, listening to the laughter coming from all directions. It coiled around him like hungry venomous snakes, unwilling to leave.
The Primarch's eyes gleamed with a cold light capable of killing a hundred Astartes.
——————
[I once fought in the forest.]
[Fought against beasts.]
[Fought against hunger.]
[Fought against primitive desires.]
[Fought against cunning and treacherous great demons, even more so than humans.]
[Fought against the deep, dark abandonment, compromise, evasion, and madness within my heart.]
[Even fought against the forest itself... ]
[Until today, all battles will still only have one outcome.]
[And you.]
[...]
[You will be no exception.]
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