The Unbending Truth
Under the watchful eyes of hundreds of knights, their sole liege, the Knight-King of Caliban, leisurely stepped out from the shadows of the corridor. He was like a mythical figure from an ancient scroll, having pierced through countless mists and clamoring dust, descending among the ranks of mortals.
Lion El'Jonson, Lord of the Dark Angels.
Wielder of the sharpest blade in the entire galaxy.
And the monarch who ruled Caliban and countless bloody battlefields.
And now, this erstwhile autocrat was no longer alone.
Corswain stood to the right of his immediate superior, Grand Master Alajos. Behind them were the battle-hardened elites of the Ninth Knightly Order. Further back, arranged in neat formations, were the best Dark Angels from the Second and Sixth Knightly Orders. Their two commanding Knight Lords, Gael and Morien, were also present.
Everyone heard the sound of iron boots on the ground; no one could mistake it. That unique sound, formed by a particular force and frequency, was unparalleled in the Legion, signifying the imminent arrival of their gene-father.
But this time, the situation seemed somewhat different.
Even the dullest Dark Angel could clearly sense that amidst the steady and heavy footsteps of their gene-father, there seemed to be some clearer, swifter, and sharper sounds mixed in, as if the glistening of pristine white snow was being sprinkled upon a massive mountain. This second sound was distinctly different from Lion El'Jonson's footsteps, yet it did not feel overtly abrupt.
And soon, their questions were answered.
The King appeared before his knights, and closely following him was that silver-haired mortal. Though she was no longer clad in a long gown, she remained strikingly conspicuous.
Maid, advisor, confidante, jester, sycophant...
For a moment, countless identities and judgments echoed in the chests of hundreds of Dark Angels. Some among them might have long grown accustomed to Morgana's presence,
closely accompanying Lion El'Jonson into the most dangerous battlefields. Others, perhaps, deep down, didn't care about Lion El'Jonson's actual situation, seeing him only as a most ordinary legion commander.
But no matter what, and no matter who, when they actually witnessed that silver-haired "mere mortal" leisurely drift above the knightly orders, standing serenely beside their gene-father in front of several Knight Captains and Grand Masters, they still instinctively felt this scene to be so jarring.
Corswain sighed inwardly, sighing for the scene before him: the general and the warriors were relegated below the King, while a commoner stood proudly on the steps. Did his gene-father truly not know what this implied, whether in the rigid hierarchy of the Hexagrammaton or in the knightly order culture of Caliban?
Or rather, did he simply not care?
Corswain was not jealous of Morgana. He knew her contributions and abilities earned her this position. However, as the designated individual to reconcile internal legion conflicts, he had to consider the perspectives of more people.
Corswain's gaze drifted, and he couldn't help but look at the mortal beside the gene-father, that silver-haired lady who had accompanied them through years of campaigns. She wore black armor,
and her face held a humble smile. Yet, from her calm and straightforward gaze, her proud neck, and her erect chest, Corswain also perceived a certain almost innate majesty and confidence. These auras subtly emanated without conscious effort, noticed only by a few.
He frowned.
The Lion King's confidante then looked at his gene-father, and then shifted his gaze back to Morgana. His eyes subtly lingered between the two, and he instinctively felt there was a certain inexplicable... similarity between them.
Corswain was probably the first in the entire First Legion to possess such an understanding. After all, in this Astartes Legion, where duties, missions, and positions frequently shifted and adjusted, he might have been the only one who had maintained prolonged contact with Lion El'Jonson and Morgana for years.
And now, he was leveraging this advantage, recalling the impressions etched in his mind over the years, whether it was Morgana's extraordinary psychic abilities or his gene-father's peculiar attitude after Sisyphus III...
Corswain didn't dwell on it. After forming a vague guess, he voluntarily stopped further thought and analysis of the issue: this was not his task. Since the Primarch hadn't spoken, he must have his own plan. There was no need for him to make wild guesses.
And thinking of this, a somewhat blurred memory flashed in his mind: when he led this mortal advisor to retrieve that armor, during the intermittent times she wore it, Corswain, after much prolonged deliberation and constant internal choice, used some veiled words to remind the silver-haired lady.
She and they were not of the same type.
"Type" was a carefully chosen, euphemistic word, not something more direct like: class, race, collective, or other terms.
As Lion El'Jonson's chosen figure to reconcile the Terran and Caliban factions, Corswain was well aware that although the Calibanites, who more deeply revered Lion El'Jonson, held more goodwill towards Lady Morgana, the Terran veterans,
who represented true power, were dissatisfied with their gene-father's trust in a mere mortal. Of course, this didn't mean they disrespected Morgana's power; they merely used this rash action as an entry point to express their various grievances about Lion El'Jonson's many actions, nothing more.
Corswain had attempted to subtly hint to the favored lady to maintain a low profile. The armor incident was just one of many such attempts, but Morgana seemed not to have understood his meaning.
Of course, now it seemed she simply didn't want to understand.
Corswain lowered his head.
A certain voice in his heart told him that from now on, he had no need to think about anything concerning this lady.
Could his gene-father be swayed by deception?
He was amused by his own thought.
In this self-amusement, Corswain heard the sound of the Sixth Legion's Stormbird arriving. He subconsciously focused his attention, preparing for his duties.
And before that, a vague thought flashed through his mind.
Lady Morgana.
The way she wore the armor was indeed much more pleasing to the eye than when she wore robes and skirts.
Leman Russ arrived at the Unbending Truth aboard a Stormbird named the Helmshrow, with only four Space Wolves behind him.
The Primarch of the Sixth Legion first surveyed the area designated for his reception: the Unbending Truth's hangar was a sufficiently spacious yet dark place, even eerie, with only the occasional flash of servo-skulls illuminating some Dark Angels' armor.
Although this gloom couldn't hinder the vision of a Primarch or Astartes, Leman Russ instinctively cursed his brother inwardly. After growing accustomed to the openness and brightness of his own warships, these dark places truly felt unpleasant.
He even detected a scent he disliked.
The Wolf King's gaze swept over the grimly awaiting Dark Angel formations, settling on the far end of the gloomy domain, where its king, his brother, stood.
The two Primarchs had spoken before, but those were at the collective meetings convened by the Emperor, through projections and psychic links, separated by tens of thousands of stars, leaving only hurried discussions and words. Face-to-face conversations like these were a first.
The Wolf King of Fenris scrutinized his brother. The moment he saw Lion El'Jonson, Leman Russ was certain his brother was a regal figure. It was undeniably clear: his armor, his demeanor, and even the mink cloak he purposefully wore during this time of war, all seemed to overtly declare this.
Perhaps at another time, his brother could also establish his own nation, ruling thousands of vassals through his cunning, strength, and blade, seated high on a knight's throne, commanding endless stars.
As Leman Russ walked before Lion El'Jonson, this was his thought.
[Leman.]
Lion El'Jonson softly uttered his brother's name.
Leman of the Russ, that was the true meaning of the name [Leman Russ].
[Lion El'Jonson, my brother.]
The two Primarchs greeted each other intimately, but their actual actions were far from it: no embraces, no handshakes. The two legion masters maintained a relatively safe distance, a distance that would allow them to draw their weapons.
[Your fleet's performance in the void was passable, and you also kept your word. Frankly, both of these points surprise me a little.]
Lion El'Jonson offered a insincere smile. He subtly evaluated his brother, a faint, confident arrogance emanating from his emerald eyes.
[Perhaps you are not as bad as the rumors suggest, but your progeny may not be.]
[At the very least, you and I both kept our word. Let this matter pass.]
Leman Russ offered a half-smile, half-sneer, bypassing the topic, but then, he brought up a question that troubled him.
[Speaking of which, Lion El'Jonson, how did you find this place so quickly? Tell me the truth, how did you do it?]
The Lion of Caliban was evasive.
[Observation, search, and a bit of luck, but none of these are my credit. If you truly want to know...]
He turned his body, revealing the silver-haired figure standing behind him. It was only at this moment that Leman Russ truly noticed this small figure hidden behind his brother's incredibly dazzling presence.
[Morgana, my psychic advisor.]
Lion El'Jonson's brief introduction echoed in his ears, but Leman Russ had no further energy to listen. The moment he truly saw Morgana, the strange feeling emanating from her made the Wolf King, with his keen sense of smell, realize something was amiss.
He glanced at her.
He glanced again.
Then he frowned.
On the other side, Lion El'Jonson meticulously observed Leman Russ's expression: he watched the Wolf King's expression shift from pure astonishment to an instinctive apprehension and hostility, but these narrow emotions quickly vanished in the next second, replaced by genuine thought and observation, and then...
There was no then.
Leman Russ's affairs always stopped at thinking.
The Wolf King of Fenris observed the "mortal" before him with some astonishment. He instinctively felt that this silver-haired woman, who was smiling and bowing to him, was not simple: this was a pure animalistic intuition.
But when he tried to think deeper, he found he couldn't quite grasp anything.
In short... this mortal was strange.
After a few seconds of hesitation, Leman Russ finally came to this conclusion, and so, his gaze naturally returned to Lion El'Jonson.
[...I thought one Magnus among my brothers was enough, Lion El'Jonson.]
[Do not conflate me with him, Leman. I merely chose the swiftest path to end this war.]
The Wolf King curled his lip.
[Morgana? Very well, on the Rendan front, I have heard that name before, the name of the Soul Drinker. If I'm not mistaken, is she from the Thousand Sons Legion?]
[Now, she is mine.]
Facing Lion El'Jonson's arrogant reply, Leman Russ merely grunted softly. A myriad of confusions surged within him in an instant. He wanted to question Lion El'Jonson thoroughly, but he knew perfectly well that now was not the time. He had more important matters.
Thus, the Wolf King's fur bristled, seemingly in a fit of rage.
[So, with the help of this psychic, you knew Duran's location all along—and didn't tell me, letting my fleet wander aimlessly for another month?]
Lion El'Jonson chuckled. With the advantage in his hands, he could naturally treat Leman Russ's deliberately provoked challenge with disdain.
[If you had spoken first, my brother, then of course I would have told you everything. But now, this question has lost its meaning. Duran lies at our feet, awaiting our combined efforts to reap the fruits of victory.]
"Combined efforts..."
This word made Leman Russ's brows furrow.
[I took on this mission, Lion El'Jonson, and for months, my progeny have shed blood across countless star systems and worlds for this mission.]
Lion El'Jonson merely smiled.
[Do you believe that my Legion was on a picnic during this month I took on the mission? We also fought, Leman. There is honor for us in this war.]
The Wolf King of Fenris gnashed his teeth, a chilling sound escaping his mouth. His gaze swept over Lion El'Jonson, then settled on the hundred percent problematic mortal beside his brother. He noticed that neither his brother nor the mortal seemed intimidated by his crude threat.
He lowered his voice, speaking word by word in a tone audible only to the two of them.
[This is not about honor, Lion! You know what I mean. I must personally cut off that Duran Tyrant's head. That is the most important thing. As for those damned honors? To hell with them.]
Lion El'Jonson did not retreat a single step. He raised his eyelids, looking directly into his brother's eyes, a smile playing on his lips that made Leman Russ want to tear his hair out.
[You wish to sever his head? Oh, my brother, that is no difficult task.]
[I brought three knightly orders, and you brought two Great Companies. The forces at our disposal are enough to utterly obliterate this world. All the fortresses and defensive lines on the surface are now clearly visible in my divination box. I know where that Duran Tyrant is currently hiding, and I also know the quickest way to reach his palace.]
[I have even devised a plan: I intend to have my Sixth Knightly Order hold off the palace's surrounding defenses, the Second Knightly Order cut off all planetary shield supplies,
and then I will personally lead the Ninth Knightly Order to eliminate all strongholds and reinforcements around the palace, turning this war into a simple siege.
Even if you don't come, I will cut off that tyrant's head within a week, or force all Duran's people to completely despair and hand him over to me voluntarily.]
[But now, since you are here, and you brought your useless troops, which are good for nothing but reckless charges, then I don't mind changing my plan a bit. For instance, I'll have my progeny cut off the Duran lines, and you can lead a Company into the palace. I believe you can slaughter everyone there and claim the victory.]
[Not claim!]
Leman Russ's lowered voice was now a furious gnashing of teeth.
[This was originally mine! I started this war, and I have been responsible for it from beginning to end. Therefore, it must be my longsword that cuts off that bastard's head!]
Lion El'Jonson looked at Leman Russ's somewhat twisted face, an amused expression on his own.
[If you are so fixated on these honors, then by all means. I do not care for them. To me, Duran and the countless other resisting worlds in this galaxy are no different.
They are merely rows of numbers that will be erased sooner or later, to be neither hated nor to have more emotion invested in them. What truly matters is the Great Crusade.]
Leman Russ fell silent. He turned his head, carefully scrutinizing his brother, as if trying to gauge the sincerity in his words. Finally, the Wolf King smiled.
This was indeed Lion El'Jonson's true feeling.
Thus, the Fenrisian softly uttered.
[I do not care for them either. After all, to me, this is not a war.]
[This is merely an act of revenge.]
[All I need is for this world to burn.]
[Yes, burn...]
Lion El'Jonson's smile made Leman Russ feel uneasy.
[But before that, did you forget something, Leman?]
Leman Russ's expression was a little stiff.
[Do I need to remind you? Your oath? Or do I need to recount everything in front of everyone again? I would be very happy to.]
Lion El'Jonson chuckled, a kind of schadenfreude in his smile. His eyebrows raised, directly facing Leman Russ's somewhat stiff, even purplish, face.
He felt a hint of amusement.
Leman Russ breathed heavily, the sound like the rumble of thunder from a storm god. His fingers instinctively traced the hilt of his sword, his gaze fixed on Lion El'Jonson before him, who met his gaze equally.
For a moment, everything was so quiet.
Dark Angels and Space Wolves both breathed deeply, unconsciously caressing their weapons.
But after a long few seconds, the Wolf King still lowered his head.
He roared, in a gentler voice that everyone could hear.
[Listen closely, Lion El'Jonson, my brother!]
[I am deeply sorry for causing you distress! And so I have come here, asking for your forgiveness!]
Finally, Lion El'Jonson smiled. He extended his arm.
The two brothers embraced tightly. And the moment their faces pressed together, Leman Russ's altered words poured into Lion El'Jonson's ear.
[This is my vow, Lion El'Jonson, spoken for your knights.]
[But you remember this too! If you ever dare to fire on my cubs again, there will only be one outcome for us!]
Lion El'Jonson smiled, seemingly indifferent, but through the almost instinctive twitch of his shoulder, Leman Russ clearly knew that he had successfully startled his brother.
This made him laugh, and his last bit of gloom vanished.
The Wolf King patted his brother's shoulder again.
[Alright, now, let's discuss the upcoming offensive. As I said, Lion El'Jonson, I hope...]
But the Lion of Caliban merely waved his hand.
[I told you, Leman, I don't care.]
[You can simply focus on attacking the palace. My men will defend outside for two hours.]
This assurance added a touch of warmth to Leman Russ's smile, but he couldn't help but ask.
[Then... after two hours?]
[Then it's up to each of us.]
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