The conversation between the two Primarchs lasted for about thirty minutes.
And after that, came three Terra Standard Hours of orbital bombardment.
The Unbending Truth, the Blade of Numak, and even the already partially repaired Nidhogg and Helmshrow all Imperial vessels joined in this terrifying bombardment. The colossal fortresses on Duran's surface were targeted one by one,
while the army encampments and trench networks distributed between the fortress clusters continuously collapsed and disintegrated under a storm of steel and fire. The Imperium's retribution hammered down upon them, again and again.
Until a certain point, the fleets of the two legions tacitly ceased their bombardment. Immediately after, invisible sensor rays swept across more than half of Duran's surface, and hundreds of shimmering red dots instantly appeared on the connected electronic projection: each signifying a weak point suitable for a forced landing.
The next moment, indicator lights signaling the start of battle lit up on every warship. Their incessantly flashing lights reflected on the corridor walls, illuminating towering shadows one after another:
thousands of Dark Angels and Space Wolves surged into drop pods. These killing cages would, in the next Terra Standard Hour, unleash a rain of retribution and death upon Duran.
With the arrival of the last warrior, commands were transmitted, gears roared, and hundreds of death-iron coffins flew out of the mouths of colossal void beasts. Their targets were the crimson planet below their feet, and they were unstoppable.
When Duran's warriors looked up at this moment, they would witness the descent of the Angels of Death.
The space above this world had turned into a dim, deep crimson, a result of prolonged industrial pollution and the recent orbital bombardment working in concert. Between this desolate firmament, the light of the star was incredibly faint. Only shattered clouds still hung in the sky, like dunes ravaged by a gale.
And through the layers of obscuring material, crimson and orange meteors came from the void, bringing tidings of destruction and slaughter. They came in flocks, as if enraged gods had opened the gates of heaven, summoning world-ending meteorites from the peaks of Olympus.
These steel behemoths, carrying the Angels of Death, numbered in the hundreds. After tearing through layers of cloud walls and atmosphere, they had transformed into fiery, trembling, pure white fireballs. They had become blurry, swift meteors, igniting the entire firmament.
These killing cages belonged to the two legions, and recognizing them was a simple matter: those drop pods belonging to the Dark Angels were quiet and heavy, as if carrying ruthless machines. And those constantly shaking, occasionally emitting the rhythmic sounds of various beast roars and wall-banging...
But no matter what, when these iron cages landed, they would be equally deadly.
Accompanied by earth-shattering crashes, the Wolf Pack and the Knights charged out from the sky-filling dust. Their boltguns and longswords easily tore through the first wave of resistors, carving out small landing zones on Duran's soil.
Thousands of Duran soldiers were killed within one minute of the drop pods landing. Their blood soaked the first lost territories, and their gradually chilling corpses were illuminated by the light of various explosions and flares, revealing a sickening color.
And when the minds of these dead finally ceased, an even more powerful behemoth began to walk upon the battlefield: tanks, artillery, and Stormbirds. The Imperium transported them to Duran's surface on heavy transport ships, delivering heavy blows against the resistors' defense lines.
And Duran's counterattack was relentless: formations of tens of thousands of elite soldiers charged forward with flushed faces, launching continuous counter-charges against the Astartes' control zones amidst earth-shattering battle cries.
Behind them, various mobile artillery pieces were dragged out from cover, providing all the power they could. Further back, Duran's unique walking mechs emerged from the shadows of fortresses, striking at the Imperial army from extreme distances.
This world was fighting with all its might, expending everything, sparing no effort to protect its most precious heritage from the Age of Strife: freedom and independence.
But before the Imperium's next trump card, Duran's resolve and faith were so pale.
Another drop pod fell, but this one was exceptionally large and conspicuous. The moment it landed, at least several thousand muzzles were aimed at it.
The hatch opened, guns and cannons roared, and an invisible barrier stood between them, blocking the steel barrage.
And in the brief moment when the firepower began to wane, the cold and ruthless Lion of Caliban charged out from the shield.
He moved across the battlefield like a pure black ghost. No matter how sharp an eagle's eye, it could not capture his shadow. Some lucky shrapnel struck his armor, leaving only fleeting sparks.
He charged towards the most dangerous places: permanent fortresses on high alert, trenches filled with soldiers and bombs, and unmanned zones completely blockaded by heavy weapons.
He strode casually through these places where even Astartes warriors could not advance further, harvesting the fortresses of the most central defenders.
Duran's most elite heavy weapons and artillery killed at least one squad of Dark Angels in less than ten minutes, but before Lion El'Jonson's blade, they were as fragile as ice shards in the sun.
Lion El'Jonson walked upon the battlefield, moving through the shadows. His actions held no hesitation, and his heart no moment of pity. His pure black armor blended almost perfectly with blood and death.
Only his emerald green eyes became the sorrowful illusion for thousands of Duran's people in their dying moments. The greatsword in his hand continuously swung, releasing flames, shockwaves, and dark green whirlwinds, turning every obstructing fortress into ashes.
He walked under the pure black blazing sun. Behind him was a rain of crimson meteors streaking across the sky. Behind him were the Dark Angels' swift and relentless charges. Behind him was despair, lament, and terror that no one could stop.
The collapse began.
Not all Duran's people were as brave as they imagined, especially when they witnessed great feats that absolutely could not appear on human bodies. Despair and fear instantly devoured the hearts of those temporary soldiers. Rout began to appear and quickly became unstoppable.
Thousands of Duran's warriors abandoned their positions, and even more fell under the Dark Angels' boltguns and plasma weapons.
After the Primarch personally tore through the most central resistance, and after the Legion's heavy weapons and fire support gradually arrived, the undefeated First Legion finally returned to its original state.
The Dark Angels' blades swept in. They completed their planned mission in just forty minutes. The Second and Sixth Knightly Orders began to expand their positions, preparing more strategic space for the upcoming defensive battle.
Knight Captains Gael and Morien commanded thousands of warriors, and in the coming days, they would face at least a hundred million enemy troops. This was no simple task, as despair and defeat might intensify Duran's madness. Moreover, they originally posed a fundamental threat to the Astartes.
As the temporary victor, Lion El'Jonson was now looking at his last target: a fortress more colossal than any previous stronghold. Its layers of high walls resembled towering mountains, interspersed with thousands of cannons and firing ports. The red and black dragon banner of the Duran Tyrant hung in the center of this impregnable stronghold, fluttering in the wind.
It looked so grand, powerful, and unconquerable.
But at this moment, it was wailing.
The Ninth Knightly Order's vanguard was surging towards this final target. Under their iron hooves, even Duran's firmament trembled and wept.
Lion El'Jonson closed his eyes, carefully savoring this moment, feeling the scent of blood and ash filling his lungs, feeling cities of steel disintegrating in gunfire and battle cries, feeling tens of millions of roars, curses, commands, pleas, and cries continuously intertwining in the endless sky, heralding the beginning of a slaughter, the climax of a war, and the end of an empire.
He was ecstatic.
[Yes, Lion El'Jonson, it's me.]
[I'm done here. They were weaker than I thought. Duran's people have no means of resisting psychic abilities.]
[Alright, I understand. I'll be back with you soon. You don't need to be so lacking in confidence in your own progeny.]
[Speaking of progeny, do you remember that thing I told you about, the one we discussed before the drop?]
[Yes, Duran's warships were not all destroyed. At least one warship that was fighting the Space Wolves escaped. I sensed it at that time. On that warship, there were some Duran's people, and a... creature with a very strange aura.]
[He's somewhat like a Space Wolf, but not entirely similar. I can smell the pure beast's rage and fury from that aura...]
[Alright, I understand, Lion El'Jonson.]
[War is the priority.]
[I'll come find you immediately.]
[See you later.]
Ossowitz could feel that his left leg was broken.
He breathed with some difficulty, and blood oozed from between his broken teeth, staining his gray beard red.
This veteran Duran soldier, recently returned to service, could feel himself pressed under something. He forced himself to calm down, recalling the scene before he passed out:
those impossibly tall black devils broke through the fortress he was guarding, slaughtering his comrades. Blood and brains splattered on the cold grey walls. Lifeless corpses piled up on the floor. He remembered being hit by a piece of shrapnel and then buried alive in a pile of bodies.
His leg was bleeding, bleeding profusely.
He could feel it: his left leg was broken, his right leg was completely pierced by a steel rebar, and there seemed to be two bullets in his stomach, tearing up his intestines and stomach. He didn't know if it was friendly fire or the work of those so-called Astartes warriors.
Those invaders...
He cursed inwardly. He knew that he could only do this much. Decades of military service had already told him his current situation: one of his arms and one of his legs had been blown off, his internal organs were churned into mud, almost all his teeth were gone, his mouth was full of blood, and he couldn't even speak.
He wouldn't live much longer.
He was going to die.
Death...
He thought of the word, but he wasn't afraid.
When his eldest and second sons died on Duran's outermost border, at the hands of those so-called Space Wolves. When his other two sons died in a naval battle a month ago. When his last son had just died before his eyes, his head pierced directly by scattered shrapnel, his limp body falling directly into his arms, blood and brains flowing from between his fingers...
He was no longer afraid of death.
Ossowitz felt his life draining away. He decided to do something more. He raised his head, extended his only remaining hand, and laboriously grasped the dirt in front of him, slowly dragging his body across the ground.
He pushed aside the corpses and saw the situation outside: the battle was over. Undoubtedly, those terrifying black devils had won their victory. Most of them had left; only a few remained busy on the battlefield. The old soldier could tell that they seemed to be laying booby traps and other things.
He didn't care.
His gaze shifted to the other side, where he spotted an unactivated detonator in a military officer's hand. He recognized it. Pressing that button would blow this place sky-high with buried explosives. These explosives were the ones they had personally buried. Faced with these terrifying opponents, they had to prepare for anything.
Now... if he could activate it...
He extended his only hand, gripping the soil before him tightly. The sharp stones and iron shards mercilessly cut his fingers, but compared to the overwhelming pain in his body, it was gentle.
He slowly dragged his body, cautiously hiding behind a burning pile of corpses, evading the Dark Angels' gazes and footsteps. Fortunately, they showed no interest in these burning corpses, their minds focused entirely on their tasks.
Closer...
Even closer...
Just a little more!
Almost there...
[What are you doing, old man?]
A soft chuckle came, and a cold, sharp blade lazily pressed against his neck.
Morgana looked at the dying man at her feet with interest.
Originally, she was merely conducting a final search for any lingering souls before departing. Although she couldn't consume most human souls, this didn't stop her from collecting them.
Then, she discovered this person slowly moving through the pile of corpses.
She watched him, then looked at his objective. A bored malicious pleasure welled up in her heart: if she gave a dying soul a hollow hope, would its soul undergo some unique change?
[You don't need to struggle so, old man.]
Through her inner senses, her voice echoed directly in the old man's mind.
[Look at you, so old, so heavily wounded, yet they still conscripted you here. Such a nation is utterly unworthy of your sacrifice.]
[Surrender. You can choose the true path. The Imperium will rule this world. Obedience brings benefits, but resistance does not.]
She chuckled softly. With a flick of her finger, countless illusions swirled in the dying man's mind: wealth, power, a body restored to youth, former superiors kneeling at his feet like servants, and his deceased sons resurrected by immense power, encircling his knees.
None of this was difficult. She knew what these most ordinary people wanted. In her illusions and words, she had tempted some of the most powerful figures in the galaxy, let alone this tiny mortal before her.
Morgana felt the old soul waver. She chuckled softly, preparing to observe its change.
But a second passed, then a second, a third...
It remained unchanged.
And it wasn't until this moment that the old, frail soul, which Morgana had not even deigned to look at properly, spoke with the most resolute tone.
[Take your promises and get out! Devil!]
[I don't care about power, honor, or eternal youth. I'm a rough man. I only know that you bastards invaded my homeland, killed my kin, tore my life to shreds, and set everything I had on fire.]
[No matter what your reasons are, I will not forgive you!]
[Do you think you're great? Do you think you're noble?]
[You are a vicious devil! Your words are nothing but falsehoods and deceit!]
[You yourself don't even believe it!]
His soul roared, it bellowed, and his frail body also roared. His palms were already bloody and mangled from the stones and iron shards, but he still gripped every piece of dirt tightly, moving forward with difficulty and determination.
He breathed.
He struggled.
He felt something.
He felt the sound of the wind.
What a cold wind.
His mind belatedly thought of this, and then, he felt a pain in his neck. He realized that everything before his eyes seemed to be spinning, and he felt as if his head was colliding with a rock.
He saw those black devils. They seemed to have noticed him. He saw the black armor, and that long blade, stained with blood. It seemed to be his blood.
...So that's how it is.
His heart sighed. The belated pain came from every part of his neck. He saw his body, a headless body, bleeding.
What a pity.
He was so close.
He thought so, and then, closed his eyes.
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