Thirty Typhon siege tanks slowly crushed the already dilapidated Duran fortress. Foul smoke billowed between their tracks and cannon barrels, while the once majestic Duran dragon banners were utterly trampled into dust by these crude war behemoths, narrating the battle's outcome.
Leman Russ proudly strode into yet another defiant bastion that had fallen at his feet. He stood in the center of an ocean woven from smoke and fire, accompanied by only a few of his progeny:
the bulk of the Wolf Pack had long since swept like a raging flood over the retreating Duran forces. The warriors of the Third and Thirteenth Great Companies, following their Wolf Lords, slaughtered the unwilling Duran resistance as if in a competition.
The Wolf King of Fenris delighted in such a scene. He knew, after all, that his progeny would always leave him the largest and most pristine head.
Deafening, earth-shattering roars surrounded the Primarch of the Sixth Legion: it was the advancing formation of the Legion's Shadowblade super-heavy tanks. These behemoths, armed with volcano cannons, were the true fortress killers. Faced with those high-walled, steel turtles, they were even more terrifying than Leman Russ himself.
The Wolf King loved to watch these behemoths fire: scorching flames burning the air, transforming into pure white destruction; the spearheads of hell shooting from gunpowder smoke, tearing through air and battle cries, like slamming hammers and striking musical notes. To the exultant cries of the Fenrisians, they reaped fortresses and defiant foes alike.
He loved witnessing such overwhelming scenes. He loved seeing Duran's fortresses crumble before irresistible force, their last defenders standing amidst ruins and dust,
hesitating between continued resistance and surrender. But in most cases, after a moment of hesitation, Duran's people would raise their weapons in anger and desperate defiance, launching their final attacks.
Frankly, Leman Russ quite liked them. These stubborn fellows possessed true courage, but this did not stop him from issuing command after command, slaughtering all Duran resistors, leveling one permanent fortress after another, and feeling… for all this destruction and killing he personally ordered…
Relaxed and happy.
It was the joy of avenging a wrong, the simple pleasure of satisfying a great vendetta.
For months, he and his Legion had wandered aimlessly through countless star systems, gathering intelligence on Duran through sporadic skirmishes. They engaged in turn with countless planned or unexpected foes: Duran defenders, Duran fleets, Ork pirates, Eldar corsairs, and robber gangs composed of various xenos…
Such a life plunged all Space Wolves into an endless cycle of boredom and suffering, not to mention having to constantly endure the Duran Tyrant's shrill cries broadcast through interstellar channels.
It was torture.
But thankfully, it was finally over.
They had arrived at Duran. Their iron boots were crushing and desecrating its land. Their bullets and blades were harvesting Duran's lives. Their artillery fire was causing thousands of Duran's people to fall, die, and turn to ashes in fear and screams. The entire world would be utterly torn to shreds by overwhelming force, serving as Leman Russ and the Space Wolves' perfect outlet for months of pent-up frustration.
As for the more 'refined' questions: the means required to conquer Duran, the world's future recovery and tax situation, and whether such violent and hateful territorial expansion would sow hidden dangers...
Those were not his concerns.
Nor was he qualified to consider them.
He was Leman Russ, master of the Space Wolves, and the Emperor's chosen executioner.
The third identity was more important than the second, and the second was as weighty as the first.
Therefore, he knew what he had to do: settle private grudges, end enmities, repay blood with blood, and ensure his Wolf Pack did not, through accumulated resentment, delay any mission the Emperor might send down at any time.
He only needed to accomplish these things.
Leman Russ roared, he railed, he rejoiced, striving to be a true Fenrisian, a true Space Wolf, to find true happiness in this exhilarating slaughter.
He continuously tried.
Until a warrior's report came before him.
It was the Thirteenth Great Company again.
The Wolf King frowned. Then, uncharacteristically, he picked up his sensor readings and began to observe the offensive of his two Great Companies. The Third Great Company's momentum was slightly flagging. They had just breached the outer defenses of Duran's last palace,
the Crimson Fortress, when they were ambushed from behind by a Duran mobile force that had timely returned. Now, the Wolf Lord of the Third Great Company, with his warriors, shuttled back and forth through walls and trenches, destroying tanks and armored vehicles.
And the Thirteenth Great Company on the other side...
[What is that bastard Jorun doing?]
Leman Russ watched his most trusted Wolf Lord carve a meandering path around the exterior of the Crimson Fortress. The entire Great Company's attack direction seemed highly uncoordinated, grinding to a halt just one step short of the second-to-last defensive line around the fortress's core.
[When I find him again, I'm going to smash his head in!]
Leman Russ cursed under his breath, throwing aside his data-slate. Then he pulled his Kraken's Bite from the ground, raised his head, and sniffed the scent of blood and wind.
[Let's go.]
[Let's see what that bastard Jorun is doing.]
[By the Emperor, we must hurry. The two-hour limit is almost up.]
Jorun-Bloodhowl was tearing through Duran's defense line.
He carried his axe, three squads, and a sense of guilt that his two hearts could not bear.
Betrayal.
This was an act of betrayal.
What he was doing: defying Russ's orders, altering the Company's attack direction, no longer allowing the Space Wolves' spearhead to advance steadily towards Duran's palace—this was tantamount to betrayal.
He knew it clearly.
The concealment of secrets, the defiance of orders, the defilement of loyalty—these darkest actions formed black clots in the Wolf Lord's heart, greedily draining his joy and reason.
This was a defilement, a defilement of himself. He had never committed such an act since that snowy night on Fenris, in the warm hall bathed in firelight and the scent of ale, when he knelt before countless warriors and chieftains, swearing allegiance to a power beyond the Russ, and thereby received his first weapon.
He still remembered that day: a long night, with winter winds whipping. The hearth in the center of the hall blazed, creating a deceptive warmth. The shadows of men and goblets were cast upon the walls by the firelight, shifting in shape and movement, like a spontaneous pantomime.
It was on that day that he made his vow, the simplest yet most sacred of words: his blade would forever be wielded only for the King of the Russ.
When the King passed away, his allegiance naturally shifted to Leman Russ: the King's adopted son, and it had continued to this day, unwavering.
But now, he had a reason he could not deny.
The Wolf Lord raised his axe, roaring, swinging. Another Duran warrior shattered under his fierce assault, but he did not, as usual, savor the scent of victory. For a past illusion, a present anxiety, and a future worry had coalesced, repeatedly scorching his heart.
He was one of Russ's first comrades, and the entire Thirteenth Great Company was the same. When the Allfather came to Fenris, seeking to take his progeny, they were unwilling to leave their king and thus lose their oath, and miss out on the burning god-nation beyond the firmament.
So, they underwent surgery. Only a very few survived, and Jorun was the oldest among them, and Russ's most trusted. Therefore, he remembered some more mysterious things. He also remembered that their bloodline not only contained demigod modifications and the immortal blizzards of Fenris, but also some filthier things.
He still remembered that their end, besides the Allfather's Valhalla or a wretched death in bed, there was a third, most terrible kind—to become beasts, beasts that even the most remote wilderness would not tolerate,
monsters that even the most terrifying legends would not mention, a pitiful filth that even the closest brothers would not wish to recall.
He had thought it had all vanished, but now, it had returned, attempting to destroy Russ's Legion.
Jorun would not allow such a thing to happen, absolutely not: even if the cost was to defile his loyalty to Russ, he would grit his teeth and see it through.
The secret had to be hidden until the day a solution emerged. He didn't know what the solution would be, or when it would appear. He didn't even know if it would appear at all. All he could do was cover everything up until the end of his life.
"I found it."
Bravier's voice came through the communicator, making Jorun subconsciously breathe a sigh of relief.
"On the next floor, about fifty meters away. Life signs are very weak, but it's still alive... There isn't much defensive force around it. We can handle it."
"Can't bother with that much now."
The Wolf Lord muttered softly. He was the first to charge through the last stretch of corridor, crashing into the courtyard at its end. It was like a monastery or a temple, with various unsettling monsters carved on the surrounding walls.
Duran's soldiers stood ready here, but their numbers were few. Three squads charged directly at the defenders' shield wall and armor, igniting the flames of war in this small yet exquisite courtyard.
Jorun killed four opponents. His squad lost two men, and a recruit's arm was completely severed. The Wolf Lord didn't care about that. He hastily counted the numbers, then plunged into the detention room, which had become half-ruined. A pitiful glimmer of hope lingered in his heart, a glimmer of hope that even he knew was utterly ridiculous.
And hope, after all, was merely hope.
Jorun entered this building. It was roughly a theater-like place, which explained its exquisite decorations and elegant style. But the Wolf Pack had no mind for such things.
They trampled over the valuable tapestries and seats, reaching the very center of this theater. There, a rusty iron cage hung, and inside, a monster capable of making any Astartes wary was confined.
The Wolf Lord of the Thirteenth Great Company looked at everything before him: inside this cage were the fragments of a former comrade, the remnant soul of a once great Space Wolf. But at this moment, it was merely a pure creature, a primitive killer indulging in savagery and bloodshed.
The Wolf Lord could see the fur-covered claws continuously trying to reach through the bars, attempting to grasp the flesh and blood of the person before it. This monster had clearly forgotten its former comrades and glory.
Its face was utterly twisted by congealed blood, ferocious fangs, and drool. Its armor lay scattered on the ground, and its swollen, bulging body bore the scars of torment, continuously dripping with horrifying blood.
More and more Space Wolves gathered here. No one spoke. These were all people Jorun had carefully selected. They knew, and had even witnessed, this dark secret, and they knew how to deal with it.
Dozens of boltguns were aimed at the continuously howling and roaring monster. The Wolf Lord suppressed the anger, sorrow, and disgust in his heart, softly whispering a farewell.
"Goodbye... brother."
"Bang!"
A sound rang out, but it wasn't gunfire.
Jorun looked up and saw the surrounding curtains simultaneously rise, revealing what they had concealed: more than ten cameras aimed at an image generator in the center of the stage. Clearly, they had been recording everything, whether it was the roars and struggles of the creature in the cage, or Jorun's recent whisper.
A sharp metallic screech sounded, assaulting everyone's eardrums.
"Duran's warriors!"
"Open your eyes and see the true face of the enemy, expose their filthy lies!"
"They are not the so-called Human Imperium! They are heretics, mutants, and Xenos! They yearn to enslave your kin! To trample your lands..."
And at the very same instant, on the Wolf Lord's helmet's internal display, the image of the now-wolf-like Sixth Legion warrior and the scene that had just unfolded abruptly appeared.
"Damn it!"
The Wolf Lord gritted his teeth. With a wave of his hand, dozens of fire blasts instantly shattered all the image generators. But even so, the memory of that scene still clearly surfaced in everyone's minds.
Jorun looked at Bravier beside him.
"What's going on?"
"I don't know, but... it shouldn't matter?"
"This is... what..."
Grand Master Alajos's voice trembled slightly, but no one would answer his question.
Lion El'Jonson stood in the now empty room, waiting for someone, and his expression was not good.
Clearly, in that instant, he too had witnessed images of some blasphemous creature.
Lion El'Jonson said nothing. He remained silent and thoughtful.
And just then, he heard that almost iconic, crisp footsteps.
The silver-haired, black-armored queen pushed open the door. Her gaze briefly met that of her blood kin.
Lion El'Jonson still said nothing. He merely frowned tightly and nodded at Morgana.
His blood kin's face was serious, and she nodded.
The Lion of Caliban paused. He closed his eyes, then opened them again. A probing gaze fixed on Morgana's pupils.
He quickly received an answer.
[This is your own affair.]
Morgana smiled, nothing more.
On her, there seemed to emanate a more irritable emotion than from Lion El'Jonson.
He also didn't know why.
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