"So, you are the first to arrive, Master of Caliban."
——————
For Morgana, tearing through the Scarlet Fortress's thin psychic defenses was no harder than subduing a Word Bearer.
The Spider Queen's silent mockery, at the instant the Lord of the First Legion gave the order, pierced through the last obstruction, revealing the perfectly intact passage to the fortress's core before everyone's eyes.
At least fifty of the best knights of the Ninth Legion joined this operation. A considerable portion of them were [Paladins] who also served as Primarch Guards.
Aside from the Emperor, Jonson, and Alajos, they did not need to obey anyone else. The knights gathered around the sword-wielding Primarch, forming a standard combat formation.
Beside Jonson stood Morgana and Alajos. The former casually snapped his fingers. The real world in everyone's eyes dissolved into the endless void dimensions. The chill, death, and lamentations swept through their armor.
It was the souls of countless grievances roaring as they charged towards the living beings who had invaded this place.
But in the next instant, all the nauseating sensations completely vanished. Even the most sensitive Dark Angels couldn't confirm what they had just experienced: as if an endless abyss had flashed before their eyes. Morgana's lowered finger had not even dropped to her waist, and the scene before everyone's eyes had already completely changed.
Unlike the broken walls and ruins they had passed through, what now lay before them was a most magnificent grand hall. It was like the core of a spiderweb, with countless doors and secret passages, connecting hundreds of rooms and halls.
One could imagine how noisy this opulent imperial core would have been in bygone ages: courtiers, warriors, and governors came and went from every entrance and exit,
scheming for their own interests or flattering the supreme lord. Arguments and conspiracies were constantly unfolding, while the Gothic arched windows would loyally reflect all this, letting the noisy flocks of birds squawk endlessly.
But at this moment, here and now, there was only silence.
A deathly silence.
The Dark Angels searched for their opponents, for the most tragic death throes they anticipated. But they saw nothing. The entire hall was now empty, with only blood-red high clouds sending endless heat waves and faint light from the distant sky, proclaiming the reality that this world was burning fiercely.
The knights slowly dispersed, cautiously occupying every important corner. Their iron boots stepped on the precious black and red tapestries, embroidered with coiled dragons; that was the symbol of the Duran Empire. At the end of these opulent furnishings lay the Primarch's objective. From the very beginning, Jonson's gaze was fixed there, never straying.
That was the core of Duran. It was a tall and magnificent, pitch-black throne. Wrapped on the throne was an exceptionally lonely, weak, and shriveled figure. He was draped in priceless scarlet silk robes, revealing only a face so withered it was almost like a shriveled specimen.
There was not a trace of flesh on it. The clear marks of implanted teeth and bones were visible on the skin, making one wonder whether he was an old man who had deceived death, or a truly simple and reclusive monster.
Jonson did not speak. In the space enveloped by his winged armor, he stared intently at the monster, carefully observing and analyzing it as he walked forward resolutely. The formidable Lion Sword occasionally scraped against the ground beneath the Primarch's feet, emitting a harsh sound.
Finally, the Primarch reached a position where he could converse. Only the audacious consultant remained by his side.
The extremely aged Tyrant of Duran finally seemed to perceive Jonson's arrival. He looked up. He let out a series of what could be called gentle laughs, bearing no resemblance to the sharp, harsh laughter heard in the previous interstellar broadcast.
"So, you are the first to arrive, Master of Caliban."
He spoke. His words were dry sand, without even saliva or phlegm. His wrinkled eyeballs wandered over the two monsters in front of him. He then revealed a bitter smile tinged with malice.
"Ah, two... no, counting the one outside, there are three."
"This is truly flattering."
"My people actually forced you monsters to this extent. This truly makes me proud."
The Master of Caliban stared at the decrepit old man before him. He did not immediately speak. Instead, after a period of almost reserved preparation, he loudly responded with his declaration.
[I bring this world the judgment, the judgment of the Lord of Mankind. And you, Tyrant of Duran, you must completely accept it.]
"Yes, judgment..." The Tyrant of Duran slumped in his chair. His voice was still purely weak. Clearly, his body did not allow him to do anything: not even to utter a few coherent words in the softest voice.
"Whether I accept it or not, haven't you already begun your [judgment]? Look outside. You have destroyed countless fortresses, turning a millennium of cities and fields into a sea of fire. In every minute, countless Duranese fall under your blades. If this is your so-called [judgment], then it is indeed quite successful."
The Lion's face was cold. He plunged his greatsword into the ground. He himself was the most razor-sharp sword. Everything in this room, compared to his stature, was so weak.
[Do not confuse the issue, Tyrant of Duran.] [You had your chances, even more than once. The current war stems from your choices back then.
Even now, you still have a chance: surrender. At the very least, your remaining people, and even you yourself, have a chance, a chance to return to the great human endeavor.]
"A chance?" The Tyrant's body trembled. That was not due to excitement, but merely pure weakness. His empty gaze swept over the two Primarchs in front of him. A wisdom that had experienced countless ages slowly rose in his pupils, like a dying flicker.
"No, for me, this is too luxurious." "This is even a waste." "Do you know how long I've been here? Little cub from Caliban?" "Of course you don't know, because even I don't know. I've been on this throne,
almost never leaving it, for a thousand years after another. I once traveled the galaxy, with my own ambition and romance. But when I decided to make this world abandon savagery and return to civilization, my life, my everything, became completely welded to this throne."
"I can't even imagine what this world would become if I left. And I don't need to imagine. Because I know what it will become: it will return to madness, backwardness, and ignorance.
Like other worlds in this age of sin, it will fall into ruin through corruption, and perish through corruption." "Duran also knows this. So, they don't even dare to let me die. Every day, a hundred doctors surround me,
making my suffering prolong. They keep me alive. For Duran, this is the most important thing. As long as I am alive, they can see hope. Because in the past thousands of years, it is I who brought and held high hope. For this, they will do anything."
"Yes, anything. Even if your warships obscure the sun here, not a single Duranese will choose to surrender to you. I did not ask for it, nor did I coerce them. Every Duranese is voluntarily dying for this world." "I am proud of this, Sons of the Emperor. Nothing makes me prouder than this."
"Tell me, Primarch, if such a situation happened on your homeworld, happened within the empire of the so-called Lord of Humanity, would you still be so indifferent and merciless? Could you do what I have done?" "I truly want to know..."
His gaze held naked mockery. The Tyrant of Duran stared fixedly at Jonson. Then, he turned his gaze to the other Primarch. But the moment he looked at Morgana, his expression stiffened subtly. Moments later, his withered lips uttered a soft murmur.
"Ah... you are so much like..."
[Enough!] Jonson stepped forward. He drew his sword. Its sharp edge, in the dim light, reflected a light that seemed to devour men.
[I have encountered countless such problems: similar, identical, hysterical. I have killed countless tyrants. Their dying words are mostly this. And my answer has always been only one.]
[This is meaningless.] [All questions and answers in this world are insignificant before true reality.]
[And the reality now is that your kingdom has fallen. And your destiny has only two paths, Tyrant of Duran. This is reality.]
[The darkness in the galaxy is far more terrifying than the limits your pathetic mind can imagine. And they are about to sweep across the entire galaxy again. Only by uniting our race, uniting under one will, can we drive away the old darkness and the erosion of the future.]
[Your pathetic parochialism can only find solace in the chaos and fragments of the past. Such thinking does not belong to the future. The future is filled with the most terrifying beasts and the greatest challenges. Only a united race can overcome them. And for unity, I will not hesitate to kill a world, to make everyone bleed.]
[I ask you one last time, Ruler of Duran, will you surrender or not?]
[If you truly love this world as you claim, then this is your last chance. My brother is coming. He is not as good-tempered as I am.]
[Now, I need your answer, Tyrant of Duran.]
"Tyrant... Tyrant..." He slowly shook his head. That shriveled head rotated back and forth on his fragile neck, as if it would roll to the ground any second. He softly replied to the Primarch's ultimatum. His voice contained undisguised mockery.
"You invaded my kingdom, burned my cities, massacred my people, and then called me a tyrant."
"Such actions and thoughts are truly identical to your creator's. No wonder he parted ways with everyone."
"You wouldn't think that I am the oppressor, would you, little cub from Caliban? You wouldn't really fail to see the anger and fury in the eyes of the Duranese, would you? They are such noble people.
You cannot conquer them. This world does not belong to you, even if you greedily covet its technology and richness, and are even willing to waste time with me here. But I must tell you truly, little cub."
"You cannot conquer Duran. You, and that so-called empire you serve, will only get Duran's corpse."
"Now, you can flaunt your power, and speak arrogantly to me here about 'reality.' That is merely destiny temporarily siding with you, pronouncing my death."
"But no one can always have smooth sailing. You, little cub from Caliban, don't think you've learned anything in your short life. You've learned nothing. You don't know what despair is. You don't know what a trial is."
"Only in the face of despair is one truly real."
"Only in the face of trials can one truly face oneself."
"Destiny will not always favor you and your kingdom, cub of Caliban. One day, you will face the same despair as us: a massive army bearing down, mountains and rivers shattered, former pride and steadfastness unbelievably fragile before an invincible and powerful foe. Oaths broken, trust betrayed—hehehe, perhaps it will even happen right beside you."
"By then, you will recall my words."
"You will understand. Compared to your boastful strength."
"We, we now, are how brave and noble."
The sharpness in the Lion's palm cut through the air. In the dim light, it illuminated his calm, expressionless face.
[Will you surrender or not?]
The Tyrant smiled. His scarlet imperial robe slowly shifted, revealing a pair of withered, bony hands. One of them tightly gripped a dagger.
"What do you think of this?"
Jonson did not speak. His pitch-black figure stirred up a hurricane in front of the throne. Between flashes of brilliance, the Tyrant of Duran's withered head crashed to the ground. It made no sound.
——————
The Lion raised his blade. He pierced the Tyrant's heart. He ensured he was completely dead.
And at this instant, the sounds of battle outside the fortress, which had been in an uproar, abruptly subsided, as if countless Duranese had, in that very moment, abandoned their courage, becoming cowards and routed soldiers.
But Jonson no longer cared about this: just as the Tyrant of Duran's lengthy speech had failed to stir even a ripple in his heart, he merely looked to the other side. He looked at his largely silent blood kin.
She seemed somewhat quiet, as if suppressing something. Her greenish-blue eyes looked at the gradually cooling corpse of the Tyrant of Duran. Her gaze was diffused.
[What are you thinking?] Finally, Jonson spoke.
[Nothing.] Morgana shook her head.
[Originally, I was thinking about some things concerning this Tyrant of Duran. But now, it no longer matters. He is completely dead. Then everything about him is worthless.]
[Death cannot stop everything, Morgana.] [True death can stop everything. Eternal void and slumber are the second most terrifying things in the entire galaxy.]
Jonson turned his head. His brow slightly raised. His emerald pupils looked directly at his blood kin.
[That is a wrong idea, Morgana.] [You haven't convinced me.]
This blunt rebuttal plunged Jonson into temporary silence. His brow furrowed into a small knot.
[That Tyrant was indeed speaking nonsense, but that is not a reason for you to utter such twisted logic. Death cannot stop everything, Morgana. Some spirits and beliefs can indeed triumph over death and time. And we call it nobility.]
[Nobility is an orange slice beside foie gras, Jonson. It might be essential, delightful to behold, making the dish perfect. But how many truly let it circulate within them?]
Jonson's silence continued for a while. Then, he opened his mouth, seeming to want to say something. But an extremely crude voice filled the entire hall at this moment.
That was the sound of a Stormbird landing. Then, a thunderous sound, the sound made by at least a hundred iron boots stomping on the ground.
Jonson merely snorted. He turned around. He patted the non-existent dust from his shoulder pads.
[Follow me closely.] He said softly.
Morgana obediently complied. It was as if the person who had just argued with the Lion was not her. But at the same time, her voice, tinged with a few smiles, echoed beside the Lion's ear.
[How do you plan to explain to him? The reason you snatched his grapevines?]
Jonson's lips curled into a cold sneer.
[Why should I explain?] [Why should he explain?]
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