[The Sarmass Crusade lasted for about three years. During this period, the Night Lords suffered heavy casualties. Lion El'Jonson successfully destroyed two-thirds of the Night Lords' forces with a 1:4 casualty ratio, bringing the Night Lords' organization close to collapse.]
[Although the Dark Angels achieved victory in the war, it was not a glorious affair for them.]
[Because the Dark Angels were the strongest Legion in terms of combat power, while the quality of the Night Lords' recruits in the later stages was at the bottom of the Legions. Furthermore, Konrad Curze was not a respectable figure; he was a burden to his Legion.]
[Then, the knightly lords of the First Legion, in whom everyone placed high hopes, were bogged down in Sarmass by Sevatar and his gang of thugs.]
[Although the Dark Angels' performance in this battle was indeed flawed, their strategic advantage in Sarmass was certainly crushing compared to the Night Lords.]
[In the beginning, the invincible First Legion ran rampant, but the more Planets they occupied, the more difficult defense became. As the Night Lords dispersed, they became a greater threat.]
[In the end, Lion ElJonson could only choose a few choke-point Worlds to defend, while all other Worlds were subjected to exterminatus. As resources on both sides dwindled, the Night Lords even utilized the Night Treaty.]
[On some Planets at the edge of the Imperium, there were Mutantss and forbidden technology researchers who should have been exterminated, but the Night Lords helped hide them in exchange for industrial and manpower support.]
[Regardless, Sevatar successfully managed to bog down the First Legion.]
—
When the tragic battle reports and final results of the Sarmass Crusade were presented on the screen, a silence mixed with shock, sympathy, and an indescribable awkwardness fell over the hall.
Especially in the area of the First Legion, that invisible, proud aura seemed to have been punctured.
When the tragic battle reports and final results of the Sarmass Crusade were presented on the screen, the entire hall fell into a silence mixed with shock, sympathy, and an indescribable awkwardness.
Especially in the area of the First Legion, that invisible, proud aura seemed to have been punctured.
"From a purely strategic logic perspective, Lion ElJonson's choice was not inappropriate." His voice was as calm as ever, as if he were reading a post-war analysis report devoid of any emotion. "When the controlled area is overstretched and security and defense cannot be effectively maintained, contracting forces, holding key choke points, and carrying out purification on unstable sectors that can no longer be controlled... theoretically, this is a necessary means of loss mitigation."
He paused for a moment, seemingly weighing his words for what came next, before finally choosing to be blunt: "Though... the actual price paid and the time consumed far exceeded the expectations of any pre-war simulation. Sevatar's tactics, while despicable, were... outrageously effective. He successfully dragged a Legion-level decisive battle into a massive, star-system-wide security war of attrition."
"Effective means? Heh... what a magnificently ridiculous fig leaf."
Perturabo let out an unabashed sneer, filled with venom and contempt. He leaned back in his throne of iron and geometric shapes, his cast-iron face full of mockery. "The invincible First Legion, the Imperium's sharpest spearhead, forced to personally execute an exterminatus order by a bunch of thugs crawled out of slums and prisons, and Mutantss abandoned by the Imperium? This is more... interesting, and more humiliating, than a complete, glorious defeat."
His gaze was like two cold calipers, precisely dissecting Lion ElJonson's predicament: "Did he win? He did. But he won so pathetically, so undignifiedly. He is like a dueling champion in full master-crafted plate armor who was splashed with filth by a peasant. Although he eventually hacked that peasant into mincemeat, everyone only remembers his filth-covered appearance. This was Horus's goal, and he succeeded."
"Lion ElJonson, your Legion is a heavy mountain, indestructible." Jaghatai Khan's voice rang out calmly, yet like a whistling arrow piercing through all the noise, it struck the heart of the matter. "But on the battlefield of Sarmass, you were dragged into a quagmire. You tried to use the mountain's strength to fill every filthy puddle, only to find the puddles endless while the mountain sank deeper and deeper."
He shook his head and made a swift, wind-like thrusting gesture—the tactical essence of the White Scars Legion.
"The creed of the White Scars is: rather than laboring to plug every leaking hole, it is better to strike like the wind at the hand that keeps drilling them. Your mistake, perhaps, was not a lack of strength, but that... you chose the wrong way to fight from the beginning. You abandoned 'speed,' your most lethal weapon."
The Khan paused, a hint of dark humor in his tone, as if giving his overly serious brother a well-meaning reminder.
"Remember this lesson, The Lion. Next time you encounter such a swamp, either bypass it like the wind and strike the vitals; or... don't go in at all, and use the fiercest fire to utterly burn the entire swamp and the vermin within it to ash. Talking of chivalry with ruffians is the greatest irresponsibility toward the lives of your own warriors."
Sanguinius's angelically perfect face was filled with pity, his white wings folding slightly as he sensed his brother's embarrassment.
"Lion ElJonson... I can imagine your helplessness and anger."
His voice, like the tolling of evening bells, soothed the agitated atmosphere. "Facing an opponent who uses any means necessary and has no sense of honor, any orthodox tactics will appear... ponderous."
"He dragged the lower limit of war to a level we never imagined. This is not your fault, brother. You were merely using the laws of light to fight an abyss that had already embraced the darkness."
Just then, a voice as steady as a mountain and carrying the warmth of a forge rang out. Vulkan's massive figure took a step forward, his obsidian-deep eyes filled with sincere sympathy and unconditional understanding.
- "Brother Sanguinius is right, Lion ElJonson,"
Vulkan's voice was deep and resonant, like a warm current surging from the depths of the earth, dispelling the surrounding coldness and mockery. "This war was not fought on a fair stage from the beginning. What you faced was not a glorious opponent eager for a decisive battle, but a shadow already fallen into self-destruction and a set of tactics, polluted by this shadow, that stopped at nothing."
He spread his broad palms slightly, as if lifting the burden of the First Legion. "Think about it, Lion ElJonson. Each of your warriors is like a work of art you forged yourself; they are incredibly precious, the embodiment of Imperial Order. And your opponents? They treat lives that should have been redeemed and dangerous forbidden technologies as disposable consumables. You used dragon-slaying swords to fight an invisible plague and a shifting sea of sand; no matter how sharp the blade, it will be entangled and corroded. This is not a failure of a knight; it is the inevitable helplessness a Guardian faces when encountering a despicable trap."
Vulkan's gaze swept over the tragic scenes of the exterminated Worlds on the screen, a flash of pain in his eyes, but then he looked at Lion ElJonson even more firmly:
"The choice you finally made—to abandon those Worlds that could not be held in Order to protect more important choke points—was an extremely painful but responsible choice for the overall war situation. You alone bore the heavy moral guilt of issuing the exterminatus orders to prevent a greater disaster from spreading into the Imperium heartland. This kind of sacrifice... this courage to be willing to dirty one's hands to protect a grander goal, is precisely what many people lack."
He took a step forward, using his massive frame to shield Lion ElJonson from some of the ill-intentioned glares, his tone full of affirmation: "Do not let others' narrow definitions of 'honor' bind you, Lion ElJonson. True strength lies not in always keeping your armor as clean as new, but in firmly delivering every strike even when you know the path ahead will be stained with filth and blood for the sake of the goal you ultimately protect. What you did in Sarmass was dirty but necessary work. If this is considered a stain, then I, Vulkan, am willing to share this 'stain' with you."
However, in Rogal Dorn's logic, there was no room for 'stains' or 'honor,' only 'correct' and 'incorrect.' His gaze, like the most precise measuring ruler, scanned the strategic star map repeatedly before finally landing on Lion ElJonson. His statement was objective to the point of being cold:
"Lion ElJonson, there were errors in your command."
"You were bound by the battlefield form pre-set by your opponent, attempting to use the Legion's least proficient 'occupation and suppression' mode to counter an enemy whose essence is 'infiltration and harassment.' You used your own weaknesses to strike at the opponent's strengths; this was a major tactical misjudgment."
He completely ignored the warm atmosphere Vulkan had just created, continuing to analyze with an engineer's precision: "The First Legion's absolute advantage lies in the frontal destructive blow after concentrated force, and the indestructible mobile defense lines you construct. But in Sarmass, you dispersed this destructive force across countless 'points' that needed Order maintained and could be infiltrated at any time. This gave the Night Lords the opportunity to drag the war into the 'shadows' and 'fear' rhythms they are most familiar with."
"Ultimately, you were forced to adopt a 'scorched earth policy.' Although this eventually achieved the strategic goal of eliminating the enemy's main force, the process was inefficient and caused far more resource loss to the Imperium than necessary."
Dorn's conclusion was simple and direct, as indisputable as the fortresses he built: "This campaign proves that the First Legion, and indeed all Legions accustomed to decisive frontal battles, need to strengthen their adaptive training for asymmetric and non-honorable warfare. We must possess the ability to quickly dry out a 'swamp' or uproot a 'shadow,' rather than being worn down by them. Honor is for duels between knights, but war seeks only efficiency and victory."
Amidst this complex atmosphere of various judgments, a suppressed chuckle with a strange resonance, like cold spider silk, quietly drifted into the perception of every Primarch.
Alpharius and Omegon, the indistinguishable twins, stood side by side in the shadows.
Alpharius's voice rang out first, his tone as calm as if he were reading an inconsequential intelligence summary, yet every word was filled with sharp, scalpel-like irony:
"It seems even the strongest fortress can be troubled by the most trivial grains of sand. Our brother Lion tried to use a battering ram to swat every flying fly, and the result was naturally... the flies weren't all swatted, but the hammerhead was covered in filth."
Omegon followed immediately, his voice almost identical but slightly sharper in detail; he even simulated an exaggerated, bard-like theatrical tone:
"Oh, the great First Legion! The proudest knight-lords in the galaxy! Clad in the finest armor bestowed by Terra itself, they are forced to roll up their trouser legs and play hide-and-seek with a bunch of thugs and scoundrels in the stinking sewers! It is simply... an interstellar farce of tragicomedy, is it not?"
Alpharius: "The most interesting part is that they won every 'honorable' frontal clash as they defined it, yet lost the power to define the war itself. Sevatar, that Joker, successfully made the noble The Lion roll around miserably in the mud pit he loathes most, while the entire galaxy watched The Lion's embarrassment."
Omegon: "Especially that so-called 'Night Treaty' at the end... using scum the Imperium expressly ordered to be exterminated to counter the Imperium's sharpest blade. It's like winning a game of chess using cheating methods the opponent strictly forbade. I truly want to see what wonderful colors will appear on brother Lion's always expressionless face when he learns of this. It would surely be enough to be written into the most classic comedy scripts."
Alpharius: "Perhaps this is the curse of being the 'strongest.' When you are used to crushing everything with absolute power, you forget how to deal with opponents who don't play by the rules—or have no rules at all. The First Legion is used to being the undisputed hunters; suddenly being dragged into a war of attrition with no honor, initiated by the prey, they inevitably... find themselves ill-adapted."
Omegon: "However, looking at it from another angle, this is an excellent 'pressure test.' At least now everyone knows that beneath the First Legion's magnificent armor, there are seams that aren't quite so glamorous. This provides extremely valuable data for... well... various forms of 'conflicts' that might occur in the future."
Alpharius: "Indeed. Next time, if we of the Alpha Legion need to 'assist' the First Legion in handling a similar situation, perhaps we could consider establishing a dedicated 'Sewer Cleaning and Street Thug Psychology Research Office'? After all, professional matters should be handled by professional... forms."
Omegon: "Agreed. Let knights deal with knights, and let... shadows deal with shadows. That is the way to maximize efficiency. It's just a pity that our venerable brother Lion chose to descend into the fray personally this time, and the result... well, I would say it was very educational."
Before the twins' mockery had even dissipated, a raspy, broken voice, as if the vocal cords had been torn by countless screams, echoed faintly.
"Look... look at that child... Sevatar... my best son..."
Konrad Curze's deep-set eyes, glowing like ghost-fire, stared intently at the screen, his mouth curling into a twisted arc that seemed to be a smile.
The words were as light as a feather, yet they sent a bone-chilling cold through the gathered Primarchs more than any of the Alpha twins' thousand words. 'Best son'? A term that, in Konrad Curze's mouth, was almost synonymous with 'traitor,' 'coward,' or 'madman,' was now being endowed with a sense of praise.
Corax's brow was tightly furrowed; he could not understand this extremely distorted recognition: "Best? Konrad, does your so-called 'best' refer to him dragging the Imperium's Legion into a mud pit in the most despicable and reckless manner, nearly exhausting the last bloodline of your Eighth Legion?" His rationality and understanding of 'liberation' could not accept such logic.
"I don't care about the Deaths of those scum sons, I should even thank The Lion," Konrad Curze chuckled softly, as if sharing a joke only he could understand. "He proved my philosophy, proved that fear is the only effective Order, proved that... when everything is rotten, burning it all to ash is the only release. He... he understands me."
Lion ElJonson remained silent, but his hands gripping the throne armrest made the hard metal emit a slight, overstrained groan. He had been stalled by Sevatar for three years, and that opponent who had made him so disheveled was, in the words of the opposing Primarch, the 'best son.' This feeling caused him a soul-deep disgust more than any direct, malicious insult.
Lion El'Jonson remained silent, but his tightened grip on the throne armrest made it emit a slight groan. He had been stalled by Sevatar for three years, and that opponent who had made him so disheveled was, in the words of the opposing Primarch, the 'best son.' This feeling was even greater than any direct humiliation.
"The art of war lies in responding to infinite changes, Lion El'Jonson." The Emperor's gaze seemed to pierce through time and space, falling upon the silent Lion El'Jonson; his voice held no rebuke, nor any cheap praise, only a profound understanding that transcended simple victory or defeat.
"What you faced was not a traditional war following the laws of honor. Sevatar... and the chaotic legacy left by Konrad, successfully dragged what should have been a swift war of annihilation into a mud pit that devoured time and honor. In a situation of extreme resource scarcity, severely delayed intelligence, and an opponent with no rules, you still achieved your strategic objectives, destroyed the main enemy forces, and captured their Primarch. This, in itself, is proof of your exceptional capability."
The Emperor's voice paused, as if searching for the most suitable ointment for his son's wounded pride.
"You need not blame yourself excessively for the twists and turns of the process. Even less should you be shaken by those self-righteous judgments. Some of them only see the gains and losses on the chessboard, but fail to see the pressure the players endure off the board. They mock you for being stained with filth, but they do not understand that it is precisely because you used your hands to clean the filth that their chessboard remains clean."
The Emperor's will became gentler, yet sharper.
"I know the indignation in your heart, my eldest son. You are not angry because of the hardship of the battle, but because your honor was tarnished, and your strength was bound by a rabble using despicable means. But you must understand, Lion ElJonson, that true strength does not come from never encountering adversity, nor from always standing at the peak of glory. It comes from being able to struggle in the mud, to forge ahead in the darkness, and ultimately to draw wisdom unimaginable to others from the predicament, seeing clearly your opponent... and every facet of yourself."
"The experience at Sarmass is not a stain upon you. It is a whetstone. A whetstone forged from betrayal, despicability, and an endless war of attrition, the coarsest and hardest of its kind. It has ground away the redundant, ostentatious luster on your blade, making your future blade's edge sharper, more lethal, and more... resilient."
The Emperor knew well that His proudest eldest son could accept losing to any of his brothers, but being stalled for three years by an opponent's scion in such a humiliating way was enough to shatter his pride, which was harder than any alloy. In the coming storm that would sweep across the entire Galaxy, He needed Lion ElJonson to maintain that indomitable drive, rather than sinking into a quagmire of self-doubt.
Lion ElJonson remained silent throughout. No much expression could be seen on his majestic, lion-like face, but his slightly heaving chest and his eyes burning with green flames in the shadows showed that his heart was not as calm as it appeared on the surface.
The Emperor's words, like a precise medicine, soothed his wounded self-esteem but did not make him feel the slightest bit relaxed. He suddenly raised his head, his sharp gaze sweeping across his brothers below who were making their comments, finally fixing on a point in the void, as if making a cold oath to himself and the entire Universe:
"The lesson of Sarmass, the First Legion... accepts it." His voice was raspy, like two pieces of quenched steel rubbing together. "Next time... whether it be rats in the gutter, hidden serpents, or buzzing flies... they will all be thoroughly purified before they even touch the Legion. I guarantee it."
As his fingertips left five deep-red, molten fingerprints on his solid throne armrest, everyone suddenly remembered—this reticent Primarch, known for his knightly demeanor, was in essence still that cold and ruthless Beast who could tear apart great Beasts with his bare hands in the darkest forests of Caliban.