Chapter 265: Leman Russ: Only a True Warrior is Fit to Be My Son!
"Bjorn is the champion!"
The thunderous roar rolled through the hall.
"AYE!"
Thousands of drinking horns slammed onto the long oak tables, the golden froth of Mjod glinting in the torchlight.
"Bjorn is still the champion!"
The red-haired giant raised his blood-stained battle-axe high above his head. The blade reflected the light of the chandeliers, casting a giant wolf-headed shadow on the stone wall.
"AYE!!"
The Wolves' response was a second wave of sound, making the smoked hams hanging from the rafters tremble.
"Bjorn is always the champion!"
In the ringing of the bronze bell, Bjorn's scarred chest heaved.
"AYE! AYE! AYE!!!"
The Fenrisian warriors hammered their fists against their chestplates. As the bronze bell fell silent again, the towering red-haired man in the center raised his axe-blade once more, and the Wolves' howls were endless. The surrounding Dark Angels, led by their Knight-King, also offered their respects in cooperation.
"He's strong," even Arthur couldn't help but remark, watching the ripples in the drink in his hand from the vibrations. He then turned slightly, his crimson greatcoat brushing against a bone relief, his hand gently resting on a Dark Angel's trembling pauldron.
The warrior's faceplate was shattered, and the pupil of his exposed right eye was still severely contracted from the unspent battle-lust.
"It is not your fault," he explained in a low voice to these veterans. "Bjorn has been worshipped by the Space Wolves in a systematic way for ten thousand years. His very name has a special power. Especially since Fenris has a World Spirit. Your loss is no disgrace."
From a pure combat skill and physical standpoint, Cypher and the other Dark Angels of the Order of the Broken Claw were already at the pinnacle of the Astartes. But against Bjorn, they could not win.
Hearing the Prince's explanation, the veteran of the Order of the Broken Claw slowly removed his damaged helmet, revealing a face crisscrossed with scars. His breathing gradually steadied, the unwillingness in his eyes receding like a tide, and finally, it turned into a heavy sigh.
The expressions of the others, who had been feeling ashamed for their loss in the duel, also relaxed. They had accepted this answer. Their own stats were normal, even higher than Bjorn's. But Bjorn, with a 100-attack-power stat, could deal 1000 damage. It would have been a miracle if they had won.
"The man took on a fallen Primarch with only five others," Ramesses added. "That's some serious weight."
The Battle of the Fang. Bjorn had led the 12th Great Company of the Space Wolves against a Thousand Sons attack. With the help of the then-12th Great Company's Wolf Lord, Hvarl Red-Blade, and his personal guard, he had fought Magnus. The battle had begun in the ruins of the Fang's hangar bay and had raged all the way to the open slopes outside. Bjorn had inflicted severe damage on Magnus with fire and blade, giving the fallen Primarch the most serious wounds he had suffered since the Horus Heresy.
He had held out until the main force of the Space Wolves returned. Wolf Lord Red-Blade had fallen, but Bjorn had only had his weapon destroyed. He was about to grab Magnus and drag him off the cliff when he was persuaded by the other Wolf Lords to leave the battlefield and watch as the Wolves completely banished the severely wounded Magnus. It made one think of a certain Primarch who would, in the future, fight Magnus on the moon.
"The masters of the warp are truly masters," Arthur said, watching Bjorn, who, on the dueling platform, was pulling up his opponent, sharing a drink, and then laughing heartily.
Ten thousand years. Bearing a pain that no ordinary man could bear, doing what even a Primarch could not do. The legend had fermented naturally in time, like Mjod. In a way, this was an honour the old warrior deserved. Not everyone had the luck and the will to persevere to this day. You have to remember, the day Bjorn was interred in a Dreadnought, the sound of the horns had startled the predators of Fenris's permafrost sea. At that time, the Wolf Guard's age had already passed a thousand years.
"He looks younger than Logan now," Ramesses was saying to the Dark Angels, with great authority, about the advantages of the warp. When he caught sight of Logan, who had just entered the hall, he immediately spread his arms in an exaggerated gesture. This made Logan's weather-beaten face twitch. If nothing else, this reunion had completely shattered his image of the Primarchs as holy and noble. Especially this Thousand Son. He was a social terrorist.
"Have you thought it through?" Arthur, ignoring his companion's daily warp-babble, simply turned slightly and cast an inquiring gaze at the old wolf.
"I have," Logan nodded. He strode heavily to a seat below the Primarch's and sat down, grabbing a flagon and pouring himself a horn of Mjod. "Our past actions were indeed improper. Russ would be disappointed in us."
With that, he downed the drink. He held the liquid in his mouth for a moment. The Mjod sat on his tongue, a burning sensation like a thousand tiny blades scraping his esophagus, bringing a near-masochistic clarity. He closed his eyes, his throat moving, and swallowed the bitter sweetness. When he opened his eyes again, his gaze passed through the boisterous crowd and fell on the reborn Bjorn. The Wolf Guard was laughing as he grabbed a reluctant Cypher, forcibly pressing a drinking horn into his hand, his joy almost overflowing. Hmph. He said he wanted to die, but now he's the happiest one here.
"That's right. In the future, we'll get him a hundred or two hundred thousand Space Wolves, a big fleet, and we'll all charge into the Eye of Terror together. We'll definitely catch the Wolf King and the others. And the Khan, who's joyriding in the Webway. We really don't want to eat this big pile of shit that is the Imperium now," Ramesses said.
Everyone around had been vetted. Ramesses had no qualms about revealing secrets that even the daemons didn't know. Logan's facial muscles twitched slightly, a hint of unnatural embarrassment on his bronze skin. The Primarch's words sounded like their Wolf King was shirking his responsibility.
"To put it another way," Arthur added from the side, "to follow in the Wolf King's footsteps, to embark on a journey with him."
Visibly, the Wolves immediately became animated. But this request—
"Two hundred thousand Space Wolves..." Thinking of this goal, Logan unconsciously swallowed. He felt a deep pressure from the goal the Primarch had set for him. "That will be very difficult," he couldn't help but reply. Although this Lord Ramesses was a smooth talker, he still took his words as a serious matter. And such a request was truly fantastical. Because the selection of the Space Wolves...
Roboute Guilliman: I have provided you with excellent educational conditions. Even if you fail the Astartes selection, do not be discouraged. As excellent as you are, you can still participate in the other affairs of Ultramar. And, do not call me father. Your fathers and mothers are still waiting for you to come home.
Rogal Dorn: I have provided you with a formal and effective trial. I believe that as nobles of Terra or Inwit, you have received a sufficient education from a young age and are the highest quality recruits. Even if you fail, it does not matter. You can still return to your families and serve the Emperor in other ways.
Leman Russ: This is the Canis Helix, which can awaken your genes and allow my gene-seed to be implanted in your body. The mortality rate depends on your fate. This is a Fenrisian Great Wolf, which can match an Astartes in individual combat. This is a Snow Lion, which can withstand a direct hit from a bolter with its skull. This is a Kraken, of which there are vast numbers, and each is nearly a kilometer in size. This is Asaheim, with its roaming predators, its minus-80-degree blizzards. This is the Fang, at an altitude of over eight thousand meters, above the clouds. You ask why I mention this?
Only those who can drink the Canis Helix, overcome the darkness in their hearts, avoid being completely controlled by it, and then pass through the blizzard, survive the siege of these creatures, seize a trophy, and reach the Fang alive are fit to be my sons!
His rough fingertips unconsciously traced the rim of his drinking horn. Logan's gaze swept over the brothers who were drinking in the hall. Behind every face was an elite, selected through the harsh trials of Fenris. One could only say that a being who could survive in such conditions, even if not an Astartes, was a figure among mortals.
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