Chapter 463: The Lion: "I Hope You Can Endure Until I Arrive, Mortarion"
"This is the Lion. Mission accomplished. According to the operational sequence, I am requesting the fleet to transition to the Calth Sector for the next phase."
As Ramesses was still analyzing the shifting currents of the Empyrean, the Lion's voice crackled through the local vox.
"Brother," the Lion said, his gaze fixed on Ramesses' psychic projection.
He transmitted the data through a high-level encrypted channel. The packet contained the full tactical breakdown of the battle, supplemented by his personal observations. Even as other channels dissolved into the screech of static or became hopelessly garbled by the Warp's tides, this link remained pristine.
Such seamless, clear communication across sub-sectors was a treasure in any era.
From the initial detection of the Nightbringer to the coordination with various command tiers, the selection of specialists, the simulation of the strike, and the final neutralization of the C'tan Shard—the entire process had taken less than fifteen days.
It was far faster than the opening moves of the Rangdan Xenocides.
The Lion remembered the Rangdan campaign. He had lost nearly twenty thousand Astartes just in the initial contact, fighting tooth and nail to establish a foothold in hostile space. He hadn't received reinforcements from the Emperor or his brother Legions for months. During that entire time, he had been the sole coordinator of a theater of war, with no peers of equal rank to consult.
That isolation had forced his hand, making his decisions more brutal—a necessity that had severely damaged his reputation and that of the First Legion within the wider Imperium.
As he stood down his Companion Guard and waited for the Dark Angels to regroup, the Lion allowed himself a moment of reflection.
Basking in the "corporate culture" of the Dawnbreakers, he realized that many of the galaxy's problems were, at their root, failures of communication.
If one simply opened their mouth to speak and ensured the words entered the other party's mind uncorrupted, many catastrophes could be solved before they began.
The Lion wondered: if there had been such a clear line of communication between himself and the Emperor, or between himself and Luther, would the Heresy have unfolded differently? Would the tragedies have been averted?
He shook his head, casting the thought aside to focus on his current battle plans.
The Lion was a tool of exquisite design. Once in "work mode," no matter how much his heart twisted in internal conflict, the mission remained the highest priority.
"Technically, such a link is possible. Logically, any Primarch should be able to learn it," Ramesses said. The information he received was converted into physical reports, which he tossed onto Romulus's desk across several thousand light-years, burying a stack of existing files. "Otherwise, who do you think blew up the Emperor's Golden Commode with a psychic phone call?"
Ramesses, ever-perceptive but never a sycophant, had clearly noted the Lion's internal confusion.
"..."
The Lion wanted to argue that it wasn't a "commode," but remembering Ramesses' vivid description—'It has a seat for a man and a drain underneath; if it isn't a toilet, what is it?'—the Primarch's face tightened in a strained expression.
He wrestled with his feelings, but after reading the Internal Unabridged Biographies of the Primarchs, he chose to channel that frustration into hatred for a more deserving target.
"Magnus," the Lion growled. "That damned fool. Father gave him unprecedented privilege, even tutored him personally. And in the end, he sold himself out and didn't even realize it."
The Lion felt that if the Emperor had allowed him or Guilliman to study the psychic arts—or if He had placed even a fraction of the trust in Sanguinius that He had shown Magnus—the Dark Angels could have returned to Terra immediately to crush the rebellion.
Even if the Edict of Nikaea had banned psychic powers for the Legions, the Emperor could have left a single, dedicated line open for his most loyal sons. A one-way command link, if nothing else.
You could doubt the Lion's personality, but you could never doubt his loyalty. Even during the darkest hours of the Heresy—
The Lion subconsciously pressed a hand to his brow, forcing himself to stop.
The knots in his heart had begun to loosen. These new brothers were far easier to work with than his old peers. But as the full picture of the Heresy was reconstructed during their debriefs, the Lion felt a burning sense of shame.
The war had been fought so uglily.
The Great Crusade had been a saga of humanity united against the xenos, of a species fighting for survival in a vengeful tide. It was a clash of titans where both sides brought their absolute best. Any battle from that era was a masterstroke of military history.
In contrast, the Horus Heresy was a competition between the Loyalists and the Traitors to see who could commit the most profound idiocy. Whichever side blundered the least was the winner.
"You're right to curse him," Ramesses said. He always felt Magnus was a tragic figure—though Tzeentch was a bastard for digging through a pile of trash to find a "benevolent" Warp entity to trick him with.
Ramesses had spent years in the Empyrean and had never seen a daemon that was truly "good."
"The Golden Geezer is a god-tier intellect but a bottom-tier parent. But to say He did nothing is also unfair."
"Look at Horus. He was the favored son, the 'Half-Centaur' of the Emperor's soul—he rebelled. Perturabo was asked if he could handle the hardship—he agreed, but then twisted himself into a knot of resentment. Lorgar was punished until he almost found his way, then he turned to Chaos. Magnus was taught the dangers of the Warp hand-in-hand—he ignored the risks and fell into the pit."
"And then there are you lot. The ones He just 'range-bred' and left to your own devices—"
"Enough," the Lion snapped, his face darkening.
Instinct told him the Emperor might actually believe Ramesses' logic. If the Emperor decided to just "leave them alone" from now on, the sky would truly fall.
It was absurd. Every time he spoke with Ramesses, the tone of the conversation inevitably descended into high-octane snark.
"So, I think if the Old Man had used his invincible psychic power to set up a vox-group for you boys back then, things might have been different. He's just unlucky; his double standards never hit the right spots."
"If He had chosen you as Warmaster, the 'specialists' of the Dark Angels might have beheaded you out of personal spite, but they never would have bothered with anything as heretical as a temple sacrifice or a Chaos ritual."
Listening to Ramesses' assessment, the Lion didn't know whether to be pleased or depressed.
The Emperor was a mass of contradictions: despising religion while becoming the God of the Mechanicus; despising psychic power while using it in secret; creating twenty-one sons but choosing to treat each one with a different flavor of dysfunction.
"What you people really lacked was a platform to argue on. Someone like Perturabo... if he could have just vented in a group chat after a long day of trench-digging, he might have turned out much better."
If this current mess counts as 'better'...
The Lion felt a headache coming on. The anger in his chest dissipated as quickly as it had arrived.
Knowing he couldn't handle much more of this, he said, "I'm heading to reinforce Calth. I leave Caliban in your hands."
"What about the psychic vox? I can teach you later so you don't have to use me as a relay station. Master Art is a lost cause on that front, of course."
"Later. Contact me if you need additional materials."
Initially, after seeing the Eldar's proposed plan, the Lion had wanted to say he could have handled it alone. But considering this mission was intended to be a standardized template for future operations, he kept his mouth shut.
In the crusade against galactic threats, the Dawnbreakers were reckless experimenters with technology—Daemon Engines, Xenos tech, and the like. However, when it came to implementation, they focused on "generalization"—ensuring that their methods could function even without their direct intervention. This C'tan operation was a prime example.
The Nightbringer was a nearly complete shard, a nightmare to handle. But with this experience, specialized units like the Grey Knights would have a reference point. They wouldn't be helpless when facing similar foes, and they could handle weaker ones with a stable protocol.
To ensure that more and more people possessed the means to survive in this galaxy—that was the raison d'être of the Dawnbreakers.
It was a cautious, exhausting path. Few could maintain that balance.
And they were the same when dealing with the Primarchs.
The Dawnbreakers preferred to express their views on their "companions" with humor and irony. Even if they didn't truly feel that way, it burned their patience, forcing themselves to accept the methods that produced the best results.
The Lion looked up.
New tongues of flame rose in the north, piercing the jungle mists.
He had to move now. He had to do what he had always done: get the troops there a day earlier, an hour earlier, a second earlier.
"Thank you for what you've said," the Lion said, hesitating for a moment. "Having you here brings me much comfort. Rogal always said I would eventually go my own way, and his judgment of the rest of us was always disturbingly accurate."
"Hahaha! That's why he was the Praetorian of Terra, the man of organization."
"Indeed."
The Lion looked toward the distant stars. A proud and vast civilization was on the verge of being dragged down by its own sins, yet finally, it seemed a dawn had arrived.
"I wish to offer you my blessing," he continued.
"Good luck to you. Good luck to Arthur. Good luck to that annoying Guilliman. And to Karna—I sincerely hope that before I arrive, he shoves that bastard scythe deep into Mortarion's throat so he never has to use that stupid rebreather again."
The Lion was a master of adaptation, a scholar of environments, a predator who knew when to retract his claws.
Having secured a decisive victory, he chose to share his joy and blessings with his kin.
"Hahaha!" Ramesses laughed loudly.
Even across the vast psychic link, the Lion could tell it was the genuine laughter of a man who was truly happy.
It wasn't cynical. it wasn't fatalistic. it was a moment of release in the middle of a long, grinding march.
"Good luck to you too. Let's hope the Resurrection of Guilliman turns into your triumphal parade."
"The Ultramarines?" The Lion frowned instinctively, wondering if the sons of Guilliman were planning to pop the champagne at halftime again.
The Ultramarines' obsession with formalist luxury had left a deep impression on him ten millennia ago.
"It doesn't matter. Before the last drop of Tzeentchian blood is spilled, Macragge is a fortress," Romulus cut in. "And this isn't the Calth of ten thousand years ago. Transitioning from a victory celebration to a capital defense parade is just a matter of a single thought."
"I will see to it," the Lion nodded, his tone serious.
"A safe journey, Lion," Arthur's voice added. It sounded distant, relayed through a Librarian. "Thank you for the data. We believe we will build everything we once dreamed of. Until then, do what must be done."
The connection severed.
"..."
The Lion stood alone in the forest for a moment longer. He watched the world he had grown up in return to silence. He looked past the trees to the stars hanging in the deep void. Amidst the countless glimmers of fire, he found his destination.
"This is what I must do," he whispered.
With that, he leapt. The vines of the forest reached out.
The Invincible Reason punched into the sky. The Lion was on the move again, blade in hand, flying toward the next battle where he was needed.
"Morarg—"
"Morarg!"
"MORARG!!!"
Caipha Morarg, equerry to Mortarion and guardian of the Godblight, regained consciousness amidst the chaos.
The armor on his right leg and flank had been shredded in a close-range blast, losing its protection against the fires saturating the air.
His breastplate was scorched black. A ritual dagger had pierced the cabling under his left armpit. The blade must have been coated in something foul; the wound refused to be filled by the rapidly multiplying biomass of his body. Blood pulsed steadily from the gaps in his ceramite plate.
Morarg looked around at the units escorting the Godblight.
If they could do it again, would they fare better?
Could they have endured longer in this merciless slaughter? Could they have evaded the most lethal strikes and delivered a fiercer counterattack?
There was no way to know.
Many veterans of the Great Crusade had fallen here. Many new recruits had given their lives as well. In the carnage, it was hard to tell them apart. Everything was submerged in ash and soot, masking the eternal marks the Grandfather had once bestowed upon them. The style of combat had been refined by the ordeal into its most primitive form:
A desperate, grinding struggle.
They didn't enjoy this kind of "ugly" war. They preferred saturation fire, piercing toxic clouds with concentrated barrages, relying on the resilience of their bloodline to grind down the enemy. They liked turning everything the enemy held into compost after the battle, bringing "liberation" to those who needed release from suffering.
But they couldn't do it anymore.
To crawl out of the mire of war, to pass through the gates leading to Macragge, to reach the side of the silent, sleeping Primarch—Morarg could feel that he had pushed himself beyond his limits.
And now, even as he stood on the verge of collapse, everything was unraveling. Morarg's proud physiology and his endless loyalty to his gene-father were being smashed against an immovable object.
He looked at the battlefield filled with an endless daemonic host.
The Plague Fleet, the armies of Nurgle and Tzeentch, were entangled in this Warp-domain. Beyond the battlefield, deep shadows and formless membranes prowled, easily tearing apart any entity that dared to leave the fray.
According to Mortarion's plan, they should have breached these obstructors by now. Yet his forces remained pinned down in the systems outside Macragge, lost in a chaotic battlefield and shifting, treacherous paths.
The only vox-traffic he could receive consisted of shrill fragments: the desperate screams of Nurglings, the piercing mockery of Lords of Change, and the commands issued by the remaining squad leaders in their growing despair.
They were weak.
They were retreating.
Their will to fight was collapsing; their offensive was a shambles.
The past nine hours, ninety-nine hours, nine hundred and ninety-nine hours... had been so difficult.
Every gain required hacking through thorns; every step forward was paved with blood.
And now, at the final hour, the strength of the offensive was waning.
As the attackers, they had lost faith.
Facing endless death, facing the Grandfather, facing the very outcome of this war...
That was the problem. As long as they believed something could save them, or that the enemy would eventually break, they would fight fearlessly.
But now, they had turned to self-destruction. They held their ground, resisting stubbornly, but they had forgotten their tactical drills. They fought out of habit, a muscle reflex. They had abandoned their duty; their spirits were broken.
They no longer believed the tide could be turned, and they were beginning to fear the face the Grandfather was showing them.
It seemed they didn't know what was happening here. Morarg couldn't find it in himself to blame them.
In this mist filled with malice, in a place where it was impossible to tell who the real enemy was, no one could truly know.
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