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When the Dark Angels' reinforcements arrived, or rather, when the news of the [Manipulator]'s death reached every Ran Dan warrior through the sudden collapse of their psychic link, the battle officially ended.
The last of the Ran Dan army chose not to surrender. Everyone knew that in a war like this, surrender was not an option.
The remaining Ran Dan warships were forced back to the edge of the star system by the Imperium's forces, gradually being annihilated in continuous explosions and clashes.
The elite Dark Angels continued to board the last Tyranid vessels, but the purpose of the battle had shifted from bloody slaughter to capturing as many of these immensely valuable Tyranid constructs as possible.
The remaining Ran Dan warships, armories, and even injured warriors were completely [disarmed] and dragged away. A very grim future awaited them, just as they had done to the defeated forces of humanity before.
This was not an easy victory.
Indeed, over a hundred Ran Dan Empire capital ships and twice as many smaller warships were now burning between the light and dark of the Sabis system.
The continuously disintegrating and collapsing battle moon symbolized the annihilation of a main Tyranid army numbering in the hundreds of thousands of Ran Dan elites. Even for the Ran Dan Empire,
a superpower capable of contending for dominance in the galaxy, this counted as a crippling defeat. From a human perspective, this was like an entire Astartes Legion being annihilated in a single star system, with no one spared from the Primarch down to the lowest Legion serf. Such a battle was enough to disrupt the balance across the stars.
Undoubtedly, this was a great victory. But it was also stained with blood. Over thirty battleships belonging to the Human Imperium and twice as many cruisers had already turned into wrecks in the Sabis system,
illuminated by the stars and flames. Countless mangled corpses and severed limbs of Dark Angels also drifted there. Perhaps three thousand men, or perhaps more. They either fell in brutal close combat or were shattered into cosmic dust along with their boarding craft by stray artillery fire.
The most severe losses were suffered by the hundreds of Terran veterans on Sabis IV, who served as bait and resistance, and then as the vanguard directly assaulting the battle moon.
When Jonson and his five hundred strong killed their way through the last Ran Dan defenders and linked up with these battle-scarred warriors, the Primarch briefly counted the numbers: only over a hundred remained.
Several of Hector's battle-brothers were still alive: the ancient warrior Chiron had lived up to his status; he seemed the most composed.
Aias bore a shocking scar on his chest, and Salieri was the most tragic of them all; his left hand had clearly been blown off in some engagement. After a simple dressing, blood still dripped continuously.
Hector respectfully saluted his genetic father in a low voice, then returned to his companions. Before that, he did not forget to remind his mother. "Lord Luther is in charge of the Gaemarra Fortress.
His post is not particularly close to the Sabis system. Normally, even if he received the news and immediately assembled his army, his fleet should not have made it to this battle."
[Perhaps it's the instability of the Warp.] Morgan also responded in a low voice. She naturally knew why this was, because the laughter in her mind resounded once again—though it had never truly ceased. But by the simple volume of the sound, she also knew that she was about to witness a good show.
Morgan wasn't worried about not getting the best seat for the show. The Dark Angels might allow Hector and the others to move freely; then she just needed to be invited over for some necessary minor steps. But she couldn't.
After all, she was an [Alaph] who had already proven her strength. No one dared to let her wander freely anymore. In the Thousand Sons Legion, her psychic powers might have been unremarkable, but here was the First Legion, and every corridor here was filled with eight hundred cunning minds.
Morgan watched Hector reunite with his team. Then, she turned her head, feeling several gazes imbued with psychic power. They had been fixed on her for some time. Some were among Jonson's five hundred, while others were new arrivals, accompanying orders and whispers.
Ah... A group of adorable little ones.
Sweat trickled down Luther's somewhat disheveled hair, staining his cheek.
"You had better realize what you're doing, Lord Luther, because I find it hard to describe the ridiculousness and absurdity of this behavior." Before setting off, Astare's undisguised voice still echoed in his ears. And his gaze, a gaze like an elder looking at a mischievous child.
"Lord Luther, the Unbreakable Truth has just sent us a message, informing us that the Primarch is about to board... The end of the message contains an additional encrypted message that you need to open personally." The voice of the mortal crewman echoed in his ears. Luther reached out his sweat-soaked hand, almost woodenly, and took the message.
The comm-pad contained only three words. [To the deck.] Luther read it once, then again. Finally, he took a deep breath, and gave instructions for the remaining tasks.
Then, like a martyr heading to the execution grounds, he adjusted his armor and helmet, and slowly walked out of the command bridge, disappearing down the corridor.
Some mortal crewmen watched him leave. Several Dark Angel veterans, also stationed there, merely glanced at this nominal commander, and then ceased to concern themselves with any of this mortal's affairs.
Luther walked down the corridor, the rows of lights continuously casting onto his helmet, making his pupils and sweat drops change color as light and shadow interplayed. He walked in the light, yet seemed obscured.
Sweat, more and more sweat gathered on his forehead and the back of his neck. He knew this wasn't a malfunction of the temperature control system, but some other error, some error he had personally committed.
"What do you think you're doing, Lord Luther?"
"You are defying orders, the [Lion]'s orders. He hates this most because it's a characteristic of every Dark Angel, a connection between us.
You won't understand." Astare's voice echoed in his ears once more. He remembered that moment when, hearing of Jonson's schemes and desperate struggle in the Sabis system, he almost unhesitatingly ordered his battleship to set sail and provide reinforcements.
He still remembered, when he gave the order, the gaze of those Dark Angels... He even doubted himself. When he, as the fortress commander, forcibly ordered those Dark Angels to act,
what he truly felt in his heart was anxiety about Jonson's predicament, or... was he too eager for the battlefield? He wanted to return to the battlefield, even if only to watch from afar, to smell the stench of gunpowder and blood mixed together.
Luther didn't dare to continue thinking. He instinctively knew the answer. And at this moment, he also walked out of the passage and onto the ship's deck. The dark light emanating from the void struck his body, momentarily making him squint.
Hundreds of Dark Angels had already assembled on the deck. They were all the "reinforcements" Luther had forcibly brought using the privileges he held, a privilege granted by the Primarch himself.
The Dark Angels were divided into two lines, facing forward, indifferent to Luther's appearance. A gap of about ten meters was left between them, enough for Luther to stand in the middle, far from both sides. It was like the spectators' gallery of a tribunal. As Luther stood there, he couldn't help but think bitterly.
The [Lion] himself charged down from the first Stormbird. After him, several more Stormbirds landed shakily. Some injured Dark Angel veterans disembarked in formation, interspersed with a silver figure.
Morgan, like a shattered shadow, concealed herself within the jungle of Dark Angel veterans. She even leisurely chose a good spot, right next to the Dark Angel Librarian assigned to monitor her.
The top deck of the Imperial battleship was naturally a vast space. Even with hundreds of Dark Angels, it wasn't crowded. And Luther himself was revered by everyone, so when the [Lion] strode directly towards him, it seemed particularly conspicuous.
"Lion..." Looking at the excessively tall Primarch, at the features and golden hair he knew so well, Luther involuntarily spoke, calling out the name of his former adopted son. Lion El'Jonson.
This was the name Luther himself had given him after convincing his comrades' swords and deciding to adopt this strange wild child. Lion, the [Lion]. Jonson, the [Son of the Forest].
He repeated the name, watching this child grow strong too quickly, too fast, leaving him far behind in a blink of an eye. In fact, decades had passed, but Luther always felt it was too quick,
always felt the man before him was still that child, the child who had just put on armor and helmet and fought by his side. When he finally realized, he looked again at his former adopted son,
only to find that apart from his appearance and this ethereal name, the man before him was far from what he had imagined. He could no longer even fight alongside this man. That had become a dereliction of duty, a sin.
Luther said nothing more. And Jonson didn't care. The Primarch lowered his head, his shadow like a black night, covering Luther's body.
[What are you doing here!] "I..." [I have already assigned you a position, assigned you missions and objectives. None of them required you to defy my will, arbitrarily abuse my authority, and then appear here with an army!]
The Primarch's voice echoed across the deck, clearly reaching the ears of every Dark Angel. Jonson's face remained like a frosted, bloodthirsty sword. His brow furrowed, his eyes fixed on the figure before him: Luther, his closest friend, his left hand.
The Primarch fell silent for a period, continuing that terrifying, tormenting gaze, letting it be inflicted upon Luther like torture. He did not speak again, but everyone felt the air on the deck gradually turn cold, becoming eerie.
The [Lion] had covered himself from head to toe in black armor, on which were carved some extremely simple red-gold and silver patterns.
Beyond that, there were no other decorations. He was so tall that when he fully fixed his gaze on Luther, his emerald eyes were like malevolent full moons hidden behind mountain clouds, emitting a chilling light.
Luther lowered his head, lower, still lower... His hands involuntarily crossed, drenched in crackling sweat. Finally, just as Luther began to doubt if he could truly withstand this silent pressure, the [Lion] spoke again.
[My orders have always been very clear, Luther. Even the most foolish soldier can understand them. I don't believe you are incapable of doing so.] [I consider you my left hand, Luther, a trustworthy part of me.
I have entrusted you with a portion of my responsibilities and authority, and I do not wish for you to betray or abuse them, nor do I wish to see any order you issue without my knowledge. Those are utter foolishness.]
Morgan blinked. She could hear some contemptuous thoughts about mortals emanating from the Dark Angels nearby. Jonson, meanwhile, straightened his body, as if a goddess of justice holding a sword aloft.
[Return immediately to your logistics post. That is the responsibility I have assigned to you. That is your mission. Do not arbitrarily abuse my authority,
and do not come here again. They do not belong to you, and I forbid it.] Luther bent over, his voice sounding strangely calm. He struggled to force the words past his trembling lips.
"Your will, my Lord." The Primarch nodded.
[Now, your battleship and soldiers will be under my direct command. Because of all this unnecessary chaos, I will revoke my authority.
I will appoint someone else to Gaemarra's fleet and fortress. You need to focus all your energy on my orders and your missions, Luther. That is what I need you to do, not cause trouble here.]
"...Yes, my Lord..." The submissive reply slightly softened the [Lion]'s expression, but when he surveyed all the Dark Angels present, anger once again twisted his lips.
[Now, disband!] [Return to your posts.] [There is nothing worth celebrating here.]
The First Legion's formation disintegrated in silence. Hundreds of warriors passed by Luther, walking into the battleship's corridors. A portion of them, or rather most, cast a uniform gaze upon Luther after the [Lion] left.
Luther couldn't decipher what that gaze meant. He didn't want to decipher it. He simply lowered his head, saying nothing, his somewhat heavy body trembling, causing the sword at his waist to clink softly against its scabbard.
When Luther regained consciousness, he was already leaning back in a chair, watching the Dark Angels' small battleship cleaning up the battlefield in the distance.
Jonson's few words had stripped him of all connection to the war. Now, apart from this hall for mortal crewmen to rest on the battleship, he had nowhere else to go. Luther lowered his head, and after a long time, he slowly sighed.
The hall was empty. This was natural. Because now, even the lowest-ranking mortal crewmen were busy. They all had their positions and missions, were part of this war, and could rightfully claim the honors brought by victory. Luther thought with some melancholy.
Just then, the door opened, and his peripheral vision caught a silver figure. He quickly recognized who it was. "Lady Morgan." Luther forced himself to stand up, revealing a smile, and nodded in greeting.
The two shook hands, and Morgan naturally sat opposite Luther. She was wearing her restraining suit again, holding a book and a drink, while her staff was controlled by psychic energy, floating casually to the side. Luther looked at her attire and smiled. "Rest?"
[It's only human nature, isn't it?] "You can see a better starry sky in the corridor, no need for this secluded corner." [That doesn't belong to me.
It belongs to those warriors.] She sat down, crossing her legs, and spread the book on her lap. Her staff leaned to one side. She pointed her finger, and two wine glasses floated over, slowly filling up.
"You are also a warrior, a hero of this battle." Luther's voice was serious and hoarse. These words seemed to make Morgan pause. She lifted her head, which had been resting on the book, and after a moment of silence, revealed a somewhat helpless smile.
[I was once, but not anymore.] [When I fought alongside them, everything was fine, but when the battle ended, I looked around and found there was no place for me.]
Luther's expression somewhat froze. He shook his head. "If you're here to comfort me, Lady Morgan, then I accept your kind intentions, but there's no need."
Morgan smiled. [I actually didn't expect you to be here, Lord Luther, but now that I think about it, it's not unexpected.] [And the reason I'm here is simple.
Ahriman hasn't returned yet, and I have nowhere to go on this ship.] Luther's mind flashed with the image of the Thousand Sons warrior. He nodded, accepting the explanation.
Morgan casually played with her wine glass, then handed another one to Luther. She mumbled to herself, as if answering, as if complaining, or as if simply letting out meaningless frustration.
[Yes, I once fought. I was their comrade.] [But they are warriors, I am not.] [They are Astartes, I am not.] [They are the Primarch's sons, a natural part of this war, the true and indispensable masters of this ship.] [And I, likewise, am not.] [So, I am still alone.] [Indeed, I have nowhere else to go but here.]
Luther was silent for a while. Then, he laughed. It was a hoarse, bitter, melancholic laugh. Then, he took the drink Morgan offered him and drank it in large gulps.
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