The Wolf King brought seventy men perhaps more.
The piercing shriek of the Stormbird's engines constantly tormented the eardrums of every Dark Angel, and the subsequent rolling heatwave swept through the entire hall in the blink of an eye. However, none of this affected Jonson's knights, who quickly gathered on both sides of their liege, forming a dense battle line.
Jonson unhurriedly descended from Fulgrim the Tyrant's throne. His left hand held the shriveled head that symbolized all the victory and glory of the entire war, and the greatsword in his right hand carved a hideous gash in the carpet.
Although all the Dark Angels present gathered around him, the only one truly standing beside him was the silver-haired lady who was accustomed to being taciturn in public.
[He arrived earlier than I expected.]
[However, if he chose to deal with the outside matters first, and then rushed over to demand the face he never possessed, I might think more highly of him.]
The Primarch of the First Legion slightly tilted his head, looking at his kin. His words were full of the arrogance of an absolute victor: he could certainly be so arrogant, for in this war, whether facing Fulgrim or his brother, he was the winner.
Winners can always be a bit arrogant.
And after Jonson's slow, soft, and triumphant words landed, his kin also raised her head. Her voice was the most standard High Gothic, filled with the poise and calmness of an elite.
[This might lead to a conflict, Lord Jonson. Perhaps, I shouldn't have incited you to launch this decapitation strike: relations between the Legions are already somewhat strained.]
The Primarch's brow furrowed, though no one could see it.
Whenever they discussed in public, she would always use this tone. Before this, Jonson rather liked it. After all, at that time, she was still his cunning advisor, and their biggest interaction was strictly business.
But now, he found he might prefer her private, languid tone, that sharp edge of the lips, imbued with a hint of malice, which she would only use in their private discussions when discussing secrets, expressing opinions, or even sneering and mocking. In front of others, she was either an incredibly capable silver-haired official or a gentle mortal confidante.
This distinction in tone alone was a secret: after all, in the information Jonson had gathered, she only acted so... playfully around Lion El'Jonson of Caliban.
Perhaps this was why Jonson's attitude was slowly changing: after all, someone who had tasted secrets would only find superficial matters bland and uninteresting.
But the current Jonson hadn't realized this yet. He was just instinctively uncomfortable with this business-like tone. The Primarch planted his greatsword on the ground, casually absolving his advisor of [guilt].
[Even if you weren't by my side then, I would have ordered other means of teleportation and decapitation. I would not allow my sons to bleed in vain due to anyone's mistake, not even a Primarch.]
[I gave him a chance, but that doesn't mean he can casually squander the opportunity that the First Legion forged with blood. It wasn't my actions that stole his so-called honor, but his dereliction of duty.]
[If he still doesn't understand this, I don't mind a confrontation to teach him about etiquette. Don't worry, everything will be kept in check. Both I and my Fenrisian brother know what we're doing.]
Morgana blinked. She seemed to struggle to look directly into Jonson's massive helmet, her silver hair cascading like a waterfall onto the opulent floor.
[Then, please allow me to stand by your side, Jonson.]
At the end of her words, she lowered her voice, whispering his kin's name like a gentle breeze in the morning mist.
Jonson snorted softly.
[As you wish. But as I said, nothing will happen. We might exchange a few blows, but there will be no bloodshed, and it won't escalate to a true duel, unless my brother's mind has been frozen solid by the blizzards of Fenris.]
[He is our brother, Jonson.]
[Realistically speaking, right now, no one is your kin but me.]
Morgana seemed to be muttering something; Jonson didn't quite catch it.
Then, she raised her voice.
[Perhaps nothing will happen, but ability and attitude are two different things, Lord Jonson. I always want to do my best, no matter what.]
[Commendable...]
Mid-sentence, Jonson seemed to recall something. He looked at his kin.
[Were you like this in the Fifteenth Legion?]
[Always, but not everyone can see another's ability and attitude. Even if they can, not everyone truly acknowledges them. It requires the courage of self-reflection and the acceptance of failure. Not everyone possesses such qualities.]
[Indeed, that is rare.]
The Primarch of the First Legion agreed in a low voice, his gaze turning to the great door that was about to be pushed open: the thunderous footsteps were growing ever louder.
[At least they don't.]
——————
Like a blizzard sweeping across the land, the rumbling of the wolf pack echoed through the corridors. Even with their eyes closed, the Dark Angels could feel, by sound alone, a heavy beast brewing its rage and roars, approaching them.
Jonson and his sons did not wait long. After only a few breaths, the great door, covered in murals and jewels, was brutally kicked open. The colorful world outside had vanished, replaced by a savage, primeval black forest: for wave after wave of furious Morkai poured in from beyond the threshold.
A pungent scent first invaded the hall the scent of beasts and tundra. Then came the dull thud of iron boots, the clash and hiss of blades, and the cacophony of a Fenrisian symphony, clinking and clanging incessantly, made from teeth, bone, and hand-carved rune charms.
Until a shrill roar erupted, drowning out all other sounds.
[Lion El'Jonson!]
[My brother!]
[Damn it, tell me! Do you Calibanites consider oaths to be worthless?!]
[Or do you think you can openly mock the Wolves of Fenris! You know! They are oaths! Every Fenrisian would face any trial of blades and fire for their oaths!]
The beast's howl erupted from the depths of Leman Russ's throat an unmistakable attitude, clearly desiring a tumultuous resolution.
Jonson's eyebrows raised. He first casually raised a hand, gesturing his silver-haired advisor to move further behind him. Then he rotated his arm, making a gesture in mid-air, stopping his sons who were about to form a defensive line.
Finally, he slowly drew his Lion Sword. By now, Leman Russ was no longer distant. The Lion of Caliban could clearly see the army his brother brought: they numbered about seventy, some wearing blood-stained helmets, others revealing tattoos on their necks and cheeks, their eyes openly expressing the rage of having their prey stolen.
[You were too slow, Russ.]
The Primarch quietly replied to his brother, neither mocking nor apologetic.
[I don't know what you were dawdling with, a step away from here, and I don't care. But I will not allow my sons to suffer in vain because of your hesitation.]
[No one will wait for you forever. At least I won't.]
[You! Damn it! You swore an oath!]
Leman Russ's roar was accompanied by the ominous growl of the chainsword in his hand. At this moment, the Primarch was no different from a giant bear whose hibernation had been disturbed.
[And now, you have broken your oath, and damn it! You've meddled with my prey!]
Jonson chuckled, standing behind his Lion Sword, his sneer utterly unconcealed.
[Your prey? Indeed, but he wasn't much of a challenge.]
[Speaking of which, I can finally understand your daily boasts of great hunting achievements.]
The Wolf King of Fenris did not reply. His face was shrouded in somber thunderclouds and storms, brewing a terrifying cataclysm capable of destroying kingdoms. His steps were silent and swift. In the dim environment of the hall, the roaring chainsword in the Primarch's hand was like the roar of a dragon, proclaiming a harsh gospel of death and slaughter.
The Space Wolves tightly followed their king, transforming into a chaotic tide of full moons, steadily encroaching upon the silent and resolute embankment of the Dark Angels.
Only when Leman Russ finally halted his steps did this tide temporarily cease its destructive breath. By then, the king of the Space Wolves was just a step away from his brother. The entire scene was a re-enactment of what had happened less than two Terra Standard Hours ago, in the hangar of the Unbending Truth.
The Wolf King's gaze swept over the shriveled head, which should have been his prey. The Primarch's gaze then swept over his silent knight brothers, over their arrogant, noble dignity that was so repulsive.
Finally, his gaze settled on the empty space before him, where an invisible, fragile barrier existed, accompanied by a faintly unpleasant odor—the scent of psychic energy. And with that scent, his gaze ultimately landed on a certain silver figure beside his brother.
Leman Russ smiled, his wolf-like canines fully revealed by his unrestrained grin. The Primarch's iron-gray armor concealed him in the dim candlelight, leaving only the lingering scent of blood to signify that this grim smile was not that of some terrifying monster from the depths of nightmares.
[Put away your psychic tricks, little one. You remind me of a certain arrogant, idiotic brother of mine, who is even more beyond salvation than the one before me.]
[Perhaps you are strong, strong enough that my senses deem you dangerous, but that is all. This is not a situation where just anyone can interfere.]
Morgana stepped forward, standing beside the Lion King.
[I merely wished to express my apologies, Wolf King of Fenris. This decapitation plan indeed arose from my counsel...]
Before her words finished, Leman Russ's chuckle transformed into booming laughter.
[What are you saying? Your words dictate a Primarch's will?]
He turned his head and looked at the Lion King.
[You can certainly find another way to fool me, brother. Anyway, in your eyes, I'm just a savage who knows nothing.]
Jonson narrowed his eyes, watching his brother. He stood tall and unmoving, like a king forced to leave his castle to meet barbarians. His furrowed brow did not hinder his slow, steady tone.
[If you could behave a little more properly, Russ, perhaps not everyone would see you as a barbarian.]
[Secondly, I had no intention of concealing or shirking my actions. I was merely waiting for my advisor to finish her words. That is etiquette, a concept you seem not to grasp.]
[Honestly, you should go learn more things instead of speaking with threats and savagery as you do now. It's useless.]
[Now, step aside. The matter of Fulgrim is over.]
Jonson's tone showed no ripples or fluctuations, and Leman Russ's equally unyielding laughter was his answer.
[Is that so? I don't think so.]
[Firstly, Jonson, the matter of Fulgrim may be over, but the matter between you and me is far from finished.]
[Secondly, you have no right to criticize my savagery, Mr. Civilized. Our primal nature made us who we are, turning us into the Emperor's blade, the tyrant's nightmare, allowing us to conquer the galaxy with the purest, most loyal, most ferocious, and most joyous demeanor.]
[You wouldn't understand, Jonson. You can't experience that joy. Even if you envy our lightness from the bottom of your heart, you will never attain it. A knight, once enthroned in a castle, can naturally no longer touch the forest.]
[Your words are meaningless, Leman Russ. And I will never envy you. No one envies savagery.]
Jonson raised his head high, his words brimming with unadulterated arrogance.
[What can your savagery bring you, Russ?]
[This!]
Leman Russ roared, launching his attack. He leaped, transforming into a descending meteor. With a frantic roar, the Primarch's immense anger, resentment, and frustration, along with his fist, tore through countless air and storms, heavily smashing into Jonson's breastplate.
This sudden, undefended blow caught Jonson off guard. He stumbled back several steps, and the Tyrant's head in his hand flew into the air, caught by Morgana with a psychic hand.
Leman Russ attempted to press his advantage, but was met with the obstructing Lion Sword. Steel gauntlets and the greatsword clashed above the throne, leaving behind a series of grating, tearing sounds.
[Is this your goal, Russ? Predictable, and disappointing.]
[It wasn't initially, but it is now.]
[You still can't escape your savagery, my brother. It's absurd.]
[What's truly absurd is that you don't even know what savagery is, Jonson, but that's okay.]
[You'll find out soon enough.]
Jonson tightly gripped his greatsword, forcefully pushing back his brother with both arms. He snorted lightly, first glancing at the silver-haired lady who had retreated to the side, then turned his gaze back to his brother.
[When it comes to the topic of savagery, Russ, you are only inviting humiliation.]
[You are imitating, and it's a flawed imitation. Now, my brother, you don't need to quarrel with me over this crude trick that anyone can see through. Put away your sword; we can stop at any time.]
The Lion King's answer was Leman Russ's indifferent laughter.
[If you hadn't been daydreaming in this cursed room just now, and instead brought your cubs to support my Legion, letting them know that a Primarch was fighting alongside them, I might have considered stopping, Jonson.]
Jonson simply sneered. He looked at his brother, his face showing a composure and contempt that anyone could see he made no attempt to hide.
[There was indeed a Primarch fighting alongside your Legion.]
[But it seems he achieved nothing.]
[...]
This time, Jonson was not answered by Russ's fist.
But by the roaring of Kraken's Maw.
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