Since he obtained all the authority of this war and tightly held them, coming into the bloodiest light of the Milky Way Galaxy, the Lion El'Jonson of Caliban had not rested for even a single moment in four months.
He finally got what he wanted: all the duties, all the trust, all the difficulties and loyalties, now all in his hands.
As for the cost, how much, where, when, and what additional price he would have to pay, he didn't care about any of it.
In his eyes, there was only the burning galaxy.
Lion El'Jonson of Caliban abandoned the defensive line he had painstakingly built for several years in the eastern part of the galaxy, leaving those rich or empty Sectors to the bewildered Auxiliary forces and Planetary Governors. Those that were truly unimportant or worthless were simply discarded.
Aside from a few hundred trusted Dark Angels whom he entrusted to remote Feral Worlds with important secrets and relics, Lion El'Jonson had gathered all the forces in his hands. Whether they were Inner Circle Veterans or new recruits from Caliban, all had to join this most brutal war.
The Primarch even prepared for a long war of attrition: he specifically called his most trusted figure, his left hand, Luther, to his side and gave the highest order to his former foster father, who was fully armed and ready to go to the front lines.
Luther would not follow the First Legion to the front line against Randan. He was specifically ordered back to Caliban to recruit new soldiers for the Dark Angels Legion as much as possible, to ensure that even if the most tragic sacrifices occurred among the stars, the First Legion could persist until the Emperor of Mankind's mandate was fulfilled.
Even Lion El'Jonson himself could not confirm whether this order was entirely rational. Perhaps in a corner of the Primarch's heart, he instinctively did not want Luther to be further tainted by such terrible flames of war.
But soon, he convinced himself with rationality: Luther was indeed suitable for this job. In these years of arduous struggle with Randan, he had indeed managed all the logistics in an orderly manner. And in such special circumstances, he indeed needed a trustworthy figure to hold the Homeworld, complete the mission, and suppress discontent.
The Primarch knew that there had always been voices of dissatisfaction on Caliban.
He would deal with them, but now was not the time: the Great Crusade was still ongoing, humanity's revival was not yet complete, and Caliban still needed to contribute more to the Imperium.
So, Lion El'Jonson gave that order.
He vaguely remembered that when he called Luther to him and gave the order, Luther's face seemed to change slightly.
Lion El'Jonson did not look closely.
He had more important matters.
And he was certain that Luther was worthy of his trust.
Just as he thought, Luther ultimately had no complaints. His foster father, his right hand, silently accepted the order, took off his armor, left the grand fleet of the First Legion that was preparing for battle, and disappeared into the Star Sea in a small ship.
After all this was done, Lion El'Jonson turned around and once again commanded his Legion, leaving the gloom of the eastern galaxy and plunging into the blood mist of the northern galaxy.
Luther's somewhat gloomy and distorted face always flashed inadvertently in his mind.
But without exception.
He never paid attention.
Luther was always trustworthy.
——————
Thinking of this, the Primarch felt a hint of regret.
If his blood relative had not temporarily left due to the Warp Storm stirred up by Randan, perhaps he could have asked her to relay these words to Luther. She was always more eloquent than him.
And he always disliked such matters.
——————
Lion El'Jonson opened his eyes.
His thoughts broke free from the brief memories and emotions: these things took him less than a second. Now, his full attention was once again focused on the one thing he cared about in the entire galaxy: war, endless war.
The Lion El'Jonson of Caliban clicked on the Star Map in front of him.
Once again, the myriad battlefires of the universe clearly appeared before his eyes.
In Lion El'Jonson's emerald pupils, millions of crimson lights were reflected, each symbolizing a bloody battle, a tragic defeat, or the fall of a world.
It was cyclical and endless, as if thousands of wailing people were suspended upside down from the top of a cage bristling with spikes, each struggle only shedding more blood, finally leaving a twisted artwork on the ground.
Such a thought flashed through the mind of Lion El'Jonson of Caliban. He frowned, sinking into a low rage for this bloody craving that interfered with his thoughts. He unconsciously touched his somewhat withered skin, feeling that his beard had grown too long, even appearing barbaric.
Perhaps he needed a release.
Lion El'Jonsons thought so.
A release, a slaughter, an opportunity he was waiting for. For example, if his Unbending Truth was suddenly attacked—any attack would do—he could pick up his sword and pistol and cut off some heads, some Xenos or enemy heads.
He really needed some slaughter now, even as a form of rest.
Lion El'Jonson raised his other hand and covered his face. He felt the skin between his features growing old, dry, and rough. His ears were still diligently catching the sounds around him: there were always more sounds lingering in the room.
He heard the sounds of more messages pouring from distant stars to the screen. Each sharp sound brought one or more pieces of bad news, just as each dawn brought distant misfortune.
He heard all sorts of footsteps echoing in every corner of the room: his sons, mortals, officials, officers, Emissaries of Terra...
There was always bad news, always pleas for help, always questions, always more troubles and doubts constantly assailing him: no one was willing to bear all this, so when someone stepped forward, he was obligated to bear all the problems and additional accusations.
Everyone was watching him, questioning him, whispering.
He knew.
He knew about Horus and his complicated little thoughts. Warmaster Horus always wanted more. He was entrenched in the western part of the galaxy, but his mind was on the north.
He knew his other brothers: whether it was Leman Russ, Mortarion, or the dashing Grand Marshal, they looked at him as if he were a freak. He was certain of this because he looked at them with the same gaze.
He knew those mortals: those from Holy Terra, from the front lines, from every supply world and transport hub, from every inch of shadow in the lower decks of his Gloriana-class Battleship. Those mortals whispered, murmured, and stared at his every move from the shadows with suspicious and accusatory eyes.
They doubted his motives.
They mocked his abilities.
They questioned his methods.
They frantically dodged responsibilities and burdens, then proudly stood beside the executor, commenting wantonly, letting their words drown out the sound of hard work, suddenly becoming truth.
He knew they would do that.
And he...
——————
Lion El'Jonson lowered his hand, revealing his face once again to his sons, his subordinates, and everyone.
That face, once the most majestic, most perfect, most solemn, could now only be described as haggard.
Before this Randan war broke out, when Lion El'Jonson had just returned from the forests of Caliban to Holy Terra, he had walked in his father's palace, handling courtly trifles for him.
At that time, all the officials dared not look him in the eye, soldiers and guards served him with reverence, and every word describing his face and state could not escape seriousness, holiness, and nobility.
But now, these words no longer applied to him.
Lion El'Jonson of Caliban's eyes were completely filled with crimson bloodshot. His beard was like a wild mass of straw, aggressively occupying his jaw, lips, and more of his cheeks.
His skin was thin and pale, his eyes deeply sunken, appearing somewhat dark under the shadow of his brows. When he looked up at the star map or his sons, his face was so gaunt that one could clearly see his bones.
It wasn't that no one had reminded him: Corswain had repeatedly asked him to rest, even risking his displeasure by insisting after being explicitly forbidden; Astoran had mentioned it twice out of a subordinate's duty,
then fell silent after a clear refusal; even Luther, in his letters, hesitated and then subtly suggested he rest, having heard from front-line reports of the Primarch's months of sleeplessness.
But when dealing with Luther, his approach was much more practiced. In the next communication, he took a few seconds to admonish Luther to focus all his energy on Caliban and not worry about anything else.
None of them could convince him.
No one could convince him.
Beneath that haggard face, deeply sunken eyes, and deathly aura, the sharp, terrifying, and utterly piercing gaze in Lion El'Jonson of Caliban's pupils was the only remaining evidence of the Primarch's constantly calm and meticulous mind.
——————
And he...
He didn't care.
——————
Anyone, no matter how arrogant and stubborn their pride, would, when looking into the Primarch's eyes, instinctively realize: at this moment, Lion El'Jonson was still the immensely powerful beast-slayer of Caliban. He was still the great Grand Marshal worthy of the Emperor of Mankind entrusting half the galaxy to him.
He was not broken.
He would never be broken.
After all.
He didn't care.
He had already gotten what he wanted.
He had already gotten everything he desired.
——————
Lion El'Jonson of Caliban turned around. He felt something.
In the next second, the room's large door slowly opened. The previously overly noisy sounds seemed to quiet down. They were still noisy, but this time, the noise was just right.
Lion El'Jonson saw her. He saw that silver figure: somewhat long hair, eyes of a blue-green hue, always carrying that rather deathly smile, slender arms, graceful curves. She disguised her Primarch's strength and stature, casually staying within his Legion.
Leaving casually, returning casually.
She was still wearing the armor he had given her, that pure black armor, which looked like it had been well-maintained.
Lion El'Jonson simply watched her.
The Primarch of the First Legion grunted softly. His lips murmured, as if he wanted to say something, but ultimately said nothing.
Lion El'Jonson quietly watched the silver-haired lady slowly walk over.
She walked past the silently standing, solemn Dark Angels and mortals.
And came to his side.
Morgana, had returned.
——————
She smiled, slowly approaching the Primarch, then looked up. When she saw the Primarch's somewhat wild face, she subtly frowned, but quickly, Morgana unfurled a faint smile again, a cold smile.
And her breathing was just as cold, a chill that even made Lion El'Jonson feel it was worthy of the efficient work he hadn't experienced in a long time.
Lion El'Jonson looked at her, saying nothing.
They stood at the farthest end of the room, surrounded only by the workbench in front of them and the mottled star chart. The busy mortals were left behind them, seeming so distant, as if the Primarch and his blood relative were in a private space.
Morgana walked to the Primarch of the First Legion. She looked at her brother after a long absence, then extended a hand and placed it on Lion El'Jonson's armor, which had accumulated some dust and grime.
A refreshing power gathered in her palm, and with a casual thought in her mind, this power instantly covered the entire body of the Primarch of the First Legion.
In the blink of an eye, the Primarch's armor became sparkling new, his face solemn once more, his beard no longer unruly, and even his pupils appeared brighter and more dazzling.
In a trance, the Imperial commander, who resembled an aged lion, vanished, replaced by the Lion El'Jonson of Caliban, a figure capable of inspiring confidence and the pursuit of victory from the deepest parts of anyone's heart.
Throughout this, Lion El'Jonson remained silent.
He simply stood quietly, allowing his blood relative's magic to cleanse him of the fatigue and dust accumulated over months.
And when Morgana finally finished all this, he lowered his head and looked at his blood relative once more, watching her casually examine his armor, then silently reached out a hand and grasped the Legion insignias and pendants symbolizing honor on Lion El'Jonson's chest, rearranging a few scattered ones.
Lion El'Jonson waited quietly for her to finish all this. Then, a low, husky voice emerged from his throat.
"You're back."
Morgana looked up and smiled.
"I'm back."
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