The galaxy was dying.
As the balance between the two universes was repeatedly broken, as billions of deaths and lamentations played out over and over in countless worlds and shadows, as the most powerful wills wantonly unleashed their malice and desires, this galaxy was dying.
The Tacus star was growing incredibly dim, never having been so fragile, so weak, so lowly in its billions of years of life.
In its former domain, the two most powerful wills in the entire galaxy were clashing, engaged in a grand gamble: the table was barren worlds and vast territories, the gamblers were the dust-stained demigods and autocratic monarchs, and the stakes were hegemony, an eternal hegemony concerning countless stars and billions of subjects.
The Lion of Caliban and the Barbarian King of the Northern Frontier of the Galaxy, two monarchs who had never met, thus wantonly scattered every chip and piece in their hands, racking their brains to gain even the slightest advantage in this game of skill with no room for chance: legions, fleets, mighty soldiers with sharp blades, war engines...
But the most ironic point was that neither the Primarchs nor the Xenos were the protagonists of this war; their high status and power brought no practical benefits.
What truly decided this war were the rude sergeants, the terrified privates, and the commanders and observers peering out from trenches and steel.
It was every single person on the front lines, fighting with all their might to survive and win amidst the smoke of battle.
No matter if he was a warrior.
Or a Primarch.
——————
The Wolf King of Fenris bared his teeth, hot vapor gushing in great plumes from the cracks between his fangs, creating a frosty white scene that from afar resembled mist.
At this moment, Leman Russ was like a creature stepped out of the most ethereal myth of the ice plains: he walked through bloody mud and frosted mist, his Spear of Dionysus gleaming like divinely bestowed metal,
while his other hand gripped a battle-axe stained with countless shredded flesh and foul, yellow worms. His thick beard was now filthy, covered in dried black blood, and even his overly luxuriant hair was similarly matted.
But even so, Leman Russ was still a demigod, an inviolable avatar of war and death, the proud scion of the Emperor: if anyone doubted this, they needed only to glance at the ground beneath the Fenris Wolf King's feet and behind him,
to see the fortresses and legions destroyed by the Lord of Wolves, to see the fate of the Xenos who foolishly attempted to challenge him, and to see the packs of wolves surrounding him, swearing eternal loyalty to every command then they would understand completely.
And now, Morgan witnessed all of this.
After issuing her first command to her Sons, Morgan rarely used her own power. She floated like an ethereal idol around the packs of wolves, only gently raising a hand in the most critical moments, using casual words and pronouncements to destroy any existence capable of truly harming the wolves.
She was recuperating, brewing, preparing for the true war, not the petty skirmishes at hand. Of course, Morgan was also very aware: neither Leman Russ nor his wolf packs seemed to particularly desire her help deep down. This was another reason she intervened as little as possible.
She was happy to be at leisure: the progress of the war was within her expectations anyway. If Leman Russ's wolves stubbornly held some principles as more important than their own lives, why should she stop them?
Although the Sons of Fenris never truly expressed it, by observing the instinctive aversion shown by the Wolf Lords and Wolf Soldiers when Warp Powers flew about, and linking it to certain rumors about the Space Wolves Legion, Morgan easily confirmed the Space Wolves Legion's aversion, or even hatred, for these psychic arts.
However, the Spider Queen then discovered something very interesting: although the Space Wolves instinctively abhorred Warp Power, the storms and ice summoned by their undoubtedly respected Wolf Priests seemed to have no essential difference from Warp Power.
If one were to delve into it, it was that these Wolf Priests simply didn't care where the storms and ice in their hands came from. They viewed it as a kind of opportunity and enlightenment, using the most primitive, crude, wasteful, yet safest posture to wield these Rune Magic bestowed by the World-Spirit of their home planet, Fenris.
This certainly sounded like an act of burning a zither to boil a crane, something only barbarians would do, and seemed enough to make a minor figure like Ahriman stomp his feet in frustration for a good while. But when Morgan's will meticulously screened every Wolf Priest in the wolf pack, and carefully observed their souls and wills, she was somewhat surprised to find:
Even the most seasoned and profound Wolf Priests possessed a purity of soul far exceeding that of the Thousand Sons scholars who were "proficient in arcana." Facts proved that this barbaric method of utilization, though indeed crude enough to be ridiculed, also possessed its own subtlety and superiority.
At the very least, it was safe.
And in this galaxy, in many cases, safety was a power that could override everything else.
In silent observation, Morgan quietly noted these Wolf Priests' methods of utilizing Warp Power. She believed she would find a use for them one day: it was impossible for her Sons not to have a group of youngsters accustomed to exploring and utilizing Warp Power. She needed to devise a reasonable method for them, lest they die too quickly or drag her down.
To date, she had carefully observed the psychic arts of the Space Wolves, Dark Angels, and Thousand Sons Legions, and had also caught glimpses of how the Stormseers of Jaghatai communicated with Warp Power. Now, reflecting on it, she found that she instinctively favored the psychic arts of the White Scars.
Of course, nothing needed to be set in stone yet; she had ample time to plan her Legion and her Sons. She even had ample opportunities for mistakes, and the determination to face countless failures.
After all...
At this moment, a red-haired, one-eyed, seemingly foolish but highly intelligent, and spirited face slowly drifted through Morgan's mind.
Even with more failures, could she possibly fail more than he did?
Thinking of this, Morgan's heart was instantly filled with confidence.
——————
With ample encouragement, the Spider Queen's gaze swept over the Space Wolves Legion fighting in a bloody battle, over the endless Randan reinforcements in the distance, over the constantly burning and collapsing fortresses and strongholds, and finally settled on her several Sons.
She watched them, sending rays of encouragement into their hearts and wills in their minds. This undoubtedly inspired every Son of Morgan. At the same time, this indifferent mother also fairly evaluated each of her sons.
The first to capture her attention was undoubtedly Hektor, her tallest Son, whom she had repeatedly ordered away from her side. He was not far from her, even within sight. He was like an invincible gargoyle, thrown into the fiercest battle line, slaughtering all opponents with his innate strength and speed. In just a moment, his armor and blades were already covered in blasphemous Xenos blood.
Around him, countless Sons of Leman Russ cheered enthusiastically. These Fenrisian men didn't care in the slightest that an outsider was seizing the most kills and glory. They surrounded him, singing loudly and indulging in slaughter, as if this incredibly tall warrior were the finest Space Wolf.
Morgan even wondered if her ears were playing tricks on her: she seemed to hear Hektor, amidst the cheers of the wolves, letting out a wolf-like roar himself?
The Spider Queen smiled. She liked this Son named Hektor; she liked his talent, strength, and loyalty. If possible, she wouldn't mind letting this young man rise through the ranks.
But for now, he needed more training and experience. After all, Morgan never liked cleaning up other people's messes. As her most cherished personal possessions, her Sons should help her save effort in various ways, rather than being counterproductive.
Her will continued to roam the battlefield, casually swatting away powerful Xenos that could cause the wolves to bleed profusely. She soon found her Shadow Champion: Ezio was still alone, lurking in the shadows,
whispering about the day's harvest. But soon, he felt something. This assassin of the shadows floated out of his domain, neatly dealing with a slightly lax small fortress. His methods could even be described as artful.
Afterward, he removed the identity tags of these opponents, stacking the blood-stained metal into a small, curved tower. He held up this work of art, bowed slightly in Morgan's direction, and then disappeared back into the shadows.
Morgan's lips curved into a smile. Her will then moved to the remaining few: the Legion's Ancient Warrior Kyron was commanding Ajax, Salieri, and Eris, joining the foremost battle line of the Space Wolves. This veteran from Terra paused for a moment when Morgan looked at him, then continued his battle with an impassive expression.
Morgan's gaze quickly swept over Eris: this Son of hers possessed extremely powerful psychic talent, enough to make even her take notice.
Compared to her other Sons, this Legion Ancient Warrior's attitude towards his Primarch was much colder: it wasn't that Kyron didn't respect his Gene-Mother, but he seemed limited merely to "respect."
This indifference even offended Morgan: her personal possessions somehow considered themselves equals in some sense?
The Spider Queen temporarily sat on a large rock. She rubbed her chin, watching the old veteran's every move, while her mind pondered other matters.
According to the news she had heard, except for some very special circumstances, every time a Primarch returned to their Legion, there would be some kind of "cleansing" activity and command.
Of course, this didn't necessarily mean conflict and bloodshed. In most cases, it was merely the gradual loss of influence of former key figures, and the Legion's existing culture giving way to the Primarch's preferences, effectively reorganizing the Emperor's Legions into the Legions of these mortal demigods.
Morgan had even witnessed her kin, Lion El'Jonson, conduct a small-scale cleansing activity. The Knight-King of Caliban had not avoided discussing this in front of her. Lion El'Jonson had also clearly told her why such cleansing and replacement were necessary.
——————
"I issued a command, but that command was challenged."
"The reasons for the challenge varied: it could be antiquated doctrines and customs, it could be that some warriors who had followed the Emperor believed there was no true difference in status between them and me, or it could be the experiences, honors, and arrogance gained from fighting since Terra, which made some feel their abilities surpassed my wisdom."
"To be frank, I don't care how they see me, I don't care what traditions they once upheld. But now, my command has been obstructed and challenged, and my will cannot be conveyed and executed one hundred percent this is intolerable."
"Therefore, I will not cease this action until my will becomes the Legion's will, and until my commands are no longer challenged or obstructed."
——————
At the time, she hadn't cared.
But now, after carefully pondering Lion El'Jonson's words as a Primarch, a Gene-Mother, and the Lord of a Legion, Morgan found that she instinctively agreed with her kin.
Allowing her commands to be challenged?
What a joke.
A sinister gleam flashed in the Spider Queen's eyes, and at the same time, some preliminary ideas began to form in her mind.
In the future, Morgan certainly intended to cleanse her Legion, but she didn't intend for this cleansing to be bloody, cruel, or merciless.
If the veterans who had fought all the way from Terra understood her meaning and intentions, she wouldn't mind giving these most noble assets a sufficiently honorable and dignified future:
whether as respected elders, or as advisors capable of offering suggestions, or even as tacit Legion administrators, she wouldn't mind playing the role of a compassionate mother, gradually gaining actual power over the Legion and all that came with it through subtle compromises and unspoken agreements.
She even had a preliminary plan, a plan born from the raw inspiration she gained from her kin, Lion El'Jonson's management of the Dark Angels Legion.
Of course, this plan did contain a trace of bloodshed.
However, that bloodshed was destined to have not even the slightest connection with her, the compassionate, benevolent, powerful, and intelligent Gene-Mother.
Morgan stood up, a smile once again gracing her face. She sensed her Sons had reassembled along various routes, preparing to join a new assault: the fortress before them was taller and tougher than any stronghold they had seen before, and all the Space Wolves were surging towards it.
Once they flattened this place, there would be no obstacle to prevent them from destroying the Fate Engine.
Morgan looked up.
She took a deep breath. At this moment, she was not far from the Psychic Slayer, which glowed with a scarlet light, in another dimension.
She could even smell something intoxicating within that Randan War Relic.
It.
Was calling her.
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