"It's been a while since I last saw you, Hector."
"Indeed, Senior Tarasin, it's been a long time."
——————
Ever since the young [Fang] stepped onto this battleship, similar greetings and nostalgic voices have been endless. After all, everyone in the fleet was deeply impressed by this unusually tall new recruit, and years of war had truly claimed many lives.
Hector had fought on the front lines against the Rendan for several years, perhaps five, perhaps seven. In any case, he rarely rested and seldom kept track of how long he had been fighting.
Initially, he tried to mark the progress of the war by remembering his fallen comrades, but after endless bloody battles, he wisely abandoned this idea. For him, the only fortunate thing was that his four-man squad remained completely unscathed to this day; at the very least, they hadn't lost any members. It was truly a miracle.
In Hector's opinion, this was probably the second most prideful thing in his life. As for the first, it was the secret buried deep in his heart, a secret even Master Caron didn't know: his Primarch, his genetic mother, the arbiter of his bloodline.
He had always adhered to her will: to keep this secret and to spare no effort in self-improvement during this war. He took these brief words as his current life's creed, executing it with selflessness. He didn't know when this mission would end, for how could he presume to guess the thoughts and feelings of a Primarch?
Such thoughts swirled in Hector's mind as he walked through the corridors of the Seeker, his chest involuntarily puffing out. His gaze continuously admired the recorded artworks on the walls.
The internal decoration of the Second Legion's warships was likely different from other Legions. They didn't transform their void homes into works of art like the Emperor's Children or the Blood Angels, but they did meticulously decorate them. However, in the Second Legion's warships, the most common decorations were not oil paintings or statues, but rather descriptive artworks.
These artworks would use the most generalized expressions to record the experiences of the battleship and its crew: perhaps a battle, an adventure, even a debate, or some other interesting anecdote, like passing an intriguing planet, encountering a species with primal intelligence, or reuniting an isolated human world that had struggled through the long night under the banner of the Imperium.
These artworks were not an official initiative; anyone who felt their experience was meaningful could hang one up, even placing a small plaque next to it to briefly describe the event, or attaching a souvenir to attest to the story.
Of course, visitors' stories were also encouraged, and some more active warriors would even try to extract these stories from the mouths of their guests, for the experiences of mortals held their own unique brilliance.
Every battleship was like a bonfire in a wagon camp, and every warrior harbored the soul of a story.
Someone once described the Emperor's Second Legion this way, and while this assessment couldn't represent the entire Second Legion, it was indeed an accurate summary for some fleets.
Of course, in other fleets, the scene might be different. After all, the Second Legion was now fragmented, and each fleet's artistic style naturally varied greatly. Hector's Second Fleet preferred to record healthy archaeological activities, while the Third Fleet favored psychic arts, and the Sixth Fleet was more interested in interacting with mortals...
It was said that this custom of recording originated on the battlecruiser Seeker, where Hector was currently stationed, and the one who understood this custom best was undoubtedly the oldest warrior on this very ship...
"I'm looking for Tech-Sergeant Tarasin."
Hector's request quickly received a response. He followed the directions provided by the mortal servant, turning left and right through the corridors, finally arriving at a room deep within the battleship. It resembled a storage room, feeling rather stuffy due to its proximity to the engine, and usually, no one would wander here.
He pushed open the door and stepped inside. The first thing that caught his eye was an array of parts and measuring tools, followed by various pieces of equipment awaiting repair, neatly arranged on workbenches. Beside them were scattered small personal items, and at the other end of the room, faded power armor and even larger apparatus could vaguely be seen.
Frankly, the room was actually quite spacious; it was more fitting to be called a warehouse. However, due to the sheer number of items stored, it seemed somewhat cramped. Yet, the room's owner was clearly accustomed to it. Hector soon saw a figure, hidden beneath a robe, slowly rising from a pile of old equipment and unknown objects, and walking towards him.
Hector stood still, bowing respectfully.
"Senior Tarasin."
"Ah, Hector, it's been a while since you last visited."
The senior was still the same. He wore no power armor, only a simple linen robe. By Astartes standards, he was somewhat gaunt and tall, but overall still unremarkable, the kind who would naturally be overlooked in a group of Astartes.
But no one would underestimate him. Even the most seasoned ancient warriors couldn't say when Tarasin had joined the Legion. However, it was certain that he was one of the first Second Legion warriors to undergo advanced training on Mars, quickly earning the title of Tech-Sergeant. He loved this position, repeatedly refusing to command squads or be promoted. To this day, this seemingly ordinary Tech-Sergeant was actually one of the most senior figures in the entire Second Fleet.
Tarasin rarely participated in battles, but he possessed unique skills in archaeological activities. He always accurately located hidden ancient ruins, allowing the Legion to return laden with treasures. Hector even remembered the only time he participated in such a team-building activity, it was led by Tarasin.
Approximately two hundred volunteer warriors followed this old veteran to a strange place: devoid of any signs of life, filled with cold machinery and dormant metal skeletons as far as the eye could see, as if these tomb owners had already been corpses before being interred in this mausoleum.
That place looked like a small ancient dynasty from countless years ago. The Fangs broke in, spending some time clearing out the strange metal skeletons and confiscating many usable items. The only pity, however, was that when they rushed into what appeared to be the throne room, they found that the most precious items had vanished without a trace, while other treasures remained surprisingly intact.
However, Tarasin didn't seem particularly disappointed by this.
"Repairs, or do you need something?"
The Tech-Sergeant slowly led Hector to his workbench, a peculiar smile always present in his withered voice.
"I hope to have it repaired, Senior Tarasin. In the Legion, you might be the only one who understands these techniques."
"Ah, I only know a little, Hector. I can't guarantee I can fix it."
Hector handed his weapon to the Tech-Sergeant. He had originally received this Star God Phase Sword from Tarasin, and he found it quite comfortable to use.
"How is this weapon working out for you?"
"It's decent. Overall, I feel like I'm gradually mastering it, but I always feel like I'm not unleashing its full power."
"Perhaps they are still dormant, but who knows?"
The Tech-Sergeant did not immediately touch the weapon. Instead, he went to a nearby bookshelf, rummaging through it and pulling out one worn-out book after another, flipping through a few pages of this one, glancing at that one, occasionally returning to the workbench to record something. Despite this, he never stopped chatting with Hector.
"How are things on the front lines, my little Hector? You haven't sent any new stories back to the Seeker in a long time. I'm starting to feel a bit lonely."
Hearing this, Hector suddenly remembered some fragments: it was said that the Second Fleet's tradition of eagerly collecting stories was initiated by this ancient warrior, Tarasin. However, that was already vague history, and no one knew if it was true.
"Calm often means safety, Senior Tarasin. However, the Rendan haven't launched a large-scale offensive in a long time. The prevailing theory on the front lines is that their slave-based state has fallen into turmoil due to the decline of their primary species caused by this large-scale bloody war, and thus they cannot continue to sustain this seemingly endless conflict."
"So, you believe this war will end with our victory?"
"It's not yet a victory, but we can already see the dawn on the horizon, Senior Tarasin. Even the most pessimistic front-line officers merely believe that we might not be able to make the northeast and northern parts of the galaxy flourish again, for the scars of destruction left by this war are truly difficult to erase."
Tarasin smiled, his back to the young warrior, busying himself at his bookshelf.
"I've experienced many things, more than you can imagine, Hector. My memory tells me that tranquility in war is not always a good thing."
He turned his head, a deeply unsettling smile on his face.
"War is a storm, lad."
"Tranquility does not belong to it."
"...Are you referring to...?"
"While your various tactical squads are operating as scattered units, constantly fighting and gathering intelligence on the front lines, I, in my boredom, have also been listening to other information—information from within the Imperium, from the heart of the galaxy."
"Do you know about the Eleventh Legion? Their home system has always been considered one of the safest regions in the Imperium, but lately, there have been reports of strange Xenos fleets appearing there."
"Oh, and the Eleventh Legion itself. They've been involved in this war for far too long. So long, in fact, that it's not normal."
"How long has it been since you last received any information from the Eleventh Legion, lad?"
"We..."
Hector opened his mouth, instinctively wanting to answer the question, but then he froze, his mouth opening and closing, unable to give a suitable answer.
That's right...
How long had it been since they received news from the Eleventh Legion?
Since that purest Primarch led his Legion headfirst into the core regions of the Rendan Empire, how long had it been since he sent anyone back?
A year?
Two years?
Or three?
Or... longer...
——————
Lion El'Jonson breathed with some difficulty.
He leaned against a broken pillar covered in sand, doing his best to regulate his breathing and recover his strength and stamina. Although his wounds were rapidly healing under the Primarch's superhuman physique, the expenditure of physical and mental energy was very real.
He was somewhat weak, somewhat tired, and more importantly: he was too dishevelled, so dishevelled that he didn't want anyone to see him in his current state.
Although he hadn't cared at all during the furious struggle just now, once the battle ended, once the duel was won, once the burning rage and recklessness finally cooled in the cold air, the Lion of Caliban suddenly realized what a foolish thing he had done.
...
In a way, that bastard Leman Russ wasn't wrong. They were like two idiots.
No, that stupid wolf was definitely the dumber one. He messed everything up. Magnus and Lorgar combined weren't as idiotic as he was.
Lion El'Jonson lowered his head, looking at his tattered armor. The damage to the armor wasn't a big deal, but his appearance, covered in sand and dust from head to toe, deeply pricked the reserved heart of the Knight King.
Especially...
When a multitude of footsteps appeared by his ear.
Clearly, a large contingent of his sons was approaching. He had to appear in such a ragged state before his subordinates. Although the Dark Angels might not care, simply appearing before outsiders in such a filthy, beggarly state was unacceptable to Lion El'Jonson himself.
This wouldn't do.
He tried hard to brush off the dust, only to find that the grime had spread all over his body, deep into his eyebrows and nails, and even every strand of his golden hair was tangled with grey soil, forming disgusting matted locks, making him look like a worn-out, earthy-yellow sack.
Damn it, he couldn't appear like this...
Lion El'Jonson clenched his teeth, and then, he heard a strange sound.
The Dark Angels' footsteps seemed to have been abruptly halted. Then, the sound of two voices arguing reached his ears. He immediately recognized the deeper voice as Alajos, who insisted on entering immediately, while the colder and crisper voice belonged to Morgana. She was stopping the Dark Angels with an almost unreasonable attitude. She couldn't give a clear reason, instead rambling on, obstructing the Dark Angels' advance.
And amidst this unreasonable argument, a tiny psychic vortex drifted unnoticed to Lion El'Jonson's feet. Lion El'Jonson recognized this familiar psychic energy and struggled to his feet. Then, the psychic energy enveloped him.
Like a gentle spring breeze, or clear mountain spring water, Lion El'Jonson could clearly see the dirt and grime on his armor and face being swiftly brushed away by the psychic energy, as if autumn mountain winds were sweeping away rotten leaves. It even brushed through his golden hair, making it shine again like the sun breaking through clouds.
He accepted all of this with utter compliance. When the last trace of psychic energy finally left his body, he even felt his spirit had improved considerably. At the very least, he could walk a few more steps.
And at that very moment, the short, rough argument outside the room came to an end. He could even hear Alajos drawing his sword. Clearly, the silver-haired lady's obstruction had allowed the Dark Angels to easily overcome their slight apprehension towards her.
"Enough."
Lion El'Jonson spoke. His command, easily passing through the wall, ended everything. Then, he slowly walked out of the room, not allowing his sons to enter and see the situation there: Russ was in another corner of the room, and he didn't look too good. Although Lion El'Jonson rarely had a positive opinion of him, he still wasn't going to let his brother be humiliated in front of his sons.
He stepped out to meet his subordinates, accepting their greetings and concerns. His gaze seemed to casually sweep over the silver figure beside him: she stood at the periphery of the group, seemingly uninterested in joining this father-son interaction. Lion El'Jonson looked at her, then, as if by accident, glanced back at the room behind him.
Then, Morgana nodded, raised a finger, and on its tip was the same psychic breeze as before. With a flick of her hand, this breeze blew into the room, to help the other Primarch who was still unconscious.
A hint of satisfaction crossed Lion El'Jonson's heart.
From now on, or rather, from long ago.
The communication between him and his kin no longer required something as direct and troublesome as language; a single glance was enough for her to know what he was thinking.
...
Sometimes.
He even wished Morgana were mortal.
——————
When Leman Russ woke up, he had already been moved by the Space Wolves, who had awakened earlier, into the great hall, right before the throne of the Tyrant of Dulan.
The Wolf King of Fenris opened his eyes, taking a moment to feel confused, then clear his mind, and finally recall what had happened. Then, he leaped to his feet.
"Where's Lion El'Jonson? Goddamn it, where's that bastard? He still owes me a punch."
But his roar lasted less than a second before he was completely overwhelmed by a thunderous chorus of wolf howls and a pile of black, grey, and mottled fur. The Wolf King struggled for a while to pull off the pups that had pounced on him, one by one.
"Alright! Alright! You little wolf cubs, tell me, where is my brother! Blackblood! You answer!"
Blackblood stepped forward and informed him that the Dark Angels' fleet had just departed.
"...Goddamn it."
Russ wanted to curse some more, but the pack's enthusiasm overwhelmed him. His sons were incredibly eager to know which Primarch had won the battle. After all, Lion El'Jonson was the one who walked out standing, and many Dark Angels had puffed out their chests in front of the pack.
Russ thought for a moment, then, without concealment, recounted everything in detail. Clearly, Lion El'Jonson's final "sneak attack" filled every Space Wolf with righteous indignation. Thus, Leman Russ naturally became the proclaimed victor among the pack, although his mind was currently preoccupied with other matters.
It wasn't until the Wolf King's gaze swept over everyone present once more that he suddenly noticed a mortal among them. It was the chronicler of the Space Wolves Legion, one of the few mortals Leman Russ found tolerable. He hadn't participated in the front-line battle, but the withered head of the Tyrant of Dulan was now in his hands.
"Greetings, Wolf King."
He stepped forward and bowed.
"Lord Lion El'Jonson has informed us of everything that transpired within the fortress. The battle in which you both joined forces to slay the Tyrant of Dulan will become a legend of the expeditionary fleet, and even the most discerning officials on Holy Terra will have nothing to say."
"..."
Russ was silent, taking a few seconds to fully grasp the meaning of the words.
"You mean... Lion El'Jonson told you that we jointly killed the Tyrant of Dulan?"
"This battle will be the best proof of the Space Wolves' skill in conquest, my lord! Those who criticized us will surely be silenced this time!"
"...Ah... yes... that's wonderful... I mean... that..."
Russ scratched his face and leaned closer to his chronicler.
"Did he tell you anything else? Like... about the Wulfen?"
"...What? My lord?"
"I mean, my brother, did he tell you anything else?!"
"Lord Lion El'Jonson only told us about the process of him and you jointly slaying the Tyrant of Dulan, and then he departed with the Legion."
"...Oh..."
"...I see."
Russ's eyes darted around. He wanted to laugh with relief, but then a feeling of shame and vexation washed over him.
In this strange mix of emotions, his gaze wandered aimlessly, when he inadvertently noticed something carved on the Tyrant's throne.
He walked over and looked at it.
Then, he smiled.
"My lord."
Blackblood stepped forward. This Primarch's personal guard hesitated repeatedly before stammering out a confession of defeat, or rather, a complete and utter rout, to his Primarch.
"Hmm? Hmm... Is that so?"
To his surprise, Leman Russ's mood, for some unknown reason, instantly brightened. After listening carefully to the pack's miserable defeat, he casually patted his son's shoulder, comforting him while remarking in a joking tone.
"By your account, that little fellow named Morgana isn't bad at all."
"Not bad... truly not bad..."
Leman Russ muttered to himself, calling his pups, and happily walked out of the room. The chronicler, however, out of curiosity, approached the Tyrant's throne.
He found a few words carved on the throne, words carved with a sword, like chisel marks.
He read them aloud softly.
——————
[Don't let it happen again.]
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