[Power Stones Rewards Threshold Have Been Reduced From +500 To +300!!]
[Thanks For Your Support!!!]
In the deep forest, a sky-piercing world-tree, as if shattered by some attack, tilted and crashed down.
Torn leaves and dust billowed up.
"Shield wall—hold formation!"
The sudden calamity tightened every nerve in the column. Ironclad knights surged forward with spears leveled and swords drawn, wary of all directions.
By the Lion's rigorous drilling, the host did not panic at the unexpected.
They reacted at once.
All of them felt the danger.
Boom.
"An attack of that magnitude…"
The Lion lit his jump pack and sprang from the engine's deck, angling toward the site of the impact.
He could unleash destruction like this in battle—worse by far, if he chose.
But a blow of such unnatural scale within the forest merited respect.
The next instant—
He cut back, drew his blade, and planted himself before the tribe's knightly line, stance set for war.
He roared his order: "Lock shields—brace for impact!"
Because the mutated horde was coming.
Pushed by that unknown onslaught, the warped predators were stampeding the other way—and the knight-formation lay in their path.
There was no avoiding it; if they veered off, the supply train behind would be butchered.
Thuds rippled through the mud as heavy shields bit the ground; wall after wall of steel went up, the front rank bracing with all their strength.
They would be the first line.
Silence fell. No one spoke or whimpered. Fear did not break formation.
Only breath—rough, steady.
"The Angel will lead us to victory…"
Hada and the other riders glanced toward the towering figure at the very point of the spear, eyes hardening.
With the Angel here, there was nothing to fear.
Rrrrrrr—oom.
The ground's trembling swelled, a pressed, frantic chorus of howls riding the air.
Shadows warped through the trees ahead; the wind carried the stench of rot.
"They're here…"
The Lion clenched his sword and kindled the power field. It hummed, a faint halo.
Then he surged forward like a fired macrocannon shell.
An instant later he met the leading shadow head-on.
Aoo!
It was a multi-ton abomination that could flip a titan trunk with ease—yet when it hit the man, it struck a wall of iron.
In a blink its twisted horns snapped, then its skull, then a flash of blade—
And the warped predator dropped.
Like a god descending, the Lion took the beast's life as if plucking a weed and plunged into the onrushing tide; the knights' hearts caught fire.
"For the Angel!"
They heaved into their shields and smashed the charging horrors; foul blood sprayed.
Some riders were hurled back, coughing red, but more held the line.
They bought their brothers the openings to kill.
Iron Knights moved up in concert; with volleys from the auxiliaries and nets of vine and cable, they struck for soft joints with spear and sword, shaving the horde to pieces.
They showed no fear before the warped; as they swore when donning plate—
Victory, or an honorable death.
Armor shattered; men fell; new brothers stepped into their place without a heartbeat's pause.
With trained knightly craft, they folded and cut the pack apart.
"Watch the sting!"
At the warning, Hada rolled aside; a scorpion-tail spike hissed past, venom weeping from its point.
Those barbs were keen enough to punch steel and flood a man with death.
He had dodged by a hair.
Thwip—
Hada snapped a quarrel from his hip-bow; it buried in the beast's eye and broke its charge.
Then it was simple. He and his fellows pressed in and finished it cleanly.
He glanced—by instinct—toward the Angel.
He froze.
Trees lay splintered like felled titans; the soil looked ploughed by gods; corpses of monsters carpeted the ground.
And the Angel still fought—every blow tearing the air.
Boom!
He shouldered a warped predator and smashed it into a world-tree; wood cratered in a meter-wide web of fissures.
The beast sagged like sodden clay.
"This is not the strength of mere men. This is power from another plane," Hada thought.
What flesh could bear such might? Perhaps the Angel could topple the whole forest.
No matter—he knew one thing: nothing in his life would rival this.
No one, save the Angel, could cast such a shadow.
"Knight-captain!"
A shriek rose by the train.
Damn it!
Hada's head snapped around and his eyes tightened.
A warped beast had breached the shield wall and leapt for the wagons.
If unchecked, it would reap a butcher's tally among the teamsters.
He did not hesitate—his squad charged.
They did not reach it first.
A figure over two meters tall strode out, casually seized a spear, and cast it like a javelin through the beast's throat and brain.
It spasmed and died.
The newcomer dragged several terrified tribesfolk from the creature's reeking jaws and, with a few swift cuts, dispatched the lingering horrors.
Clean. Efficient.
"Guar… Guardian?"
The Iron Knights finally took in the man: black armor with silver edging, the winged sword emblazoned across his breast—impossible to mistake.
All of them knew the sword device. When the world ended, this Guardian had saved many and left a trail of legend.
Before the Angel arrived, he had been this world's only Guardian.
Crunch.
The Lion stamped, caving a predator's ribcage and heart, then wrenched his blade free and paced back to the line.
He had broken nearly half the horde by himself. The remainder his knights could handle.
There would be losses. That was war. Lives always fell, and not even he could shield all.
Those who lived would be tempered by blood and fire.
But as he came to the fore, he heard the whispers—one word, again and again—
Guardian.
The man stepped from the crowd. Taller than any knight, a shade shorter than the Lion.
Black armor, silver trim. And upon the breast, the winged sword.
At that sight, the Lion hesitated; sleeping memory surged up.
He remembered himself—Lion El'Jonson, the Emperor's son, Primarch of the First Legion, the Lion.
More images knifed through him; old wounds burned.
A world splintering at its end. Winged swords by the score. Bat-winged monsters ripping at his mind.
A figure in golden radiance.
And the order.
He gave a single order—and fleet-fire fell like rain on a world. Every light a hab, every flare a death.
Too many memories, hammering his skull.
"L… Lion? Lion!"
The other Guardian's voice, first uncertain, then a bellowing hate.
In a snap the name came—the man's true name.
Zahariel, a Paladin of the Fifteenth—warrior of the Dreadwing.
On the man's voice alone he knew him.
Zahariel—his gene-son.
In the next heartbeat the Astartes ripped free a boltgun and leveled it.
Fire blossomed.
Alchem-bored armor-piercers poured out in a killing stream; the man did not hold back.
But none of it struck.
Not because Zahariel missed, but because the Lion moved in the instant the barrel rose.
All of it in the space of a few microseconds.
"The Angel!"
To the startled knights it looked like war had burst from nothing. A chain of rounds ripped the air—and the Lion was simply elsewhere.
In truth, he had flowed the stream away from the column and made a single pounce across seven or eight meters—then another.
When the knights found him again, he had borne the other Guardian to the ground, one gauntlet pressed to his helm.
The faceplate had spidered under that grip; the boltgun nearby was twisted like wire.
If the First had not chosen restraint, those few seconds would have been enough to tear the other in half.
Even a veteran Astartes.
As memory returned, the Primarch's mastery of himself deepened—and his presence grew heavier.
The Lion's face clenched in pain as the past overtook him: the Orders and his father, the Emperor; his brothers; Horus, that pitiful traitor; Curze, that damned monster; the noble, tragic Sanguinius.
And tedious Roboute.
He remembered the homeworlds he burned of brothers who betrayed; Terra in flames; his Fallen sons.
Caliban broken by his order. Luther—his closest—made monstrous.
"What have I done to come to this?"
The thought crossed him as tears filmed those old, iron eyes.
The grief came in pounding waves, enough to fell any lesser warrior.
He drew it all in, forged it down, rose again—like a lion who shakes off blood and stands.
A true warrior is broken by nothing.
If fate had woken him, he would fight until sleep claimed him forever.
There was too much to do.
He tore the helm from his gene-son. Dark brown eyes met a Terran-born face—black hair, cold-pale skin, a lattice of scars.
His voice, heavy with judgement, forced out two words. "Traitor. Angel."
He recalled: when he returned to Caliban, this son stood with Luther.
They had turned the whole world.
"You are the traitor!"
The Lion's son snapped back, fiercer still. "You abandoned your blood. You abandoned Caliban. You abandoned everyone. You abandoned our Imperium!"
…?
The Lion's features wrenched.
It was like being asked, "Your Majesty, why the rebellion?"—absurd to the core.
And yet the words bit.
He had not set out to abandon the Imperium; cold necessity had ruled. Roboute had pushed to found a Second Imperium, to keep mankind's hope.
If they had reached Terra sooner—might they have saved Father?
"You have no answer, do you? Where did you crawl for ten thousand years?" Zahariel spat, voice raw with hate. "Did you fear to face what you destroyed with your own hands?"
"Zahariel," the Primarch said, naming him.
The Fallen choked off the next barb.
He looked at his gene-father—older than he had imagined—and realized the Lion still remembered his name.
In that breath, both cooled.
They spoke of the days before Caliban died—the sudden fury, the ambush, the crossing blades—events that seemed contrived by a hidden will.
The rebellion had been an enemy's plot—the same blasphemies that had blackened Horus.
If Horus could be turned, how could Luther—or any Legionary—resist forever?
"Zahariel, will you swear?" the Lion asked, eyes dangerous, voice grave. "Swear you are loyal—to the Emperor and to mankind—and that you raised your weapon to me in error."
"Yes. I swear it. I never betrayed what we cherished," Zahariel said, meeting the Lion's gaze without a tremor. Then he asked in turn, "My gene-father, will you swear? Swear you still love the Emperor and mankind—that you fired upon us only through the deceits of blasphemy."
A growl rumbled in the Lion's throat.
Anger, that his son should question him thus.
But he was no longer the quick-tempered youth of ten millennia past. He was tempered iron.
He nodded. "I swear."
He pulled Zahariel up—and noticed tears had cut silent tracks down the other's face.
He could not know how the Fallen had suffered—how long they had borne the scorn of a lie.
There had been no treason between father and sons—only error, and brothers crossing steel for it.
What sorrow could be greater?
When the air had cooled, the Lion asked at last, voice hard, "What of the Imperium? My brothers? The First Legion?"
He had too many questions.
"I drifted in blasphemous space for long years until I fell upon this world," Zahariel said, choosing words. "Before I was cast out, the Emperor still sat the Golden Throne. No one knew if He lived. His worshipers—fanatics—believed He did. They called Him 'God-Emperor' and prayed as to a deity."
"Fanatics…"
The Lion's face darkened. "You mean Lorgar and those Word Bearer filth?"
"Yes. They're gone. In their place the Ecclesiarchy—fools—more rabid than ever. They're everywhere. Deny the Emperor's divinity and die. Even Astartes must bend the knee. No one dares dissent—speak and you're branded heretic or exiled."
"How laughable…"
The Lion shut his eyes.
He could see it—the light of the Great Crusade snuffed; knowledge and reason crushed. Lorgar had ruined too much.
Given the chance, he would exact the price himself.
"My brothers—did they allow this?"
"The Primarchs vanished, like you," Zahariel said bleakly. "Legends turned to forbidden verses. Some say they died. Some say they faded. Some say they never were. The Imperium is ruled by men—High Lords of Terra."
My brothers—gone or dead?
The Lion's jaw ground; his body shook.
The Khan, Russ, Dorn—and Roboute. Even Roboute…
He found he missed that insufferable brother a little. Arrogant, yes—but a good man.
"My brothers…"
He bit back the ache. "And the First Legion—do they still fight?"
The First—first and greatest, template of all. From them sprang the doctrines others refined: the White Scars' fast war, the Iron Warriors' sieges, the World Eaters' shock, the Space Wolves' ways—all seeded in the First's arts.
They had carried light to the galaxy's darkest gulfs.
So long as the First endured, the Lion believed, the Imperium could not truly fall.
"There are no Legions—least of all the First," Zahariel said. "By Lord Guilliman's order, all were broken down—split into Chapters. The Dark Angels remain—perhaps a thousand—and many Unforgiven Successors besides."
"My Legion."
The Lion flared hot; sorrow burned to rage.
He rasped the name like a curse, as if to grind it under heel. "Ro-bou-te."
"That smug bastard, always sure he knows best—proud enough to unmake Father's Legions with a signature. I should have finished him when we fought. Why was it not his death—and Sanguinius spared?"
Whatever fondness remained for Roboute Guilliman guttered out.
The Lion swore: should the Ultramarine stand before him again, he would cave his skull with a single blow—let him choke on his regret.
"We go to Terra," the Lion said at last, chaining his wrath. He drew a long breath. "Whether my father is dead or merely a god to fools—I will look upon Him. The Imperium needs me."
He would return to claim his due as Primarch; to check the realm's decay.
"We cannot reach Terra," Zahariel said, pointing skyward. "The scar splits the Imperium. We cannot cross."
The Lion looked up through the canopy at the wound among the stars—an ugly gash of impossible color.
His son's voice grew harsher with worse news. "The Imperium's twilight—the Great Rift. It cleaved the realm in two. The Astronomican is shrouded. No long warp transits. Vox is dead. Some say the other half is gone—that Terra is no more."
They were on the far side, cut off. No word. No way.
The Lion fell quiet.
He had not imagined anything worse: Primarchs vanished, Imperium split, blasphemy rampant.
Perhaps the realm was already shards; the foe at large among mankind.
The empire he had made with Father and his brothers stood on the brink—or over it.
"Then perhaps I am the Imperium's only hope," he thought, forcing himself upright again.
He fixed his son with a burning gaze. "This is not an ending. We once scoured the stars and built an empire for man. If the Imperium is gone or broken—so what?"
The First turned to his knights. "From nothing if I must, I will do it again. Build it. Remake it. Mankind will rally and declare war on every enemy."
"We start by taking this world. Find a road beyond this forest. We will need more armies."
"You mean to lead us… to found a new Imperium?" Zahariel murmured at the titan's back—the born sovereign.
The Lion's stride hitched a hair. He did not answer.
He did not need to. Men would follow.
"Come," he said, voice edged with command. "We investigate that blast. Then we go to your holding."
Zahariel did not hesitate. He fell in at once.
He had gone seeking relics in the deep woods and met the strikes of Chaos; a month had passed without word to his people.
He feared for them now. Were they hungry? Had they endured?
(End of Chapter)
[Get +20 Extra Chapters On — P@tr3on "Zaelum"]
[Every 500 Power Stones = 1 Bonus Chapter Drop]
[Thanks for Reading!]