For Zahariel, the burning galaxy was no different from the forests of Caliban. This overly young Dark Angel loved Caliban; it was his home, and he missed it. He often recalled the time he spent there: the magnificent halls of the Knightly Orders, the treacherous forest beasts with their claws and teeth,
and the days he fought side-by-side with his brother knights. They would often hunt giant beasts that plagued the land, and occasionally engage in battles with other hostile Knightly Orders, but such fratricidal acts were always very rare.
Zahariel even remembered the day he first met his genitor father: after joining the aspirant ranks of the great Order of the Blade, he underwent two years of incredibly arduous combat training and elimination selection. But in the end, he successfully passed all the trials. In the year Zahariel turned nine, he walked into the Order of the Blade's most sacred grand hall. Lion El'Jonson was there. He stood there, at the very center of the hall, the core of the flagstone floor. Like a lost god.
This most renowned and greatest beast slayer in all of Caliban was exceptionally tall and massive, his dark green armor covered in claw marks and dull bloodstains from giant beasts. For a knight of Caliban, even the most exquisite medal was far inferior to these marks of battle. He stood there, silent, his calm gaze surveying the aspirants.
This great Knight Lord was not alone. The most prominent figures in the Knightly Order: Luther, Lord Cypher, and even Zahariel's mentor, Remiel, were gathered around him. But compared to the Lion King, these powerful knights were like a group of clumsy squires.
The subsequent memories were fragmented and blurry. Zahariel could hardly remember how he faced Jonson's questions and trials. It was like a dream, an adventure that existed only in poetry. He seemed to pass through unimaginable mountains and turbulent currents, slaying countless monsters and demons.
He journeyed alone to a lost temple, seeking treasures buried for countless centuries. Wielding a blade forged by the gods, he slew the Sky-Devouring Dragon that existed only in the most ancient legends. But when Zahariel truly pulled himself together and faced reality, he only saw Jonson's calm yet majestic gaze.
[He can.]
He heard the Lion's words, the briefest and most solemn voice, yet it brought endless joy and success. He could hear that, accompanying this affirmation, first Luther, then the others, applauded, smiled, and chanted ancient knightly songs. The songs drifted among the frescoes depicting the Order's millennium-long journey, wafting out through the skylight crafted from precious glass and crystal, and carried into the endless dense forests.
Zahariel had countless times imagined how he would face this moment: perhaps he would be exceptionally calm, or perhaps he would be full of ambition, loudly swearing the greatest and wildest oaths. He even worried that he might lose his composure on such an occasion, becoming a clown, and so on. But when it all truly happened, when he truly received recognition and permission, none of the scenes he had imagined materialized.
He could hear Luther's enthusiastic words. He could feel his mentor Remiel and cousin Nemiel shaking his body, shedding tears of joy and blessing. He could even perceive the cheers of the crowd, and the slight jealousy buried within the laughter...
But they didn't matter. None of them mattered. He just looked forward, looking forward regardless of anything. His gaze might have been presumptuous, yearning, or even dangerous, but he no longer cared. He widened his eyes, just looking.
Lion El'Jonson was there. He had golden hair and a solemn face, his eyes filled with the majesty accumulated from countless slaughters and hunts. This greatest hunter looked at him. Although still as cold as an iceberg, Zahariel could see that he nodded at him, an affirmation and welcome from a great one to a novice, from a champion to an aspirant, from a marshal to a soldier.
This was enough! A tear streamed from Zahariel's eye. He only felt that everything around him seemed a bit too noisy, and yet, it felt just right. The congratulatory voices of his mentor and brothers were like blurred tremors, shocking his ears and mind. He felt as if he could smell the fishy of blood, and see countless battlefields and trials unfolding before him. He would join the great Order of the Blade.
He would fight alongside the greatest beast slayer. He would become Lion El'Jonson's comrade-in-arms. They would fight side by side under the same banner, slaying giant beasts and demons, and march together into a future filled with slaughter and bloodshed. He would become a comrade-in-arms with the Lion King, a knight fighting alongside him through life and death.
This was enough. At this moment, even the endless bounty of the gods seemed so pale.
"Before officially joining this war, I personally hope you can have a very basic understanding of our enemy: no matter how dangerous you previously imagined Randan to be, please discard that estimation. It will only be more dangerous and powerful than you imagine, perhaps ten times, perhaps a hundred times."
Zahariel's voice carried the unique pride and lightness of a young prodigy. He certainly had the right to speak this way: not everyone received the Emperor's personal affirmation, achieving their own status within the Dark Angels Legion at such a young age.
Under the leadership of the Lion King's son, Arimian and Morgan slowly walked deep into Gyemala. Behind them, two Thousand Sons stayed behind. They followed the overly rigid human official, beginning to confirm trivial details:驻地 (station location), supplies, and itinerary planning.
The two Astartes and one human official gradually left the void-filled port. They delved into the interior of the starport, traversing the areas that had already been repaired and maintained. These already operational areas had been uniformly painted by the Dark Angels in a simple mix of black and crimson, with the only decorations being white swords and six wings, along with the golden Imperial Aquila.
Morgan saw some warriors not belonging to the First Legion wandering in the outer areas. Their armor markings and entirely different behaviors indicated their respective affiliations: Those savage warriors, clad in beast pelts and blue-gray armor, wandered almost aimlessly. They observed everything around them with curiosity, their uncomfortably active hands probing and bumping every intricate object. Occasionally, they would fortunately activate them, but more often than not, they would simply crudely destroy them, eliciting startled cries and laughter.
Morgan's gaze lingered on the huge black wolf heads on their pauldrons. She heard Arimian's sigh. "Those are Space Wolves... just tolerate them, like philosophers in a city tolerate barbarians who still eat raw meat."
And beside those crude warriors, several silent soldiers would often sit. Their armor was a fusion of light green and dark green, with large patches of chipped paint, appearing excessively worn. These Astartes often bore scars and wounds, but this did not prevent them from sitting ramrod straight, their breathing echoing dully through the countless tubes connecting to their helmets.
"The Fourteenth Legion, the Dusk Raiders, descendants of Albia, suffered significant losses in the previous Battle of Xana. When fighting alongside them, maintain caution and care. Their favored chemical warfare often doesn't distinguish between friend and foe, and there will always be collateral damage." Zahariel's soft reminder drifted within their small group. He patiently and carefully waited until the last Fourteenth Legion warrior disappeared from sight before slowly speaking.
And while the Dark Angels spoke, they passed another rest area. Here stood several warriors in mottled armor. They were few in number and seemed uninterested in outsiders. Further out, countless black-armored warriors surrounded them. Morgan noticed that the latter's gaze towards her carried a sense of almost innate disdain and arrogance.
"The Fifth Legion and the Nineteenth Legion. They were the first defenders of the Forge World Xana. I don't know much about them, but the Nineteenth Legion has always been... unfriendly towards ordinary humans." Zahariel spoke carefully, while Arimian's words were even more unrestrained. "You can stay away from them, Morgan.
The Nineteenth Legion primarily recruits the offspring of the wicked slave-masters from under the Imperial Palace. They bring the bad habits of the human era into their Legion, indulging in tyrannical and terrifying slaughter. Their attitude towards ordinary humans is even worse than that of the Iron Warriors."
As Arimian spoke, they quickly left these Astartes warriors behind. As Zahariel entered the password at the end of the corridor, a massive alloy door slowly opened. This was the true core area of Gyemala, the part exclusive to the Dark Angels Legion. Morgan was still somewhat surprised, while Arimian, who had heard about it long ago, was unsurprised: it was simply a series of interlocking tricks, with one layer containing another. This could even be considered a unique characteristic of the First Legion.
If the outer areas of Gyemala were decorated with utmost simplicity by the Lion King's sons, then this true core area was simply shabby: as far as the eye could see, it was a deep blue ocean, the color of the most basic welded steel plates. Only dim lights allowed one to barely distinguish between the walls and the floor. And along both sides of the corridor, small groups of Dark Angels gathered in twos and threes. They were all clad in pure black armor, yet were as cold to each other as strangers.
Morgan and Arimian tried their best to avoid staring, but this didn't prevent the human female officer from observing her surroundings. She quickly discovered some interesting things: although all these First Legion warriors wore the same armor, the markings and honor symbols on their armor were different,
making it impossible to tell that they belonged to the same Legion. And their conversations were even more interesting: even within the small groups, their conversations were extremely subtle and complex, often using cryptic language and special terms. And when they discussed other small groups, their attitude was as if discussing completely unrelated, even slightly hostile, strangers.
But this interesting scene did not last long, because they soon reached the end of the corridor, where a solemn gate stood. A gigantic Imperial Aquila was emblazoned on the gate. "Lord Luther is inside." When mentioning Luther, Zahariel's tone involuntarily carried a certain respect befitting a junior.
"He is the most trusted person of our genitor father, a great diplomat, strategist, and warrior. Lord Jonson has authorized him to handle the reception of reinforcements from various Legions and to coordinate all supplies and data needed for this war." "If you have any questions, you can consult him."
Before the Dark Angel finished speaking, they saw several Astartes emerge from Luther's room and turn into another corridor. In the dim light, Morgan couldn't make out the color of their armor, but their leader was exceptionally conspicuous: he was an overly tall Astartes warrior, roughly a quarter taller than his brethren.
[Who are those people?]
"Ah, those people." Zahariel merely glanced and casually gave an answer. "They are the representatives of the Second Legion." "And also a part of this war."
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