Lion.
Knight.
Butcher.
Attendant.
Dagger.
Greatsword.
Forest.
Forge.
As Lion El'Jonson slowly walked towards her, dragging his greatsword, countless words erupted with his footsteps in an instant, like tyrannical waves crashing against fragile cliffs, pounding Morgan's mind.
This was an instinctive, uncontrollable judgment, the silent scream of all senses facing danger.
Danger.
More terrifying than Magnus, more terrifying than Perturabo, more terrifying than anyone she had ever faced.
Through the slits of his helmet, she could see Jonson's half-closed eyes, like a lion freely roaming in the afternoon sun, his emerald pupils shifting casually, shooting dangerous rays of light.
Morgan reacted almost instinctively.
She stretched out a hand, uttering a few notes, and a savage hurricane howled from her fingertips, devouring the temperature and air in the vast arena in a blink of an eye, transforming into a torrent capable of destroying mountains, causing the space, already reinforced with an anti-psyker device, to erupt with unbearable sounds.
Jonson raised his eyelids, observing the storm capable of tearing armor and skin. His ice-like face did not change in the slightest due to this ferocious surge. The Primarch of the First Legion merely flipped his wrist, gripped his greatsword, and swung an upward strike.
Like the sharp claws of a beast tearing through tough canvas, a rough sound exploded in the arena, marking the dying wail of the psyker hurricane capable of confronting an Astartes squad.
[I said... full power.]
[At all costs, by any means. You had best understand these two phrases.]
Jonson looked up. In his field of vision, Morgan had vanished.
Then, he heard a faint chuckle.
[As you wish, My Lord.]
After the hurricane was stifled, Morgan's figure had disappeared from her original spot. Jonson rotated his eyeballs and found her at the far end of the arena.
In the Primarch's line of sight, Morgan took a deep breath. Frozen frost spread from all corners. The temperature in the arena dropped at a visible rate. Hoary ice consumed the edge of every blade. The rapidly falling temperature invaded through the cracks in his armor, stinging the Primarch's senses.
Jonson exhaled a long stream of white frost. With this overly obvious drop in temperature, he could feel a slight sluggishness in his arm joints. The Primarch gently rotated his wrist, and the feeling vanished without a trace.
Good.
He looked at the distant psyker, waiting for her next move.
At the other end of the arena, Morgan snapped her fingers, an invisible shell protecting her body, then frowned.
Upon seeing Jonson's giant-like physique, she instinctively began to whisper about bio-psyker abilities: overloading blood, exploding hearts, or letting blinding darkness engulf the enemy's senses. These body-focused spells were most suitable for such an indestructible opponent.
But the next moment, she realized that such methods would be useless against Jonson. As fellow Primarchs, Morgan was well aware of the vague essence contained within the human skin of both herself and Jonson—bizarre creations that defied any medical explanation, walking Frankensteins of the stellar age.
Looking at the distant Jonson, Morgan sighed.
Her breath lingered in the icy realm, cold enough to freeze an army, spiraling upwards in the boundless space, like a dancing maiden lifting her skirt, suddenly exploding on the intersecting ice marks, coiling into a thick wall of mist that obscured the entire arena.
Then, Morgan plucked a strand of hair and began her plan.
Jonson narrowed his eyes.
Although the power-infused mist was enough to disrupt an Astartes warrior's senses and instruments, when the Lion's consciousness permeated it, it still met no significant resistance.
Through the mist, his consciousness grasped Morgan's location...
...?
...More than one?
Front, back, left-front, right-front... even the ceiling directly above him, all emanated Morgan's almost unique cold aura, as if she had split into tens of thousands in an instant, completely surrounding Jonson.
And the next moment, Jonson knew his premonition was correct, for tens of thousands of attacks surged from all directions.
From the impenetrable mist, the gates of the underworld were opened by a cackling rebel, and a death whirlwind, having journeyed tens of thousands of miles, swept forth. Within its wails, the most terrifying power advanced, intending to destroy everything in its path.
First, there was lightning, thunder, the sound of divine retribution from the heavens, sweeping forth millions of man-eating currents with a rumbling roar,
like a thunder god from a savage land raising his palm, clenching it into a crackling fist, irresistibly attempting to destroy the mortal world. Countless dark clouds and storms descended, accompanied by the most savage roars, singing aloud.
And even more dazzling than the light of the lightning was fire, an unextinguishable ice-blue fire. It emerged from the endless frozen lands, burning with the most deadly high temperature amidst the deepest cold, like a joyful executioner queen walking among her dead subjects.
It shrieked, forming another ice-blue storm of high temperature, causing the endless space to constantly oscillate between the two extremes of bitter cold and scorching heat, thus converging into sharp whips, lashing at joints and skin, never ceasing for a moment.
After the most violent firestorm, the air became permeated with corrosive and foul-smelling gases. All that could be seen were dark arrows streaming from the most distant corners.
As this seemingly ordinary rain of arrows intersected with the blazing storm, it instantly melted into a vicious torrent, plunging towards its target from the most treacherous angles. Its boiling bubbles and distorted air spoke of its power; even Astartes power armor had to succumb before this most corrosive current.
Thunder, flames, corrosion—these three storms rampaged through the never-ending wall of mist. They swelled rapidly like gluttonous monsters, becoming colossal entities within a few breaths, large enough to occupy the entire space and lash any individual. Every corner had to endure this triple baptism, inescapable, utterly inescapable.
And if this wasn't enough, then at the very top of the room, there was a final net, a net slowly tightening, woven from invisible threads. It covered the entire ceiling of the space, revealing a sharp edge exuded by the threads, capable of tearing apart mountains and legions.
Everything formed within a few breaths, sweeping forth with Morgan's breath, a smile, a light sigh. She extended her finger, tapped, and these few moments were erased. Those vicious currents instantly completed their mission of expansion, becoming colossal weapons pressing down on the Primarch.
Jonson's golden hair danced bizarrely due to the sudden disappearance of a few seconds. He closed his eyes, relying solely on his will, not sight, to move his feet through tens of thousands of turbulent currents, whether wild, scorching, or acidic. He let the temperature oscillate between arid and freezing, leaving terrible scars on his power armor.
But this was not enough.
He opened his eyes, only to see the blades, spears, swords, and halberds that were supposed to be placed at the edges now flying with the strong winds. They fiercely pierced the ground,
and endless layers of ice instantly engulfed them. With strange light, these weapons exploded like swelling bird eggs, from which leaped out over a dozen of the most monstrous beasts, purely driven by psychic energy. The smallest among them was ten meters tall.
Jonson smiled, the corners of his mouth curving into the most parsimonious angle.
He looked up, watching it all.
The once spacious arena had become a realm of purgatory that could only exist in endless heroic or infernal epics: endless ice corroded the earth, constantly releasing hundreds of degrees below zero, occasionally making his joints creak.
Above the eternal realm of ice, storms, like the whispered laments of death, swept down with three arrogant forces: lightning transformed into axes of destruction, devouring all; raging flames consumed reason and body heat; and vicious, foul streams thrived in every corner of his vision, forming tens of thousands of sharp arrows that corroded his armor.
He tilted his head, dodging a blow that tore through the air, then almost casually swung his blade, sending the head of a several-meter-tall beast rolling to the ground, where it was instantly frozen and corroded to nothing.
Slaughter and death, however, completely ignited the ferocity of these psychic beasts. These monstrous creatures, towering like buildings, roared continuously, casting huge shadows. Amidst the torrential rain of arrows formed by fierce winds, blazing flames, thunder, and corrosive water, they lunged at Jonson.
The Primarch watched it all.
He was laughing.
He was laughing from the bottom of his heart.
As all this happened, the strand of hair Morgan had plucked had just fallen to the ground.
She blinked her lifeless pupils, feeling Jonson move leisurely amidst thousands of deadly psychic torrents, continuously decapitating the giant beasts.
These little tricks might be able to obliterate a thousand Astartes in an instant, but for such a dangerous Primarch, they were too simple.
After all, they were just diversions.
A gleam flashed in her cyan pupils. As Jonson had almost decapitated all the beasts and was rushing towards the last and largest psychic beast, she finally seized an opportunity.
A flaw, an incredibly tiny flaw, merely a moment of complete focus and distraction from everything else when fully immersed in the hunt and slaughter.
That was enough.
Her soul shrieked, and her longbow, already poised, eagerly sang, shooting forth that mental arrow.
It was somewhat difficult, with some obstacles, but in the end, she succeeded.
She entered Jonson's memory, his inner world.
Forest.
She saw a forest.
She looked up, but couldn't see the sun.
She only saw the dark green, towering trees, obscuring all vision, leaving scattered gaps, like unclenched fingers, letting through a few rays of light.
Everything was dim, yet not entirely so. Within the vast, sky-obscuring forest, some light seemed to be contained, allowing one to clearly see everything here.
She rotated her pupils, beginning to observe everything around her. In this dense jungle, there seemed to be no living creatures, yet she could hear the heavy breathing of giant beasts, and feel the gazes of countless predators roaming on her skin.
But the point wasn't these, it was...
A call...
A call, in the deep forests of Caliban, in a corner Jonson had remembered, something seemed to be calling to her, calling to her darkest side.
That seemed to be...
[You!]
[What!]
[Are you doing!]
The most massive, surging, irresistible power lashed out like a mountain and sea. Morgan's soul didn't even have time to think further before it was suddenly struck out, tumbling directly out of Jonson's world. The injured soul fragments wailed all the way back into her body, and a metallic sweetness of blood instantly surged from her throat.
Rage.
Rage burned within the Primarch.
He stared, veins bulging, his lips pulled back to reveal his teeth, his furrowed brow unleashing the most terrifying power and will.
He turned, roaring as he swung his blade. Endless steel storms unleashed with his fury, and the purgatorial realm, capable of destroying a thousand Astartes, trembled and crumbled under this boundless wrath.
While Morgan was still suffering from a headache and coughing blood from the impact, the black figure had already rushed from the very center of the arena to stand before her.
He lowered his head, his face having returned to its stern expression. Only his slightly furrowed cheeks and the chaotic arena behind him spoke of what had just transpired.
[For your own sake, you had best explain clearly what you are doing.]
Jonson watched the offending mortal regain her footing, then slowly spoke, his voice like a living iceberg.
Morgan seemed a little unsteady, but she managed to steady herself, then bowed.
[Executing your command, My Lord.]
Doubt lingered on Jonson's face for a moment.
[By any means.]
[At all costs.]
[Just as you commanded.]
[As a psyker specializing in the mind, usurping and manipulating memories is our most common and most effective trick in battle. In a real battle, this would also be the most deadly part.]
[Since the mission I received was to simulate the most realistic psychic combat scenario, I naturally chose such probing spells, because these are the things and dangers that would appear in real combat.]
[An order is an order. Since I received the order, I will execute it at all costs.]
[Even if it means danger.]
Jonson's face was rigid. His expression seemed no different from before, except that the wrinkles caused by his rage seemed to have vanished with time.
He seemed to want to say something, but ultimately did not speak. But even so, Morgan could still tell that he didn't seem to believe her words in the slightest.
After an unknown amount of time, Jonson turned around and returned to the center of the arena.
His new command also came with the sound of bloody wind.
[Continue.]
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