Jonson stroked the armor on his left arm. His face was as gloomy and terrifying as a deep forest after a rainstorm.
The sword and wing emblem, signifying the First Legion, was completely torn by an overly obvious scar, as if a fierce eagle had crudely carved this metallic wound with its sharp talons, proudly displaying its successful strike.
This was the only crack on the Primarch's black armor. The remaining areas were merely some dulled scratches, only losing sparse paint chips, but this pale mark stood out jarringly against the pure black armor, making it effortlessly visible to anyone at first glance.
White on black, even more striking and noticeable than black on white.
The Primarch of the First Legion continuously observed this crude fissure. His gaze grew increasingly dark. Even when he saw that mortal woman: her appearance now looked exceptionally wretched, blood continuously dripping from the corners of her mouth and earlobes due to psychic overload, this somber gaze did not gain any sense of victory.
Jonson was certain that at that moment, he had not relaxed his vigilance.
After he warned this somewhat offending mortal and began another round of training, he had not relaxed even an iota of vigilance, nor had he discarded any means of achieving victory: except for directly placing his sword at the mortal's throat.
But even so, even though he was indeed doing his utmost to evade and perceive, Morgana's psychic web gradually constricted and squeezed his movement space until a psychic blade, condensed from a cluster of fire, finally pinpointed the Primarch's location, leaving this wound that almost shattered the entire pauldron of his power armor.
Jonson meticulously recalled that single moment, tirelessly dissecting it, kneading it bit by bit, analyzing it inch by inch, but in the end, he still reached the same conclusion.
Under those conditions, he truly had no means of emerging completely unscathed.
Either he would charge into that impenetrable psychic web, or he would have to face the threat of that psychic shock, using his most defensive pauldron to block the blow, entrusting the possibility of survival to his equipment, rather than his own strength.
The Primarch's proud speed and reactions, in the face of the thorny web woven with psychic energy, revealed a different kind of paleness and helplessness.
That second seemed to be a checkmate.
After reaching this conclusion, the Primarch's expression grew even gloomier.
Although in the past two Terran standard hours, he had strolled through a net that could destroy thousands of Astartes warriors, and although he had countless opportunities every minute to wipe Morgana's beautiful, pale neck, proudly considering himself the absolute victor, this single, unavoidable instant was enough to utterly annihilate all of Jonson's arrogance and sense of triumph.
He even considered himself defeated, on some level.
This made his aura even more dangerous and terrifying.
But Jonson didn't dwell on this point. He was not Perturabo; he wouldn't fly into a rage because he stepped into a puddle after the rain and got splattered with mud. The Primarch rationally swallowed his minor defeat and began to ponder the truly important matters.
The Primarch raised his head and glanced around. The arena was now a complete ruin. Psychic aftershocks, waves of sword energy, and even the Primarch's own violent aura had ravaged this poor space for the past two Terran standard hours.
The anti-psychic devices used for containment and maintenance had long been shattered. Sound waves and air currents echoed through countless corridors and rooms, drawing the attention of many Dark Angels.
But even so, Jonson found a relatively intact area: a spectator seat at the edge of the arena, still capable of being sat upon.
He walked over, extended his hand, brushed away the ashes and small stones on it, then pointed, signaling Morgana to come over.
The silver-haired mortal female official was clearly exhausted from the training just now. She walked with difficulty, her footsteps dragging on the ground. From her eye sockets, the corners of her mouth, and her earlobes, newly dried bloodstains could be seen—the result of over-exertion of her psychic energy.
Compared to her earlier, pristine appearance, Morgana now looked somewhat disheveled.
She had originally worn a light silver-grey knee-length trench coat, with a cinched waist and elegant folds, paired with white trousers and her usual pure black knee-high boots. Her somewhat pale neck was casually wrapped in a dark blue scarf, revealing only faint glimpses of her fair skin.
Morgana even had a pair of sunglasses clipped to the pocket of her trench coat, for contingencies.
And all of this had happened two Terran standard hours ago.
The folds that had been deliberately arranged at the cuffs and waist of the trench coat were now completely disarrayed. The collar was adorned with drops of dark red blood, thoroughly stained. A corner of the scarf had been torn away by an unknown gust of wind, vanishing without a trace. It now lay limply on her chest, like a venomous snake with its head severed.
Jonson would indeed not use the method of pointing his sword at Morgana to win this training session, but this did not mean that one or two of his countless sword strikes wouldn't brush past her face.
How to interfere with a psyker's casting has always been an important research project in the discipline of [Eliminating Psykers]. The Primarch was clearly well-versed in this. A seemingly casual swing was enough to instantly turn Morgana's strangling array into a ridiculous, flawed mess.
At first, Jonson was simply quiet, but after a few more minutes, realizing that Morgana was still quite far from the seat, the Primarch simply walked straight over, grabbed one of Morgana's arms, lifted her into the air, took a few long strides, and pressed her into the seat.
Morgana felt a tearing pain in her shoulder. She tilted her head slightly, and saw Jonson's other hand still tightly gripping his greatsword.
The Primarch stood before her, like a towering mountain casting an endless shadow.
He pointed to the scar on his pauldron, showing no reluctance to face it.
"Was this attack an accident, or the result of careful calculation?"
Jonson's inquiry came, but Morgana merely pursed her lips, revealing a smile.
She didn't answer immediately, only lowered her head slightly, breathing slowly, adjusting her breath, until Jonson's already furrowed brow deepened even further.
[Both, my lord.]
This answer did not loosen the Primarch's tight frown in the slightest.
"Don't speak in riddles. Explain it more clearly."
[I am speaking very clearly, my lord. Both.]
[You could say it was an accident, because this kind of step-by-step strangling net is something I'm using for the first time. What its effects would be is unpredictable.]
[But...]
She breathed heavily again. The Primarch's gaze shifted slightly with her breathing and tone.
[This was also an inevitable outcome, because when you chose such a training ground, it was destined that I would only choose this unfamiliar method, because this is the only way I can contend with you here.]
Jonson looked up.
He understood the hidden implications.
"You weren't using your full strength."
Morgana slowly raised her finger and pointed to the bloodstains at the corner of her eye. Jonson looked at the crimson trickles on her pale cheeks, and that curled smile.
His face was tense.
[These bloodstains, my lord, they appeared because I was suppressing my psychic energy, not because I was overloading my power.]
As soon as her words fell, a chilling vortex of air exploded around the Primarch, transforming into wave after wave of cruel storms that made the soul feel cold.
"I commanded you... to use your full strength."
[Yes, my lord, you commanded me.]
"But you disobeyed that command."
[No, my lord, I did not disobey.]
She was still smiling, even though Jonson's sword edge seemed ready to kiss her throat the next second.
"This time, you can explain."
[If you truly wanted my full strength, then things would go very badly.]
Morgana tilted her head, leaning back, exuding an aura that combined exhaustion and laziness.
[Of course I can use my full strength, unleashing every ounce of my power in battle. But the consequences of that are unimaginable. At the very least, the Invincible Reason would not survive such an outburst. Its reactor would explode amidst my psychic shriek, dragging the entire warship and thousands of Dark Angels into a rift in the void.]
[Please do not underestimate an Alpha's desperate struggle, nor overestimate those anti-psyker devices. If they were truly foolproof, psykers would not be such a nightmare.]
[I did indeed execute your command, my lord.]
[Within the limits of what the situation allowed, I did my utmost.]
Jonson lowered his head, his emerald green pupils hidden by his golden hair. His sword blade dragged across the metallic ruins of the floor, sparking and grinding.
"Next time, tell me before you start, don't try to be clever."
"My tolerance is only once."
[Of course, my lord.]
Morgana straightened her back again, nodding meekly. This time, she was serious.
Just as Jonson was equally serious.
The Primarch was silent for a while longer, as if waiting for Morgana to rest.
"Now..."
"Tell me your [full strength]."
[As you command, my lord.]
——————
[Have you ever considered, in a real battle, where exactly psykers are stronger than Astartes warriors who wield swords?]
[Strength? Actually, that doesn't hold much significance. In a duel, enough power to sever the opponent's neck is more than sufficient. More power, while not a bad thing, doesn't fundamentally affect the essence of a duel.]
[Focus? In this aspect, psykers might even be at a disadvantage. The whispers in the Warp constantly torment every individual involved with psychic power. In fact, a psyker capable of complete focus is almost a false premise, unless they have decided to embrace death.]
[Defense? This is actually difficult to judge. If an Astartes were dueling a psyker, then in the face of bolter rounds and lightning, both would essentially be like naked, frail infants. So-called defense wouldn't play much of a role. Of course, a psyker can maintain a shield at all times, but in front of your greatsword, it would be nothing more than ephemeral foam.]
[Unless, another factor is added.]
[Yes, speed.]
[As long as they are fast enough, psykers can have a hundred ways to kill an Astartes, whether it's shattering everything in their power armor with lightning, or ending the suspense of the duel with flames, or erecting thick barriers to put themselves in absolute defense.]
[And similarly, as long as they are fast enough, even a rusty dagger can end an Alpha.]
[In terms of speed, top-tier psykers have an inherent advantage over Astartes. Truly powerful psykers don't need incantations; a single thought is enough to achieve anything they desire.
Whereas a warrior, no matter how quick their reactions, must complete at least two steps from thought to drawing their sword. This tiny time difference of a single thought is fatal.]
[Furthermore, it is said that Astartes warriors' reaction speed is measured in milliseconds... I, for one, have never witnessed it.]
[But speed is not everything. If the distance is close enough, a swift charge can end everything before the game even begins. So, apart from those bio-engineered psykers, true psykers will also care about a second factor besides speed.]
[Distance.]
[This point is beyond doubt. Psykers also possess an advantage, even an absolute advantage. No one says a duel must be resolved within a few meters. A psyker can completely hide at a safe distance, ending everything before the warrior even charges.]
[So, what does a truly powerful psyker, using their full strength, look like?]
[It is a psyker who has opened up enough distance and has ample room to move. Like this, confronting a psyker in an arena hundreds of meters wide is like climbing into an eagle's nest. This isn't a challenge; it's a harvest.]
[If you truly want to witness my full strength, then you should arrange the training location on a different world, my lord. Only then will you know.]
[I can find many ways to thoroughly kill you.]
——————
Kill.
The word lingered on Morgana's lips, turning into a wisp of smoke, slowly dissipating into the silent air.
Jonson slightly raised his head. He acutely captured that syllable, and seemed to rather enjoy it.
"Kill me?"
[Yes, kill you.]
[Like a true battle of life and death.]
[I can directly tear open a chasm and make you fall into it.]
[Or I can let storms and metal converge into a veritable cage, take you high into the sky, and drop you, turning you into a fiery meteor.]
[Or, the simplest method, I can directly tear open a rift to the Warp, and let you be swept into the currents of time and space. When you emerge from the utterly chaotic Warp, perhaps the so-called human race will not even have appeared.]
[In short, for a psyker, death does not simply mean a severed head and flowing blood. That is far too inartistic.]
Saying this, Morgana raised her head.
Then, she noticed Jonson smiling, a smile where his lips were slightly upturned, but no teeth were shown.
Jonson's smile was even more terrifying than his anger.
"You can do all this?"
[Time, means, luck, and some necessary delaying tactics, such as traps and disposable soldiers. These are all indispensable. Psykers are not true gods, after all; occasionally, they still need some worldly touch.]
Jonson's voice seemed to carry a hint of amusement.
"And what else?"
"Besides these, do you have any other ways to [kill] me?"
Morgana tilted her head.
[Temporarily... I haven't thought of any yet.]
"You have time to keep thinking."
He turned around, put away his greatsword, and slowly walked towards the arena gate.
"The war is urgent. There are currently no conditions for the true [training] you speak of, but you have time to keep thinking about them."
"Think of more ways to kill me."
"..."
"That's an order."
Morgana stuck out her tongue and licked her somewhat dry lips.
[As you command, my lord.]
——————
Indeed.
Compared to Magnus and Perturabo.
This dangerous, arrogant, and ineffable lion.
He was the one who made her feel more intimacy and pleasure.
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