Emperor's Bane

Chapter 683 The Rebels (Part )

He has no need to regret.

Astelan muttered to himself, resisting the nagging anxiety that was like a needle prick.

There was no need for him to feel remorse, he was just doing a small thing: in the face of ambitions and causes that encompassed the entire galaxy, loyalty to the Primarch was irrelevant, and he could certainly choose to betray his oath.

No: he had never sworn an oath, he had never pledged allegiance to the Primarch they spoke of.

Yes, he can go his own way.

The Dark Angel took a deep breath, wrapping himself completely in a suit of power armor that was older than the entire Great Crusade: In today's human empire, the Mark II Power Armor was generally considered to be backward and outdated equipment. It originated from the end of the Age of Strife, and although it had made great contributions to the Emperor and the Great Crusade, its admirers had now rushed to the Mark IV, which had higher performance and popularity.

They called this newly developed armor "Ultimate Power Armor" (another great victory of Guilliman's descendants in demonstrating their ambition and influence) and claimed that it symbolized the most glorious period of the entire human empire. Almost everyone agreed with the words of the Mechanicus.

But Astelan is an exception.
He stubbornly retained his own Mark II power armor, and through the connections he had accumulated in the past and the manual skills he had cultivated himself, he modified it over and over again until his power armor was in no way inferior to those new products in performance. When he wore this armor that symbolized powerful performance and ancient honor, and walked across the bridge and deck of the Indomitable Truth, those fighting brothers who were overjoyed to have new equipment stopped, made way, and cast envious glances at Astelan's majestic back.

This is Astelan's philosophy.

He never pursued what everyone desired most, whether it was the respect of the Primarch or the best equipment, they were nothing special in Astelan. With his ability and qualifications, he could get it as long as he wanted it, but he was never willing to give up his inner standards for these external materials.

Just as he wore the Mark II helmet that had been officially equipped before the Great Crusade, in memory of the Dark Angels' former, truly glorious days, Astelan never concealed his dissatisfaction with the current state of the Legion, and expressed his ideas all the time.

If he were an ordinary soldier, he would have been punished for this long ago, but his abilities and achievements were so important that no matter how much the Primarch's followers hated him in secret, when the First Legion set foot on the red sandy land of Ullanor, they still had to place Astelan in the front row of the parade, which was the most conspicuous and important position.

But he was not satisfied. If it were not for the so-called prejudice and favor of the Primarch, he should not have stood in the first row at all. He should have stood at the front of the entire queue, as the undoubted leader and guide of the Dark Angels: Now standing there was Alajos, a figure who could not compare with him in any way.

Yes, everyone would boast about Alajos's superb swordsmanship, but wasn't Astelan also one of the top three swordsmen in the entire First Legion? He won completely in other aspects: if the Emperor hadn't brought out the beast-like lion from the deep forest of Caliban, Astelan would have been the Grand Master of the Dark Angels.

This was supposed to be his legion!

He should have...

He should have stood on that high platform, reviewing the elite of the entire Great Crusade, and been respected as an existence second only to the Emperor: instead of being one of the vast number of living beings and becoming the object of ridicule by these so-called descendants of the Emperor.

This is not fair...why?
Astelan asked himself, the noisy noise made him more irritated. The World Eaters in front of them had already formed a line and set off to the beat of military music, while the Dark Angels who were traveling with him also checked themselves for the last time. In the inherent silence of the First Legion, rustling sounds were heard, and every pendant and medal was repositioned.

Everything was progressing steadily according to the steps Morgan taught them in advance.

Astelan was doing the same, checking his armor absentmindedly: using black as the main color, with silver trimmings and smears for decoration, and finally filling in the blank areas with bright red. This combination was simply the best arrangement in the eyes of the Terran veterans. Their armor was the best, far better than those of the other legions.

Astelan's fingers stroked across the huge shoulder armor, where a silver olive leaf logo surrounded the huge emblem of the First Legion: dark silver thickened with black depicted the main structure of a sword, and the sharp wings on both sides were as clear as rubies, making others love it.

He liked this kind of dress, just as he liked all the costumes prepared by the entire First Legion for this parade, because Astelan also had a share of credit for it: these internal affairs related to glory were jointly formulated by him and Corswain, and then presented to the Spider Queen for inspection as usual. He modified some details and errors according to her comments, and finally asked for a stamp from Jonson and passed it.

The lion didn't even take a closer look.

Astelan was nearby, and he remembered the moment when his teeth were chattering with rage: he was angry at the Primarch's neglect of duty.

Even after so many years, the Caliban people have never concealed their impatience with these [non-military affairs]. When Astelan was honing his originally weak internal affairs and management skills in the ocean of countless documents, from being in a rush at the beginning to being able to remotely control the daily operations of more than a dozen galaxies with just documents, he witnessed with his own eyes how Jonson's abilities had stagnated.

No, it should be said that most of the Primarchs have been marking time since the moment they were born. They have been squandering their talents endlessly. Like wild beasts, they never deliberately study and hone their abilities. If these talents were given to him, he could have conquered half of the entire Great Crusade for the First Legion!

So what if there is no Primarch? Horus is too embarrassed to even think about competing for the Warmaster!
But unfortunately, the reality is not like this.

They even lost their rightful position as the head of the legions.

It is hard for others to imagine how much of a blow this news was to Astelan when the Emperor decided to appoint Horus as Warmaster.

But what made him even more angry was: Zhuang Sen actually gave up?
He gave up: the glory of the First Army?

Give this position to someone else?

"..."

Astelan heard the sound of his own deep breathing.

The Terra veteran turned his head and fell into deep thought once again: the noise in the distance and the rustling around him all disappeared at this moment. He was immersed in his own heart, stroking the military emblem that symbolized all honors, and he didn't know how many times he asked himself this question.

Does he really want to continue like this?

Clearly, if he had only opened his mouth, clearly, if he had only thought a little, he could have found so many faults and so many disappointments in the so-called Primarch. He had waited for so many years with cautious desire, but Jonson had never changed, never even tried, as he led his legion into the abyss of decline, indulging in his own bestial desire to kill.

You were once the first army, but look at how you have declined now!
Look at how your so called masters have failed us all.

Jonson is not worthy to lead them.

Astelan made sure of that.

But he... just happened to lead them.

If Jonson had been a warrior under his command, he could have kicked him out with one foot. If he had been his battle-brother or colleague, he could have never seen this man again: but he was his superior, his primarch and commander, the master of his beloved Legion, and Astelan could only stand here and allow all his past glory and treasure to be squandered.

How many more years will he continue to hide in silence like this?
Obey this mediocre person? Slip from the position of Grand Master that originally belonged to him to the first rank of the so-called legion? And then watch helplessly as the newcomers that Zhuang Shen loved stepped on his shoulders to continue to move up? Look at the people in the same rank with him. Apart from him, who else is a veteran of Terran descent?
Zhuang Sen’s thoughts were self-evident: Could he just accept it passively?
Or……

Astelan bowed his head, and as the winds over Ullanor began to wail again, he remembered what Luther had told him.

Just last night, when Luther's Caliban fleet had just arrived, as a guard who went to greet it with Jonson, he had a brief private conversation with the old knight who was the de facto king of Caliban and now had the power to himself.

During the conversation, Luther had implicitly revealed a desire to him: he said that the so-called Caliban Alliance was expanding, and he himself was caught between the functions of command and management, and was becoming increasingly overwhelmed. He longed to have more help and to get elites like Astelan to assist him.

Of course, this might just be a joke or a compliment: but Aslan had to admit that he was moved. He knew Luther. Through countless long-distance correspondence and cooperation, he knew that the old knight was not a mediocre person like Jonson. He would give him enough respect and autonomy. With these two points, Aslan would have new possibilities. As long as he could have a world and fleet of his own, he could completely break away from Jonson's control and start a new great expedition.

Maybe, maybe he is the one who needs to save the glory of the First Legion.

He could certainly do it: as long as he was free from Jonson's control, as long as he could abandon his so-called loyalty to the Primarch, so that he could act entirely on his own ideas, so that he could restore the ancient ways of the First Legion, not the things that Jonson wanted.

If only he could embrace his ambition...

It's that simple.

That's right, he didn't need to feel any guilt or regret, because every one of his battle brothers would do the same: no matter who was in his position, they would have their own ambitions without hesitation.

Even if it meant betraying the Primarch to whom the Emperor had commanded their unstinting loyalty.

However, on the other hand, if it were not for the Emperor's endorsement, what qualifications would these Primarchs have, born to ride on their heads? They are warriors, they are legions, they are conquering machines born for victory and glory, not juggling toys that are used by the father to be distributed to each of his sons as prizes or toys.

Just think about how difficult it is to become an Astartes warrior. They grow up in slums where if they don't kill someone at the age of five, they are not qualified to survive. Often only one person out of a thousand can survive to adulthood, and among the hundreds of such lucky ones who participate in the election of Astartes warriors, only one or two can be selected or even survive.

This was only the introductory stage, coupled with the life-threatening transformation surgeries, the extremely high elimination rate of the training process, and the first few battles with astonishing casualties: their Dark Angels were not like other legions, their warriors were elites selected from the best, not a mob into which any trash or mutants could blend.

And it was among these 200,000 elite warriors that Astelan stood at the top position with his ability and tenacity, and was only one step away from the power of the Grand Master: as long as he was given some more time, he could lead the First Legion to true glory, but the lion who had not undergone any tests or even received any education fell from the sky.

He took everything from him.

No: everything about them!
Things shouldn't be like this.

Astelan closed his eyes until the military music of the Dark Angels began to play in his ears. Then the Terran veteran opened his eyes again. Now, his gaze was firm and he had decided what he was going to do.

After this meaningless and boring parade is over.

He wanted to find some time to talk to Luther about Caliban.

The Terra veteran clenched his fists, and the wild smile that symbolized confidence and ambition once again appeared on his face: How many years has it been? How many years has it been since he last smiled like this? The road to the future is already clear, and he already knows how to take the first step.

Given the strained relationship between them and the selfishness of the Calibans, it would not be difficult to convince Jonson to release him from the front lines of the Great Crusade and let him go back to assist Luther. After being away from the violence of the Primarch, he would naturally gain the freedom he had always desired.

Astelan laughed, and his hearty laughter melted into the fanatical hurricane and vocals of Ullanor, and no one could hear it.

The dark angel's gaze is as sharp as a torch.

He would leave Jonson: if the Calibanite had resolved to fulfill his so-called duty and destiny, to burn his bones and blood in the shadow of the Great Crusade, where no one could see him, then so be it, he cared not about Jonson's fate.

He only cared about one thing: the glory and future of the Dark Angels.

They are the First Legion, they are the force that the Emperor values ​​most, they are the weapons forged by the Lord of Mankind himself, they are not slaves or private property of Jonson, and the Lion of Caliban has no right to squander the glory that originally belonged to all the Dark Angels for his own delusion.

Why did he do that? Just because of the statue at the entrance of the palace?

He didn't accomplish that by himself!
He had fought in the Randan War, he had fought in the forgotten war, he had seen as much bloodshed on the front lines as Jonson himself: the Primarch had no right to blame him, and he knew Jonson's role in those wars.

Very important: but not important. He can decide the fate of the First Legion.

Without the bloody battles and the organization of these Terran veterans, how could the Calibans under Jonson have the qualifications to break through to the core of the Randan Empire? Without the heroic sacrifice of their best 500 battle brothers, how could he have the qualifications to embrace the statue at the gate of the palace? Without the help of the Spider Queen, one of the few respected Primarchs, how could he have persisted until the end of the war?
Is he a hero?

Everyone is a hero: This is not a reason for Zhuang Sen to be so arrogant.

The Lion of Caliban could certainly drown in the galactic blood pool he longed for, but he was not worthy of having the First Legion buried with him. Only those Calibans who were as crazy as him would die with him. Astelan would leave, he would go in search of new fertile land, return to the path that truly belonged to the First Legion, and rebuild everything that belonged to the Dark Angels from scratch.

Establish their own great expedition.

Yes, that's it.

In this unremarkable moment, an Astartes made up his mind: the place of the Primarch in his heart disappeared, replaced by a fire that he himself could not even explain.

Even Astelan himself could not explain what was burning in the fire, but he no longer wanted to look back. In the few minutes left, he had begun to carefully think about the details of this grand blueprint: for example, how many allies he could win over.

The good news: Not a few.

In Astelan's memory, there were many Terra veterans who shared the same ideas as him or were even more radical than him. He might be able to gather a team of several hundred people, which would be enough to serve as the backbone of an expeditionary fleet: he would lead a group of people back first, and the others would gradually return through various means.

As long as he had a hundred men under his command, his plan could begin to work.

Luther could not control him, and the knight was a wise man, unlike Jonson, who would respect Astelan's inherent freedom and rights, and in return Astelan would not mind taking on the most important of the countless burdens that weighed on Luther's shoulders.

Let him think about it, what was the name that made Luther complain so much?

Ah... That's right

Archon of the Cadia Universe.

He will love his new position.

------

Thirty-eight degrees eight...

Sad...want to cry...

(End of this chapter)