40k: Midnight Blade.

Chapter 673 55. Interlude: Overcoming Yourself (Two in One)

He is going to die.

He knew in his heart that he was going to die. But how many days had it been? How long had it been like this? Weeks, months, years?
He wasn't sure of the answer, but he felt that he probably had very few moments of complete clarity recently, and that was not right - deep down in his heart, he vaguely knew it.

This is not right. He said this to himself over and over again, constantly denying it, repeating this simple conclusion, solidifying his mind into a castle. He stayed at the top of the castle without any emotion or consciousness, his eyes like two polished green agates, staring at the endless void below.

But this was just his imagination. In reality, he was walking hard in the snow.

The snow was deep and solid, and he had to pull his legs out completely every time he took a step, otherwise he would not be able to move at all. There was nothing white in all directions, and he could not find any scenery to identify the direction. What was worse was that it was snowing.

Oh, this is not a good thing, this is the worst thing. Because snow does not just come by itself, it also comes with the wind. Snow and wind, a good pair of murderous partners.

Even hungry wild animals would not move in such weather; they would freeze to death before finding prey.

Really smart, isn't it? Animals are always smart when it comes to survival. They know where to go and where not to go, how to eat and stay alert at the same time, and how to move quietly.
He knew these things once, didn't he?
He asked himself - I knew these things once, didn't I? I knew how to tell time by the position of the sun, I knew how to forage, how to prepare a carcass, how to skin a fur.
I know how to kill.

Like this snowstorm, I know how to kill well and quickly. Killing people is one thing, killing other things is another, but I know both.

Do I still know these things now?

He stopped, and his thoughts stopped with him, and he inevitably felt tired.

It was always like this, as long as he thought too much, his energy would be quickly consumed. He almost couldn't stand, if it weren't for the stick in his hand, he would have fallen face first into the snow.

He barely stood up and wiped his face. The ice on his beard broke into dots on his tattered wool gloves. He exerted a little force, clenched his fingers, and began to wait patiently. After a few minutes, he used his remaining body temperature to melt the broken ice into snow water, and then immediately raised his head to drink it.

This was certainly not a good choice, but he had no choice.

I used to have lots of choices, didn't I?
Once again, he asked himself absentmindedly - but where did this question come from? Who the hell was asking the question?

Sometimes, he would feel confused because he didn't think that these completely 'stupid' words would not come out of his mind, but they did come out, and he even had to answer them.
It was an extremely strange feeling, as if there was another person in his body, borrowing his thoughts and throwing stupid questions one after another.

Yes. Finally, he couldn't help but answer in his heart. I used to have many choices, and I always have many choices.

The person in his body asked again: So, what is the choice?

I don't know, he thought.

In the snow, a pair of green agates blinked, finally becoming a little angry. He pursed his lips and simply set off again. This time, he walked for a long time before the next question came.

Do you remember Kolo Dakor's group of aliens?
what?
He was a little confused, and had no idea what this difficult word was describing. However, the word that followed it, the short and powerful word that aroused his real anger.
Ah, aliens. It dawned on him.

Yes, of course I remember. A bunch of white-skinned bastards who looked like albino lizards. The technological level was very high, but the social atmosphere was very barbaric and extremely martial.

A family usually has two children. These young ones have to undergo cruel training from birth and are not recognized as members of society until they complete their adulthood ceremony - winning the fight with their brothers and sisters. Only those who survive can truly become the children of their parents.
In addition, their social systems are relatively fragmented and hostile to each other, and fourteen different political systems, large and small, are always in endless war. This provides us with a lot of help.

Have you killed them all? the voice asked again.

of course.

Don't you think genocide is too cruel?
He was stunned for a moment, then frowned in unbearable pain.

What are you talking about? He shouted at the voice. These aliens betrayed humanity in the Old Night, and enslaved our people for eleven centuries in the next dozen centuries. They deserved to die, do you understand?
What do you think caused the eleven centuries of slavery to end? Their sudden burst of kindness? No, I have read their own written history, which clearly records their atrocities against humans. They even recorded these things just for fun, so that they can use the same violence against us when they meet humans again in the future!

So, you killed them all?

No, it's more than that, he said, and suddenly became a little proud - or pleased.

What else did you do? the voice asked softly.

destroy.

He said the word, and then heard a sigh. The wind and snow suddenly subsided, and a blond man in a fur cloak broke through the snow and stood in front of him wearily.

"You're much stronger than I am," the man said. "I was held up there."

He frowned, staring at the man, and said nothing. It wasn't that he didn't want to communicate with him, he just didn't know what to say - those words about aliens, betrayal and killing made him very confused.

Is that really what happened to me? he wondered to himself.

The man ignored him and sighed again, saying, "We had a hard time fighting that battle. Most of our army was trapped. We had just gained a foothold when Kolo Dakor's aliens attacked us from every angle in the galaxy."

"We were held up and delayed in getting supplies. The system was blocked and logistics were difficult to access. Three years after the war began, I had to take the remaining warships into the asteroid belt to hide, and then rob their combat satellites for supplies. Therefore, failure was only a matter of time."

The more he listened, the more he couldn't help himself, and finally he spoke, officially entering into the conversation and playing another role.

"Didn't you send out destroyers to conduct reconnaissance before launching the attack?"

The man shook his head, looking very depressed.

"Of course I did. But most of them were hidden very deep. The spies I sent out only brought back information about two political systems in total. It was still the early days of the Great Crusade, and I had just returned to the legion. I had to lead them to achieve some merits to stabilize the morale of the army, so I immediately launched the attack."

"Stupid!" Hearing this, he could not help but curse. "The entire galaxy is so huge, how can we rashly attack without a complete exploration? The most taboo in a void naval battle is the wrong intelligence, a single mistake can affect the entire body, and a single mistake can put the entire battle in an irreparable situation!"

The man looked up at him, clenched his fists again and again, and finally unclenched them. A bitter smile that seemed rather unfamiliar on this face slowly spread across his face.

"You're right." He actually nodded in agreement. "That's why I died, and you're still standing here."

The man moved aside to make way for him.

"Go ahead," the man said softly. "You are much stronger than me, but that may not be the case in the future."

What? What does that mean? He was confused again, but his intuition controlled his body to move forward before his mind could react.

He walked past the dejected man, and the fatigue he had been feeling was relieved. The wind and snow slowly stopped, and he looked into the distance, and suddenly saw a scorched earth. This made him frown, and he stopped temporarily, intending to observe it carefully.

The man's voice came from behind him. It was only a few steps away, but now it sounded very far away.

"Do you remember your name?" the man asked.

He looked back and found that the snow had started to fall again. The blond man had fallen to the ground for some reason, and the blood gushing out of his body dyed the surrounding ground red.

He was startled and immediately turned back to offer help, but the man raised his hand to stop him.

"Don't look back." The man whispered. As he spoke, blood gushed out of his mouth, nose and ears.

"Do you still remember your name?"

He shook his head.

"Lion El'Jonson." The man told him calmly. "Please remember this."

The wind was howling and the snow was whistling. The white snowflakes densely occupied every inch of space in front of his eyes. They fell from the sky like bullets, covering the man and burying him completely, without any sound.

Leon El'Jonson
He turned back thoughtfully, chanting the name, and walked towards the scorched earth step by step.

This journey was not easy either, as the ground was full of shell holes. He had to climb up and down every time he walked a good distance, which was undoubtedly a great challenge for his current physical condition. Fortunately, the wooden stick was still in his hand, and it faithfully provided help.

When its tail was firmly wrapped in mud, he finally entered the scorched earth. A strong smell of blood immediately rushed into his nose, passively lifting his spirits. He subconsciously clenched the stick in his hand, and his muscles unconsciously tensed up.
Something slowly emerged from the water, a wild instinct that made him turn his head and look at a mound on the right.

There was an empty and deserted position there, with damaged personnel carriers and tanks with their bellies exposed miserably, mechanical components hissing, and the ground was covered with blood, craters and traces of bombing.

The strange thing was that he didn't see any dead bodies.

After hesitating for a moment, he walked towards that direction. The closer he got to the battlefield, the stronger the smell of blood became. His temple began to throb, and his gait gradually became lighter and lighter, without making any sound.

He suddenly entered a state of incomparable concentration, his eyes scanning the surroundings vigilantly. At the same time, a question inevitably arose: How many people have died here?

In order to get the answer, he began to move around. From the trenches to the safe holes, from the foxholes to the command room with a big hole in it.
He walked all over the battlefield and still saw no one, not even a weapon. This didn't make sense, and it defied logic—unless someone had cleaned up the battlefield long before he got here, taking away all the dead and their weapons.

With doubts, he walked to a half-broken stone, sat down gently, and looked up at the sky.

Compared to the blazing white color of the snowy plains, the sky here was a sticky blood color. The smoke and dust that had not yet dispersed filled the sky, wantonly invading every corner. Whatever color it was originally, it was no longer visible now.

This incident inexplicably made him a little unhappy, and he couldn't help but sigh. In the next few minutes, he didn't go anywhere, but picked up a stone and hit the end of the stick, knocking off the half-solidified soil one by one.

They clump together and break into pieces, the turbid black and bloody color brings an increasingly pungent smell of blood. He frowned, and suddenly lost the desire to continue working. He raised the stick in his hand and knocked the stone a few times with it, finishing the work hastily.
The small knocking sound echoed and spread in the deserted position, gradually turning into a hollow echo. He stood up and looked into the distance, and found that there was fog on the position.

The temperature began to drop, and although it still couldn't penetrate his thick cotton coat, it brought a chill different from the wind and snow. He frowned again, and suddenly took a step, walking into the depths of the mist without fear.

In just a few hundred meters, he left the position behind, and what came into his sight was a mass grave.

A hunched figure is working here.

He was wearing a tattered suit of armor, the dull red color flattening every detail. He was not wearing a helmet, and his hair, also dyed dark red, was draped messily behind his head. He held a long sword covered in mud upside down in his hand, swinging it like a hoe.
As if he had noticed his arrival, the man paused and lowered his raised hands. He turned around, his face hidden behind wounds, blood, and mud, and his eyes were as dim as dusk.

"He said you would come," the man said hoarsely. "But I didn't expect you to come so soon."

What does it mean? He wanted to ask this question, but he remained silent and did not give any response. The man did not seem to care, so he turned around and continued his work.

Soon, a deep pit was dug out. He stood up, threw the sword aside, walked into the mist, and carried out a corpse.

He was a black-armored warrior who was shorter than him. He was missing a hand, and half of his body had been cut open by something, with his internal organs exposed and bloody.

"What are you doing?" he finally asked.

The man jumped into the pit without looking back and answered in a very calm and deep voice: "Being a failed commander is the last thing a commander can do for his soldiers."

Soldier?

He involuntarily took a few steps closer and looked at the body, feeling a tingling familiarity. For no reason, he thought: These people are not soldiers or more than just soldiers.

The man ignored him, just bent down, put down the body, and began to prepare his remains.

The helmet was taken off and placed on his chest, with his only remaining left hand resting on its side. The belt around his waist was buckled again, and an assault shield that had been waiting at the bottom of the pit was placed on his body from the right side, covering the hideous wound and making him look as if he was just falling asleep, not dying. After doing all this, the man climbed out of the deep pit. He was panting exhausted, as if he had just experienced an unparalleled battle. He couldn't even stand up, so he could only half-kneel on the ground, barely grabbing the sword, and using it to support himself to stand up.

Then, he began to swing his sword—or rather, his hoe, it made no difference. The dirt flew everywhere, and handful after handful of blood-stained dirt flew and landed on the warrior's body, making a slight friction sound.

After a few minutes, the hole was filled. The man dropped his sword again, walked into the mist, and took out a spotless power sword with both hands. He knelt on the grave, touched it with his forehead, and then raised his hands and poured the weapon, sword and scabbard, into the soil.

"Have you seen enough?" the man suddenly asked.

"I" He hesitated, not knowing how to answer. After all, the tone of the question was not good anyway. He didn't want to have a conflict with this person rashly.

"If you haven't seen enough—" The man stood up little by little. His tone was still calm, without any hostility, as if this was really just an invitation. "—You can continue to watch, I still have many people to bury."

"Who are they?" Finally, he couldn't help asking.

"My soldiers," the man said. "They died because of me."

What did you do? He wanted to ask. However, considering the clenched and unclenched fists of the last man when he faced the same situation, he didn't ask this question after all. But the man seemed to see what he wanted to ask, and he took the initiative to speak.

"I was sent on a mission to target my brother and his legion. My orders were to kill them all and wipe out every trace of their existence."

"My brother knew I was coming. Before the war began, he found me and begged me to spare his offspring with his life. He thought that was enough, after all—"

The man paused and said nothing more. Time suddenly slowed down, and the stabbing pain came again, making the listener almost dizzy.

He clenched his fists tightly to remind himself where he was, but once the disaster box containing certain things was opened, it could never be closed again by human power.

The flash of tragic pain filled his mind, rendering him speechless. He fell to the ground with red eyes, almost fainting. At the critical moment, it was the name told to him by the man he met on the snowy field that helped him.

Lion El'Jonson.

The name brought back many memories. Many more.

"-He committed suicide? In front of you?" He raised his head and asked the man.

"Yes," the man said. "He thought our father wanted only his death. After all, he was the only one who crossed the forbidden line, and his sons were innocent. He begged me to take them back and let them continue to fight for the Empire and the humans."

"Do you agree?"

"I"

"Do you agree?!" he asked almost roaring.

"No." The man took a breath, and his voice finally changed. "But I didn't stop him, and his sons couldn't accept his death, thinking that I must have played a role in it. They didn't even bother to listen to the last words recorded by their gene father, and the entire legion went crazy."

"They accuse you of killing their genetic father?"

"Yes."

He stood up little by little, his expression had turned cold, and he himself did not even notice the change: "When they accuse you of something that didn't exist, you'd better have really done it."

The man stared at him and said, "But I didn't do it. I didn't kill my brother."

"Then you should kill him."

The man's face twitched visibly. He seemed to be enraged. His face twisted in an instant, and his expression became extremely terrifying: "I am not an executioner."

"The debate of yes and no is meaningless in this conversation. Whether you want it or not, the order has been sent to you. You have only one choice other than to execute it, which is to disobey. But you accepted the order, and still hoped that the matter could be resolved in another way. So, as I said, you should kill him with your own hands."

The man slowly tightened his grip on the sword, and the bloody mud was crushed, falling like dust through the gaps in his gauntlet. He was gritting his teeth, and the listeners could see it clearly.

After a long time, the man took a deep breath, tried hard to control himself, and spoke little by little.

"Then what should I do? When he comes to me alone on a boat, should I blow him and his boat into slag in the universe? He is my brother——"

"--It's not important." The listener interrupted coldly. "He crossed the line, he was studying something he shouldn't touch at all. The Emperor had said before, and repeatedly warned him not to try to touch those taboos, but he didn't listen."

"The Emperor has been lenient with him and has not issued any orders until he is sure that he has crossed the line. Do you understand what this means?"

"Traitors must die. There is no need to reason or talk about emotions. So what if he is your brother? Even if he is really like a brother to you and grew up with you, he has already lost the right to live."

"In the final analysis, this has nothing to do with the so-called family conflict you understand. The Emperor ordered him to be killed, not because he disobeyed him, but because he was a Primarch. Being a Primarch means that he must be responsible for countless humans, but he crossed the line. If he makes a big mistake one day, have you ever thought about how many people will die because of his mistake?"

The man stared at the listener in a daze, his long sword in his hand subconsciously tightening. He was dizzy and swollen by the series of words that were like artillery bombardment, and he couldn't say a word. He still wanted to refute, but deep in his heart, he knew that the listener was right.

If the listener was not correct, this mass grave would not have happened.

".You win." The man said with difficulty. "But I have one last question."

"Ask," the listener said calmly, as if giving an order.

"Did you kill him yourself?"

"Yes," said Lion El'Jonson. "I killed him myself."

The man lowered his head and stopped talking. A thin mist rolled in, covering him and the mass grave. A heart-wrenching cry was faintly heard from the mist. The lion watched this scene expressionlessly, without any thoughts in his mind.

He has remembered many things.

He turned and continued walking, faster than ever before. All the crazy words Serafax had said as he knelt before him came flooding back to him, one in particular sticking out to him - prove it to them.

they
these people?
The lion snorted coldly and stabbed the stick into the sand, then stood firm on a hot sand dune. He was not surprised by the new scene before him, and even felt a little annoyed.

If those who shared the name of Lion El'Jonson with him were all fools like the first two, he would not bother to argue any more. It would be better to find a place to rest for a few days, recover his body, and prepare for the battle.
He didn't have time to waste here any longer. What Serafax had done had already surpassed his understanding of the word "crazy". The Lion could never have imagined that a senior Chaos Wizard would have such a crazy dream as changing the timeline.

That eternal day is beyond human power's hope to break. The empire has made such a huge effort, but it can only barely maintain the scope of this day. Why does Serafax think he can play a key role in it?
The more the lion thought about it, the angrier he became. He wished he had the power to do whatever he wanted so that he could go back in time and strangle the red-haired idiot to death with his own hands.

He walked forward with a gloomy face, put the stick on his waist, and began to take off his cotton jacket. Although the cold and heat should not be an obstacle for him, his physical condition is different now. He must save every bit of physical strength to deal with what may happen next.
Anything. Well, including this, of course.

The lion stopped.

"You came very quickly." One person said to him. "It seems that you are much stronger than those two weak-willed people."

The lion raised its head and looked at him coldly. The desert sun was dazzling and huge. The man stood on a sand dune with his back to the sun, looking down at him. He was wearing a white robe and his golden hair was tied into a warrior braid behind his head.

The man stepped forward, bent his knees, and slid down the hill, with an unimaginable arrogance in his voice: "But I am different from them."

"What's the difference? You're here too."

The man smiled and said, "They all died along the way, but I was different. I completed everything. My Legion has the most honors and the most conquests in the Great Crusade. Even Horus Lupercal agreed that I should be the Warmaster."

The lion looked at him coldly and remained silent - he did not like such excessive arrogance and overbearingness, although there was a time in the past when he was immersed in arrogance and could not extricate himself, but that was only a temporary thing, and he never thought that he would become so annoying.

"Of course, I didn't become the Warmaster in the end." The man said, slowly stopping his smile. "My father didn't agree that I should take on this position that was tailor-made for me. He actually gave it to Ferrus Manus. So I challenged him to a duel."

The lion finally frowned.

"what have you done?"

"Don't you understand? I challenge him to a duel."

The lion shouted, "If the Emperor has given the order, you should obey it!"

"Why?" the man immediately asked back.

"During the Great Crusade, I fought from beginning to end without a single day's rest. While Robouti Guilliman was busy building universities and libraries in the colonies, I was expanding the territories in the farthest reaches of the galaxy. While Lorgar Aurelion was preaching to the ignorant people, I was fighting the Orks. Ferrus Manus returned much earlier than me, but are his achievements half as great as mine? I supported every legion of the Primarch, and I never asked anyone for help from beginning to end. I contributed the most and achieved the most, so why am I not the Warmaster?"

The lion looked at him steadily, and his mind, like a scalpel, precisely dissected the arguments and dissatisfaction in those words, bursting a boil.

"You do all this just because you want to be Warmaster?"

The man slowly smiled and changed the subject: "Serafax once told me that your way of thinking is very different from mine. It seems to be true, but you are too old. I really don't know how you can defeat me."

The lion shook his head.

"What? Are you going to give in?"

"I don't fight idiots." The lion said calmly, imitating the arrogance. "Now, get out of here."

After saying this, a terrifying smile forced itself onto the face that was familiar and unpleasant to the lion.

"I'm afraid I'll have to kill you, old man."
-
Zabril struggled to get up.

How long had he been trapped? By the Emperor, this was unimaginable. He remembered how his power armour had been completely destroyed, but why had he lost the strength to stand up? To be so weak was unimaginable for an Astartes.

He raised his hand and touched his face. The strange curve made his eyes twitch.

Serafax, you deserve to be chopped to pieces by a giant beast.
With rage, he crawled on his hands and knees to the throne where the lion slept.

He thought that Serafax was right in all kinds of ways, but he was loyal.

Once declared a traitor, and on the run for so many years. Zabril never thought he would one day describe himself in this way, but that was the fact.

As Lion El'Jonson said -

He raised his head and looked at the sleeping Primarch.

——"Loyalty is its own reward."

Gritting his teeth, the Dark Angel climbed up little by little. He still had an emblem in his hand. At this moment, he had no other way to break the deadlock, so he had to try his best.

(End of this chapter)