(This chapter involves a lot of bickering between "cats and dogs", so to differentiate, Jonson's words will be enclosed in brackets [], and Russ's will be in quotation marks "")
[I suppose this is a true gladiatorial combat?]
"Think what you want. Right now, I just want my fist to have a good kiss with your arrogant skull."
Fulgrim was weeping. This world, once arrogant enough to defy the Imperium, was now facing its fate: the smoke of war had dissipated, and the cold of death surged in.
Orange-yellow meteors, symbolizing slaughter and cleansing, fell one after another, delivering wave after wave of Astartes warriors to the ground. Although the leaders of the two Legions had no energy to command their subordinates at this moment, the thousands of Dark Angels and Space Wolves gathered in the wilderness and ruins were enough to crush Fulgrim's last resistance to ashes.
The Tyrant's death spread across the entire world in an instant through an indescribable psychic link. This old man, who died by Jonson's hand, had ruled this world for thousands of years. In the hearts of the Fulgrimites, he was no longer merely a ruler, but a symbol, an emblem, a belief that sustained them in their desperate struggle against an invincible foe.
And now, that belief had vanished, and collapse followed.
Although large numbers of Fulgrimites chose to hold their ground, fighting to the last moment with the anger and determination in their hearts, organized resistance had ceased the moment the Tyrant's head fell. The remaining millions of almost unorganized martyrs were merely a small annoyance that caused the Astartes warriors a slight weariness.
Slaughter and wildfire swept across Fulgrim's plains, burning countless once prosperous and bustling places into scorched desolation. Thousands of craters dotted these man-eating flames the most direct proof of this cleansing:
the second wave of Dark Angels' landing forces was striking the stubbornly resisting Western Fortress, slaughtering the last Fulgrimite soldiers room by room, while in the north of the world, the Space Wolves' canines tore through the order of the industrial districts, extending blood and wails all the way to the Scarlet Fortress.
And above the slaughterers, hot clouds were re-gathering. The billowing smoke from the ground stimulated these already volatile aerial furnaces. Silver serpent-like bright lightning and dull rumblings heralded an impending great flood from the sky, but no one paid attention.
Neither outside the fortress.
Nor inside the fortress.
After all, the storms here were far more intense than the gentle breezes outside.
——————
Fury slowly ignited within Lion El'Jonson, as if it could spread like wildfire in an instant. It was a rage born of lost dignity, a natural anger at being frustrated in front of his kin and knights.
Opposite him, Russ was also radiating his own fury. Unlike the restrained anger of the Lion of Caliban, Russ's flames of rage seemed to want to burn the world to ashes, continuously surging from the Primarch's body, like an awakened red dragon breathing heavily.
The two Primarchs faced each other, circling cautiously. Around them were the strongest warriors of the two Legions, while the two Legion Masters tightly gripped their swords, seizing any opportunity in their gazes and breaths.
[I ask one last time, my reckless brother, is this a gladiatorial combat?]
"Gods, can't you just shut the hell up? Think whatever you want, I just want to punch your arrogant face!"
Good. A gladiatorial combat. Not life-threatening, but involving swords and honor: understanding these barbarians with Caliban's methods was truly exhausting. His verbal expression was no better than his dogs'.
Jonson thought so in his heart, while on the other side, Leman Russ was clearly tired of waiting. He didn't care whether this was a gladiatorial combat or a brawl; he didn't care about such things. Jonson's thoughts were merely wasted efforts.
Swords and honor? Was that as important as punching this bastard's face?
The Wolf King of Fenris stepped back slightly, then swung his keen blade, transforming into a pure, deadly, cold wind, charging at his brother. The Lion of Caliban was already poised for battle, and the two man-eating weapons clashed in the air.
For a time, sparks flew, sword shadows danced, and the clang of metal was incessant. Both Primarchs were so powerful, angry, and focused that in this intense probing, they were evenly matched.
Not far away, Morgana watched it all in a daze. A warlike gene, deeply ingrained in her, was stirred by this most aesthetically pleasing duel. She watched the gladiatorial combat with almost complete concentration: this was arguably the most supreme,
precise, and perfect confrontation between giants in the entire galaxy. Every clash between the two Primarchs spoke of the theoretical limits that physics and biology could achieve.
She quietly witnessed, remembering, these scenes, more suitable for quiet contemplation than a thousand peerless books.
But unfortunately, the reality of the situation seemed ill-suited for her leisurely viewing.
As soon as Leman Russ swung his first sword, roars erupted among the wolf pack. The sons of Fenris brandished their weapons, cheering for their liege with either foul-smelling or boisterous beastly howls. Waves of roars from the glaciers transformed into the coldest air currents, overwhelming and sweeping in, making the tottering hall tremble amidst the chaotic roars, repeatedly striking the armor of the Dark Angels.
At first, Jonson's knights managed to remain unfazed, but as this unprecedented great duel continued minute by minute, perhaps the warriors' souls were moved by this insurmountable spectacle, or perhaps they simply felt they could not let their Primarch [fight alone] any longer.
When Alajos let out his first shout from his throat, the entire battle line of the Dark Angels began to shout and cheer in unison. Unlike the chaotic, every-man-for-himself roars of the wolf pack, Jonson's knights tacitly waited for Alajos's repeated initiations, then supported their Primarch with united shouts, shattering the chaotic howls of the Space Wolves.
This naturally provoked the displeasure of the wolf pack. Thus, Russ's cubs became even more hoarse, raising their voices again and again, and the knights did not show weakness. In this way, over a hundred Astartes surrounded their brawling Primarch, competing in waves of shouts and roars, vowing to overpower the other side in this bladeless battlefield.
Within the combat circle, the two Legion Masters fought with utter concentration, unreservedly venting their deep-seated grievances against each other. Outside the circle, their sons competed like elementary school students singing: if your voice is high, mine must be even higher. The important thing was the momentum.
The entire hall was suddenly enveloped in an immense din, with the hiss of clashing blades and waves of Astartes shouts, each louder than the last, echoing through countless corridors. And in this vibrant, burgeoning clamor, only one person longed for silence.
After the sound of the Dark Angels grew to a deafening roar, Morgana, who had been quietly watching, finally turned her head. Her light brows were now furrowed into a small knot: a rare sight.
She looked at the once utterly serious Dark Angels and found them completely engrossed in this volume-contest with the Space Wolves. Even Alajos, formerly the most serious, was now completely absorbed.
Damn it, when did they become like this...
On the other side, the situation with the Space Wolves was even more lively. Many of Russ's cubs even pulled out strange bone ornaments from some forgotten corner. Coupled with the clashing hiss of their longswords and axes, these Fenrisians, with a rough and grating tone, began to sing their wild songs, surprisingly matching the Dark Angels evenly for a time.
Morgana slowly raised a hand and covered her face.
Was she going to work with these guys in the future?
Psychic energy continuously gathered at her fingertips as she seriously considered whether to give these 'new' nephews some [love taps].
Just then, the two Primarchs finally separated for a moment. They were panting, and their armor already showed slight cracks.
Russ laughed loudly, a truly caustic laugh.
"Well, my most esteemed Knight Lord? Are you tired? I always heard you were a veteran of countless battles, conquering countless worlds. Now you know the difference between your war games and real combat, don't you?"
Jonson breathed heavily through his nose. He merely gave a cold sneer.
[War is never a game, Russ.]
"You're saying something truly unappetizing."
[It's merely the truth. If you can't see it, then I can only say, no wonder you're still such a mess.]
[Think about it, Russ. At the beginning of this war, you were there agonizing over your petty concerns, as if we were desperately trying to snatch away your so-called honor: I would never snatch a child's toy.]
[In fact, if your appalling performance hadn't disappointed Terra, neither I nor my Legion would have come here to clean up your mess.]
"You could have stayed away. My Legion and I would have cleaned everything up eventually."
[I don't want to hear about your victory on Fulgrim at my funeral, when I finally pass away. Honestly, Russ, what can those cubs under you accomplish? One hand holds your longsword, and the other is always ready to swat their foolish noses. You might as well really raise a pack of puppies; at least dogs learn from being hit.]
"Oh, yeah, yeah, it seems you've really accumulated a lot of experience with your little cubs. I really wish my cubs were as excellent as yours, Jonson."
The Wolf King's tone had become distinctly sarcastic, and the Lion King's answer was an even more obvious and angry retort.
[Indeed, well said. Think about it, is it hard to imagine? Of course it's hard to imagine, because no one can imagine the completely impossible.]
Leman Russ scoffed. He didn't dwell on the topic but looked at his brother with a dangerously keen gaze.
"Stop with your nonsense, Jonson. You talk as if you love your Legion so much. Look closely, my brother. You lead your Legion, rushing around for any random command from Terra. A single letter from Macado can send you circling the galaxy in confusion. Honestly, my brother, that bastard Magnus always called me a dog, but today I feel that in this regard, I seem slightly inferior to you."
"Do you think your hard work will bring any reward, brother? Wake up. No matter how hard you try, one day, when Father chooses who stands by his side, it might be Horus, or Sanguinius, or Dorn, or even me. And you... hah."
"Don't try to play to the crowd, Jonson; it's a waste of effort. You don't understand Father's temperament, and you don't have many friends, my poor brother. Even a broad-minded person like me finds you displeasing. What do you expect?"
[You're talking absolute nonsense, Russ.]
Jonson was not angry. A sarcastic smile merely played on his lips.
[Not everyone is like you, with no friends in the Imperial Palace. You understand neither me nor our Father.]
[As for friends? Few among us are as good at making friends as I am. My popularity is better than most.]
Leman Russ's expression was like having eaten a pound of flies.
And where no one could see, Morgana lowered her head, covering her face.
[I can even guarantee you, someone among our brothers would be willing to stand on my side. So what about you, Fenrisian? Who can you find? To discuss the biological classification of Fenris with Magnus?]
Leman Russ bared his teeth, his chainsword whirring.
"I pity the brother who acknowledges you, Jonson, but he's not here, is he? Here, there's only you, and me."
"And my fists, and my Kraken's Maw."
[When did you name your two dog paws? Quite fitting, actually.]
The Wolf King did not reply. He surged forward, his blade aimed directly at Jonson's leg. The Lion King's swing came almost simultaneously. Russ's roaring chainsword parried upwards, and the two were locked in a stalemate, a continuous struggle and grind.
Until the Lion King seized a fleeting opening, prying Russ's longsword from his hand. Before the Wolf King could grasp it again, the Primarch of the First Legion kicked it away. The longsword bounced and scraped its way across the hall in front of the Dark Angel, leaving crackling sounds echoing through the hall.
A genuine smile came to Jonson's face. Clearly, he had won this gladiatorial combat. The Lion King did not press his advantage; according to the ancient customs of Caliban, he maintained the dignity of a victor, awaiting his brother's submission.
Until Russ roared, turning his body into a weapon, slamming fiercely into the Lion King. The two Primarchs were sent flying together, smashing through countless walls and pillars. The Wolf King seized his brother, throwing a punch, then another. Jonson's hasty counter-attacks seemed weak and ineffective under this barrage. Finally, the Fenrisian grabbed the Calibanite's shoulder, and with a roar, threw his brother away.
Then, Russ didn't even look at his brother. His gaze fell upon Kraken's Maw, dozens of meters away. He charged towards his weapon, but before he could reach it, Alajos blocked his path.
This abrupt challenger made Russ pause for a moment. And in that instant, Kraken's Maw had already been drawn into the hands of a certain silver-haired official. The Dark Angels moved silently, surrounding her in the center of their formation.
The Wolf King frowned. He did not initiate another fight. The Fenrisian turned around and casually responded to Alajos's challenge: he slapped the Grand Master, picked up his axe, and swung it twice.
"Not bad."
Just as he spoke, an extremely angry and savage roar erupted from the ruins. Jonson practically leaped up, his hair disheveled, bloodshot eyes appearing.
The Wolf King smiled, adopting a charging stance, seemingly about to say something, but before he could, Jonson had already charged forward. The two Primarchs instantly became a tumbling mass, transforming into a runaway iron ball that, in the blink of an eye, disappeared into the depths of the corridor.
The warriors of the two Legions were still bewildered by the rapidly changing situation, but amidst this silent confusion, a faint sound slowly echoed.
Someone turned around, only to find that the silver-haired official had vanished from her spot, nowhere to be seen.
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