A downpour arrived.
Dark red, rolling waves brewed in the clouds of Duran. In the blink of an eye, lightning flashed and silver serpents darted across the sky. The gloomy, impending storm, accompanied by rumbling thunder and accumulated, oppressive heat, filled everyone's hearts with an overwhelming sense of dread.
And beneath this weeping sky, two beasts, sometimes magnificent, sometimes mad, fought each other in a frenzy. Blood-red light gently brushed over their armor, illuminating every crack and wound caused by the ferocious onslaught.
Unlike the "touch-and-go" sparring from earlier, both Legion Masters were now consumed by a furious rage. They collided, struck, harmed, and hated each other. Mad blades and axes, driven by the Primarchs, roared with power, mercilessly tearing at the increasingly worn armor. After sparks flew, blood splattered like an overturned oil barrel, dripping thick petals from the opulent hall to the end of the corridor.
The two Primarchs were immersed in the purest, most abrupt fury. Although their reasons for rage were entirely different, this did not prevent the battle from continuing. They wrestled in the corridors and shadows, passing through layers of doorways and ruins, grabbing each other's shoulders and greatswords, repeatedly smashing each other into the ubiquitous stone pillars. Amidst flying dust, they looked like two frenzied wild bears gnawing at each other.
Jonson's exquisite winged helmet was utterly ruined. The angelic wings on either side of his helmet seemed to have been brutally snapped off, long gone. Russ's situation was no less precarious: a savage sword mark pierced his left shoulder, extending all the way to the lower left of his neck. This was the result of a desperate clash; as Jonson's blade pressed against the Wolf's neck, the howling battle-axe was just a step away from his temple.
In the end, Leman Russ showed no sign of retreat. The Lion gritted his teeth and kicked his brother, sending the Fenrisian through two walls and rolling outside, finally ending this foolish, mutually destructive deadlock.
Then, he picked up his sword, pursued him, and in the next room, the two Primarchs once again engaged in a fierce battle.
"You're utterly insane! Leman Russ! A barbaric lunatic!"
Jonson's roar echoed through countless corridors, a total eruption of the anger accumulated from his and the Wolf King's repeated, nearly suicidal clashes.
"Idiot! Barbarian! Wild dog of Fenris! No one likes you! You good-for-nothing bastard!"
"If the Great Crusade ends today, then when the sun rises tomorrow, the entire galaxy won't remember your name! You only deserve to go back to your stinking wolf den!"
Leman Russ wasn't angry, or at least he didn't appear to be. He laughed heartily, responding to his brother's furious outburst with a tone of almost gentle mockery.
"Fenris certainly isn't a good place, my brother, but at least it's sunny and the air is fresh, much better than some small thicket with nothing but flies and mud: am I right, thicket overlord?"
Jonson let out a huge scoff.
"Only you would roll back to your wolf den after the crusade, Russ. No future needs barbarians, but as long as war continues, I will never lose my purpose, you fool."
"You're the fool, my brother. You are as foolish as you are arrogant, Jonson."
"How radiant is the future our Father envisioned, where only the purest and most innocent will live? Like our Guilliman, for example. And do you think he would let a fellow full of little secrets stand there?"
"We are the Emperor's First Legion! We have no secrets!"
Jonson gritted his teeth, words of fury squeezed through his clenched jaw. Not even all the previous struggles and fights had ignited such towering rage in him as this one sentence. He charged forward, and a more brutal fight began.
They burst out of the walls and out of the fortress, leaving the battle and their progeny far behind, arriving under the blood-red sky. This was the very top of the imperial palace; the wide platform, originally a viewing area for the Duran tyrant to survey his kingdom and subjects, had now become a high-quality outdoor dueling pit.
Thunder rumbled, a fervent welcome to the Emperor's sons. Tumbling silver serpents summoned a hot downpour that relentlessly lashed their foreheads and brows, vying for the front row of this century's duel.
The two Legion Masters plunged into the torrential rain, maintaining a safe distance from each other, gripping their respective weapons, panting. Both were hunched over, leaning forward, their eyes constantly scanning each other's arms and legs for weaknesses.
And at this moment, the sound of psychic fluctuations echoed in the heavy rain. The silver-haired lady stepped through the illusory doorway, arriving at the very edge of the dueling arena. Floating beside her was the Wolf King's sword: Krakenbane, a blade nearly as tall as she was.
The Lion's peripheral vision swept over his advisor and kin. He said nothing, but after confirming that Morgan was looking at him, he jutted his chin towards Leman Russ.
Morgan nodded in acknowledgment. The next second, Krakenbane flew to Russ's hand. The Wolf King hesitated, then took it. With a casual wave of his other hand, he deeply embedded Arjac's great axe into the wall.
"Now, this is a duel, not a gladiatorial fight, Russ."
Jonson's tone had reverted to its usual coldness—that calm, dangerous, and poised coldness. He turned around and spoke to Morgan in a rather serious and formal tone.
"As for you, Lady Morgan, I hope you can ensure that no one will disturb this duel, and I mean, no one."
Morgan nodded. Her gaze and Jonson's intersected for a moment through the drizzling rain, conveying a thousand unspoken words. The silver-haired lady then turned and walked towards the only entrance to the viewing platform, her figure disappearing into the shadows.
"You still love playing with words so much, my brother. For a moment, I even thought you were Magnus or our little Roboute."
The Wolf King smiled nonchalantly. The Lion's quiet movements and expression did not raise the slightest alarm in him. Such scenes were too common in his life, especially when he was on Fenris.
When young warriors in the tribe dueled over arguments, comparisons, or even just to pass the time, their attitudes were even wilder and more committed than in actual combat. But it was nothing; even two enraged young Fenrisian warriors, after a genuine fight, a good pummeling, a feast, and a drunken stupor would turn the page on their former conflict, dissolving it into knowing laughter.
Wasn't it the same now?
The Wolf King gripped his sword, seeking its feel. A casual mindset and burning anger sustained him to continue the fight rather than bow his head in surrender to escape it.
But Jonson was not at all infected by this joyful laughter. He gripped the greatsword in his hand tightly, fury churning in his soul, but his face held a chilling seriousness.
"So you accept it, a duel, Russ."
The Wolf King merely tilted his head back and laughed heartily.
"Call it what you will, just start. Want me to sing you a song to get your courage up?"
Jonson said nothing. His sword danced in the heavy rain, transforming into a frenzied whirlwind, sweeping towards his dueling opponent.
——————
Morgan didn't wait long. Soon, a cacophony of footsteps echoed at the end of the corridor. Almost in the next second, a group of figures, a mix of deep black and iron-gray, burst around the corner, scrambling to follow the trail of blood and destruction, searching for their Primarch.
Morgan's fingers plucked at her staff. With a soft incantation, a curved blade appeared at the top of the staff.
She wielded it, cutting through the scattered dust and grit before her. In a blink, at her will, a straight and strikingly visible line appeared on the ground, spanning horizontally across the entire passage: the meaning was unmistakable.
With her movement, the surging tide of warriors rushing towards her clearly showed a subtle divergence: Arjac, leading the Dark Angels, looked at the line. Although he grumbled inwardly, the great knight's pace involuntarily slowed when he recalled the silver-haired lady's "illustrious deeds." In any case, the sounds of the Primarchs' struggle were clearly audible, so the situation wasn't so urgent.
In contrast, Blackmane, the Wolf King's personal guard, instantly accelerated his pace the moment he heard the sounds of battle. The wolves roared continuously, and in a flash, they completely overtook the Dark Angels beside them.
"Get out of the way, you whelp!"
Seeing no sign of Morgan backing down, Blackmane roared furiously. But the moment the words left his mouth, his iron boot crossed a nearly perfect, fragile line.
Morgan, who had been slightly lowering her head, raised her chin. As her aquamarine pupils widened suddenly, her pale lips and teeth gently clacked together, and an invisible cold wave instantly swept over all the Space Wolves.
Seventy of Russ's finest sons froze in place like fruit flies caught in a spiderweb, even maintaining their previous postures: running, roaring, or glaring furiously. Those magnificent bodies, capable of bearing tons of power armor, now had only their pupils barely functioning, and these pupils were now all fixed intensely on the silver-haired mortal before them.
Countless runes and anti-psychic charms glowed or emitted ancient Fenrisian sounds under their wearers' urging or their own reactive mechanisms. But this was all fleeting; Morgan merely curved her lips, and the runes, so proudly worn by the Space Wolves, dimmed one by one, like scattered sparks swallowed by the night.
She smiled, licking her lips, slowly raising her slender five fingers into the air until all the Space Wolves could see it, and then, she swung.
In an instant, the waves of the warp let out a low growl. An invisible blast of air swept over all of Russ's sons. Ice cracked, mountains collapsed, and the Fenrisian wolves, without even a single roar, were all swept into the storm awakened by Morgan's whisper.
"I've wanted to do this for a while."
She murmured softly.
The Dark Angels looked up, only to find themselves enveloped in shadow: this shadow was none other than the Space Wolves flying one by one over their heads, continuous, like a whirlwind scattering clouds. The violent psychic currents spun them three thousand times before spitting these nauseated individuals aside, piling them into a small mountain of vomit.
Perfect.
Morgan rubbed her fingers, letting out a light chuckle. No casualties, no delay to the mission. It was just that these Space Wolves would need to sleep for about one Terran standard hour, and of course, the sleeping conditions didn't seem great.
She even felt that some of the resentment accumulated during this battle seemed to have dissipated considerably with the airborne flight of the wolf pack, which made her look at the Dark Angels beside her with a hopeful gaze.
Arjac met this gaze. He carefully lowered his head and found that he seemed to be a little distance from the line.
To be safe, he took another step back.
A flicker of regret crossed Morgan's eyes.
On the other side, she lightly snapped her fingers. Then, with a sound of metal grinding, the great knight's battle-axe was dragged out and unceremoniously dropped at his feet.
"Next time, remember to hold onto your weapon, Arjac."
"Honestly, can't you learn from your gene-father? How fortunate you are to have one of the foremost Primarchs to lead you to war and victory. I even worship him."
"Cherish it, you lot."
She sat with her legs crossed, leaning against an invisible psychic throne, one hand propping up her face and hair, her staff floating in the air. Her other hand casually dismantled the small mountain of Space Wolves, lest those unconscious sons of Russ crush themselves.
She spoke, casually observing the silently enduring Dark Angels, while haphazardly expressing her thoughts.
"If I were you, I wouldn't just stand here. At least form two proper lines, okay? Stop thinking about going in to watch; you can't help anyway."
"Of course, I can't help either. After all, that's Jonson. A problem he can't solve can be called unsolvable in this galaxy. You can hardly imagine how great your gene-father is, because you simply can't reach his height."
Morgan examined her fingers, casually provoking the Dark Angels, who had maintained a deathly silence with her words. Unfortunately, despite this, she still received only silence, not some indignant warriors.
Should have gone easier, at least left a few Space Wolves conscious.
She complained in her mind.
Meanwhile, Arjac gripped his battle-axe. His mood was inevitably unpleasant because of these words, even filled with the urge to challenge her to a duel.
But when he saw the mountain of Space Wolves...
Ah, it was just some rather intense advice, surely, he could accept it.
——————
In the fortress, the roars of battle seemed fleeting, yet they did not escape the ears of the two Primarchs.
"You made a mistake, my brother, a mistake like Magnus."
A face full of mocking smiles appeared on the Wolf King.
"You shouldn't trust psychics so much, Jonson. You shouldn't let a mere mortal advisor block my sons."
"A psychic against my army? Oh, that's not fair at all."
"Indeed..."
The Lion also smiled, his lips slowly curving into a malevolent sneer.
"Not fair at all."
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