Anger, it was sweeter than honey, rising like smoke from one's chest, boiling, burning.
Morgan forgot which book she had read that sentence in; it seemed to be a mottled ancient tome from Ahriman's bookshelf, but without a doubt, she remembered it very clearly.
And at this moment, she felt it just as clearly.
——————
Anger...
She felt it, so clear, so violent, so mad.
So... ridiculous.
——————
The silver-haired official sat on a false chair. She undid her hair clip, and her silky long hair coiled around her back and wrists like snakes, forming armrests and a backrest. The wisps of hair became playful pets, used to while away the inevitably dull time.
Morgan squinted, her aquamarine pupils hidden beneath thick brows, continuously observing the actions of the Dark Angels before her: Arjac was clearly an experienced commander. After a brief hesitation, his voice echoed in the cold air,
directing the Dark Angels to drag the Space Wolves to places where they wouldn't interfere. Other warriors of the Emperor's First Legion guarded the periphery, securing key positions. The war was not over, at least not entirely. Amidst the swirling smoke outside the fortress, intermittent sounds of gunfire could still be heard.
Morgan even noticed that Arjac's attention remained fixed behind the shattered wall where she stood. There, the sounds of the primarchs clashing continued, occasionally punctuated by Jonson's roars. This was the biggest reason why the Dark Angels remained dutifully here; they were sure their genefather was still safe and knew that even if they rushed in rashly, they wouldn't be able to help much.
Similarly, once the sounds of fighting behind the broken wall ceased, Arjac would immediately cross that thin red line and go to his genefather's side; even if it meant a potential conflict with the terrifying psyker before him, he would not hesitate.
Morgan saw this burning resolve within the hearts of the Dark Angels.
Of course, she wouldn't stop him.
After all, just as with her only blood relative, Jonson, the Spider Queen's occasional willfulness and arrogance before the Emperor's First Legion were nothing more than a ceaseless probe.
However, before the Lion of Caliban, who already knew Morgan inside and out, his blood relative had no secrets from him and could naturally be more casual and willful.
But before the Emperor's First Legion, who didn't know Morgan particularly well, as the Lion King's mortal confidante, a powerful Alpha-level or even higher-level psyker, she naturally had to maintain a certain reserve and arrogance. It was even understandable to rely on the gradually growing "arrogance" that came from being supported by the Legion Master.
And all this willfulness, arrogance, and arrogance were nothing more than Morgan's probing tendrils extended towards Jonson and the Emperor's First Legion.
Morgan always wanted to truly know and grasp how much authority, freedom, status, and identity she possessed within this powerful collective, and the maximum extent to which she could act according to her thoughts and desires, and whether she could advance further.
After all, her instincts told her that she seemed to have a rather long-standing connection with Jonson and the Emperor's First Legion.
It was through this constant observation and exploration that Morgan gradually discovered something interesting: perhaps the Dark Angels did not revere Jonson as a god, unlike the Thousand Sons with Magnus,
nor did they see themselves as insignificant as the Iron Warriors did with Perturabo. Yet, even the most arrogant Dark Angels veterans inadvertently aligned their words and actions with their primarch, even if their hearts might not truly like him.
The primarchs' influence on their legions seemed even stronger than she had imagined. Regardless of an Astartes' feelings towards their primarch, they seemed to inherently view the primarch's perceptions and actions as some self-evident truth and fundamental law of reality.
For example, when the primarch of the Emperor's First Legion openly declared his trust in his mortal advisor, Morgan could feel the widespread respect and courtesy towards her on the Indomitable Truth in the following days.
If, before, these battle-hardened warriors had merely acknowledged her psychic powers, now, they were indeed expressing an attitude closest to "respect" for Morgan's very existence.
Clearly, even within the Emperor's First Legion, where the primarch's influence was perhaps less overt, Jonson's every word and action could easily change the attitudes and thoughts of most warriors, as if it were an indelible mark within their very bloodline.
Morgan silently noted this down.
She believed that one day, she would use this.
And this was just one of her insights during this time. Using the Dark Angels Legion as a template, supplemented by fleeting glimpses of the Thousand Sons and Iron Warriors Legions, Morgan was inwardly analyzing the miraculous chemical reaction between primarchs and their legions.
She wasn't overly concerned that her actions would bring any harm: as long as she remained an effective blood relative, as long as she remained an incredibly powerful psyker, as long as she remained a core member of the legion who moved at the heart of the front lines, directly or indirectly saving thousands, even tens of thousands, of veteran Dark Angels, her small acts of willfulness would naturally be laughed off.
After all, both in Jonson's eyes and in the perception of the Dark Angels, there were thousands upon thousands of urgent matters across the galaxy that were far more troublesome and demanded more focused attention than this Persian cat lady's lazy willfulness.
Especially after Jonson revealed his trust in Morgan, even the anti-psyker veterans who had gathered around her gradually dispersed. Morgan could move freely within the fleet or pursue her own small endeavors.
For example, her understanding of emotions.
Thinking of this, Morgan couldn't help but feel a comical sense of logic regarding fate and success. She hadn't expected that a sudden inspiration after a failure would become the key impetus for her to master the first step.
Perhaps she should thank that mortal, that grizzled old Duran who died by her blade. What was his name again?
Never mind, it wasn't important.
She nodded, thinking to herself, and at that moment, a violent crash suddenly erupted from behind her, like two massive iron hammers smashing through a rotten wall, tearing through the entire room.
Morgan raised an eyebrow.
She looked up and saw Arjac watching her. The Dark Angel did not immediately act, for after the crash, the sounds of roars and fighting quickly resumed.
Driven by curiosity, the Persian cat lady discreetly extended her psychic senses, observing the situation inside.
...
Tsk...
Then, she met Arjac's gaze again, revealing a dispassionate, silent smile.
"For the sake of certain established perceptions and glorious images in your heart, Knight."
"I do not recommend you enter now."
——————
Battle.
Endless battle.
No need for words, only battle.
No one compromised.
No one yielded.
Jonson wielded his Lion Sword, almost numbly extracting the last vestiges of strength from his arms. His two hearts pounded faster and faster, urged by an unyielding will, imperiously commanding every muscle and nerve: one more ounce of strength, one more round, one more attack.
Both his arms and legs had become as stiff as steel, as heavy as mountains, but the Lion was stronger in will and steel, more stubborn than mountains. He mercilessly commanded his body: keep fighting.
Across from him, the Lord of Fenris was in no better state: Russ's limbs were covered in wounds, especially the one on his right leg, which clearly affected his rhythm and speed in combat. Evidently, in a contest of swordsmanship and skill, the Fenrisian was no match for his Calibanite brother. Though he could also wound his Lion brother, these injuries were insignificant compared to Jonson's retaliations.
Despite this, rage and savagery still fueled his onslaught. Every fierce lunge forced Jonson to concentrate all his energy to counter. The Fenrisian was far more massive and powerful than his brother; he could endure more damage, and his savage attacks, even if they landed only once, were devastatingly effective.
Russ delivered a heavy punch that grazed the already shattered Lion Helm, slamming into a marble statue behind Jonson that might have weighed a ton. In an instant, the valuable exhibit was utterly shattered by the primarch's blow.
As masonry flew, Jonson seized the opportunity, grabbing Russ's outstretched arm, shrugging his shoulder, and slamming his brother into the opposite wall. All the while, their other hands remained clasped on their respective blades, tearing and trembling in mid-air.
Torrential rain, mixed with the sultry air of the dark red clouds, ceaselessly lashed down upon the two primarchs' armor. The already dilapidated walls steadily disintegrated in the downpour, revealing their fragile interior. This even made the viewing platform less safe and private, yet despite this, the two Legion Masters showed no sign of stopping.
Now, pure rage sustained the battle. They had long forgotten the cause of their conflict; the pure warrior's soul and the desperate longing for victory propelled them, launching one thoughtless attack after another.
Jonson and Russ grappled and clashed, their towering figures pacing back and forth across the platform until another brief outcome was reached: the Knight-King of Caliban successfully capitalized on a lapse by his brother,
forcing his blade to drive Russ back to the edge of the viewing platform. This area, damaged in earlier fighting, had already half-collapsed under the impact of the heavy rain, revealing a staircase in another room and the space half a floor below.
Jonson charged forward, continuing to clash greatswords with his brother. At the same time, his other hand reached for the black wolf pelt on Russ's body, but the immense force tore the fur to shreds, leaving only intricate runic amulets clattering to the ground.
Russ seized the opportunity, headbutting his brother. The two primarchs ground their greatswords against each other, almost face to face, repeatedly slamming into the crumbling walls around them.
Finally, under the impact of yet another clash, the already unsupported outer wall completely collapsed, even taking a portion of the floor with it, dragging both primarchs, neither of whom would yield an inch, down with it.
Jonson and Russ, now tangled together by gravity and slippery friction, their power armor hooked into each other, fell like an irregular iron ball onto the stairs, tumbling down, smashing through the fragile structure, and landing in a lower space, kicking up clouds of dust.
But the moment they stopped, the two primarchs, separated once more, struggled to their feet. The fury in their eyes had not diminished in the slightest, but: the Lion Sword was gone in the recent chaos, and Krakenbane had rolled into some forgotten corner.
In the next instant, both clenched their fists. Then, like pure beasts, roaring utterly meaningless words, they charged again.
This time, there was no art of combat, no rules of engagement. The two once great and wise primarchs had become utterly beasts driven by rage. Their only desire now was to utterly defeat their opponent and win.
The two wrestled, swinging their fists, their iron-shod kicks whistling through the air. The rain-slicked ground was treacherous. In a moment of carelessness, both primarchs tumbled to the ground. They didn't bother to get up, instead tearing and punching each other on the muddy ground, rolling in the dirt, slamming fists into each other's faces, and adding their spit for good measure.
Blood continuously streamed from their tattered power armor, mixing with the mud. In this moment, neither Jonson nor Russ resembled the great figures capable of commanding legions and kingdoms; instead, they were like two thugs, two drunkards, two idiots performing a clumsy show in the heavy rain.
Finally, Russ, who had superior brute strength, took a blow from Jonson head-on, then landed a punch on his temple. It was a successful strike; he completely shattered the Lion Helm, even sending Jonson into a brief state of daze and confusion. Russ seized the opportunity, struggling to his feet, slipping repeatedly on the muddy ground, and finally grabbed Jonson by an arm and flung him away.
Jonson slammed heavily against the wall, momentarily unable to get up. This was undoubtedly a golden opportunity for victory, but when Russ truly stood up, he saw the puddles at his feet, he saw his own condition: scarred, disheveled, pain gnawing at every joint, every muscle aching and burning unbearably, even his wolf pelt had been savagely ripped apart, leaving nothing but ragged scraps.
He looked at Jonson: his condition was even worse.
...
...
What were they doing?
For a moment, this question entered Russ's mind, then spread like a virus. The Wolf King of Fenris stood motionless, lost in thought.
He stood there for a while.
Then, he laughed.
A tidal wave of laughter erupted from the Wolf King's throat; it was a dance of joy and absurdity within his chest. He stood there, laughing.
At least, he didn't seem angry anymore.
Jonson staggered to his feet, blood smeared across half his face, but his gaze still burned like a torch.
"What are you laughing at?"
He stumbled, moving towards his brother, his fists tightly clenched.
Russ seemed to pause for a moment before realizing his brother was asking a question. The Wolf King also struggled to stand, his body now somewhat crooked, as if the ribs on one side were mostly broken.
"By the Emperor's balls, brother."
Russ laughed, laughing louder and louder, coughing as he laughed, continually spitting out large clots of blood from his throat.
"What exactly are we doing, brother?"
Jonson swayed, walking towards the Wolf King. Half of his body was illuminated by the burning war outside, like a blood-stained knight fading into shadow.
"Do... you... surrender?"
"...What?"
"You, sur, ren, der!"
"...What are you talking about?"
"This! Is! A! Duel!"
...
This was simply insane.
Russ could no longer hold back; he threw back his head and laughed with abandon.
The mission of the executioner, the Great Crusade, the afflictions within the legions, the political entanglements between primarchs, even the fate of the human race—all were now completely cast aside.
Damn it, this was mad.
Both of them were mad, utterly insane, like two brainless, colossal idiots.
Like Magnus.
He laughed until he could no longer make a sound.
"Do you know what we look like right now?"
"Brother, we look like…"
"Two incredibly stupid idiots."
Russ uttered these words, and then he still wanted to laugh, to keep laughing madly until the end of time for this pure joy he hadn't encountered in so long.
Then, he saw Jonson's staggering footsteps.
He saw the raised, blood-soaked fist.
He saw...
"Bang!"
The iron fist descended, and the primarch's tall, unguarded body collapsed. Jonson looked at his brother, at his foolish face that was still smiling before he was knocked unconscious.
He spat, his final weak words like wisps of smoke, slipping into Leman Russ's ear.
——————
"You're the idiot."
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