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The army of the dead charged from the infernal abyss.
Xenos, tens of thousands of Xenos. Their colossal bodies and hideous faces were already an indelible nightmare for countless eyewitnesses, and now, the eerie reality of their resurrection made them even more terrifying.
The Five Hundred (Dark Angels) saw a self-moving wall of corpses. These resurrected Randan warriors pushed against each other, firearms and blades haphazardly intertwined with flesh and blood, forming grotesque, endless military formations. They roared, charging desperately towards the Dark Angels.
Thousands of bullets struck their bodies, yet were largely ineffective. Their torn internal organs and guts spilled onto the ground, their already rotting brains and shattered skulls exposed through ruptured skin, yet they still could not halt these resurrected footsteps.
Everything was like hell.
A hell teeming with life.
And the Five Hundred merely watched dispassionately.
This scene, capable of psychologically breaking any mortal, was for these battle-hardened Dark Angels veterans nothing more than exchanging afternoon tea scones for cookies.
There was no difference.
One could even say that such hellish scenes were as numerous as stars in their memories. In terms of challenging the limits of human psyche, this mere fortress, tens of thousands of corpses, wouldn't even rank in the top hundred.
Moreover, they had a reason not to retreat a single step.
He walked among them.
——————
The Lion.
Lion El'Jonson.
The Primarch of the First Legion.
He walked within the ranks of the Dark Angels, like a born king of knights.
This greatest slayer of Caliban's beasts wore no helmet. His golden hair and beard shone against the blood-red, mottled starry sky, stained with an invisible aura of killing. His eyes, however, were obscured in shadow, making them unclear to behold.
[The Lion] was so tall that even Morgan, standing on a distant cliff, could still see his armor and body at a glance, and felt an unspeakable sense of oppression in her heart.
He slowly emerged from the ranks of the Dark Angels, walking to the very front. He scanned the steadily approaching tide of resurrected corpses and issued a command.
[Maintain suppression.]
[Maintain cover.]
[Clear the path.]
Then, his blade pointed towards a fortress in the core area of the Randan stronghold.
[That is the first phase objective.]
[Commence operation.]
He commanded, and with that command, a silent assent swept through. Jonson took the first step, and the Five Hundred followed closely, like a roaring legion of reapers.
——————
The gears of death began to turn.
Before Morgan's eyes, they began their operation.
[It's like a work of art.]
She couldn't help but exclaim.
This was Morgan's first true glimpse of a Primarch's art of war. This was not a mere display of brute force, nor a grandeur sculpted bit by bit with hands and time. This was genuine ruthlessness and skill, a beautiful symphony played by instinct and experience in an instant.
She felt she had witnessed a pinnacle, and would never see anything more majestic.
Jonson and his subordinates, five hundred and one warriors, five hundred and one hunters, fused into one. Their minds connected, they transformed into a fluid blade of death, constantly shifting their presence and sharpness.
Some things simply didn't need to be ordered. Facing opponents capable of withstanding tens of thousands of exploding shells,
some warriors among the Five Hundred voluntarily stepped forward. These were the squads wielding burning weapons, and under the cover of their comrades, they instantly erected a magnificent wall of fire.
The dense rain of exploding shells also changed from its usual state, becoming a more desolate and deadly sniper fire. Morgan, perched on the best vantage point, saw everything clearly: the twisted corpses, their knees and feet became the heavily damaged areas.
These pain-immune monsters had no choice but to kneel under the mighty force of physics. Every time a volley of dense gunfire rang out, several monsters would fall simultaneously, dragging down the formation and ultimately turning into charcoaled remains in the blazing flames.
Only the luckiest few managed to pass this deadly checkpoint. And when they reached the Five Hundred, those once quite powerful blades and bullets only left white streaks on the pitch-black armor. Subsequently, the Dark Angels wielded weapons Morgan had never seen, slicing these encroaching enemies into fragments.
Every few seconds, it would play out again.
Morgan estimated she had raised tens of thousands of Randan Xenos corpses, but in the blink of an eye, they were almost entirely expended. Although she had no expectations for these worthless things, when she saw the Five Hundred's unharmed formation, she still felt a certain disappointment akin to frustration.
In this disappointment, Morgan vaguely heard laughter. It was a strange sound, utterly contrary to the distorted and sharp laughter from before. It was slow and gentle, emitting a decaying stench, as if a tardy, unhygienic guest had arrived.
She turned her head, forcing herself to ignore it.
And while all this was happening, she didn't forget to keep an eye on [The Lion].
Yes, [The Lion] was the focus. All the Five Hundred combined were not worth a single strand of his hair.
In her opinion, that was the truth.
Morgan stood on the high cliff, carefully observing her brother's slaughter in the ruins.
An inexplicable emotion arose in her heart.
The Five Hundred swept away tens of thousands of the army of the dead in an instant. And throughout this brief yet intense process, Jonson remained completely silent.
He wielded his greatsword. A whirlwind unleashed by a single slash swept through hundreds of meters of the corridor, sending countless severed limbs and fragments flying in the icy air.
He strode forward, resolute, unyielding. Neither hordes of corpses nor gigantic, swelling beasts, looking like precarious ruins, caused his steps to falter in the slightest.
He gave no more orders, spoke no more words. He simply advanced, simply swung his sword, simply became the irreplaceable leader of this killing force. The ranks of the Dark Angels shifted and changed endlessly, yet never deviated from his direction, as if they were not an army, but Lion El'Jonson and his impossibly vast shadow.
Morgan watched all of this until the very last expendable collapsed to the ground. Only then did she take a deep breath.
Everything, perhaps only lasting a little over ten minutes, was enough to leave a deep imprint on her heart.
This was a different kind of feeling.
She watched as [The Lion] and his shadow slowly stopped beside the fortress. Before them lay the stairs Morgan had not finished ascending.
The dying [Randan] Warmaster was inside.
Morgan could even hear the increasingly crude, increasingly beast-like terrifying roars emitted by that once great soul under her [Accelerated Growth].
But Morgan didn't care. She merely watched him, watched him intently, watched [The Lion] himself.
That strange feeling began to burn in her heart.
He was not like them.
He was not like Magnus, nor like Perturabo. He lacked their boisterousness and their overly exuberant desire for display. He locked himself within his hood and shadows, truly achieving taciturnity.
Compared to him, Magnus was far too noisy, like a mad poet destined to be thrown into a death cell and rot alive by a ruthless tyrant, loudly chanting illogical prophecies, admiring himself, believing that all others were drunk while he alone was sober.
Compared to him, Perturabo was far too hesitant, like a piece of pig iron left out for too long, now irrevocably developing reddish rust, yet still, in unwillingness and complaint, repeatedly lunging towards the furnace of destruction, convinced he was unbreakable true steel.
Such thoughts revolved in Morgan's mind, but she tilted her head slightly, immersed in a completely different set of thoughts.
It was something burning in her chest.
It was a... familiar feeling.
A strange sensation she hadn't detected in Magnus or Perturabo.
She didn't dislike it. On the contrary, she felt a rare surge of warmth.
She watched as the silent army once again gathered, once again stood behind [The Lion]. She watched as the Caliban Knights with golden long hair raised their heads. He seemed to subtly glance in Morgan's direction, then cast all his attention upon the fortress.
She watched as the Dark Angels gradually dispersed, moving to seize the last strategic high ground and passes in the ruins. They fragmented like scattered raindrops, yet could regroup at any time into a tightly knit unit. She even caught sight of a figure swiftly detaching from the Five Hundred, racing through the ruins for a unique mission.
And after doing all this, Jonson flexed his wrists. He listened to the increasingly savage roars coming from within the fortress and walked inside.
It was at this very moment that Morgan moved. She patted Hekate, who was quiet as a mouse beside her, ensuring that her poor offspring had completely forgotten what she had just said.
This was good for him.
Thinking this, she sent out another wisp of divine sense to investigate that poor Randan [Warmaster].
With just one glance, she uncomfortably withdrew it.
The [Accelerated Growth] performed by tens of thousands of souls seemed even wilder than she had imagined.
That Xenos Warmaster was in a state that could even be considered pitiable. He could have put up a frantic death struggle, but the Dark Angels' terrifying collection and inter-stellar war had drained his last ounce of energy. When Morgan's methods swept in, he no longer had the strength to contend with them.
How tragic.
Morgan couldn't help but drool regretfully.
She turned around, taking Hekate with her, and walked down the high cliff towards the ruined battlefield.
It was time to feed.
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