Jonson breathed deeply. He sensed the air currents, meticulously inhaling the bloody and putrid scent carried by the cold breeze. He loved this feeling. From the first time he mounted the great steed,
galloping through the jungles of Caliban in a new form and identity, he had loved this feeling—this primordial scent of flowing blood and rotting corpses. It made him feel relaxed.
The Lord of the Dark Angels gently pushed open the great door before him, covered in countless blasphemous decorations.
He knew what he was about to face. From the myriad sculptures and portraits in the knightly fortresses of old, to the surging barbaric cries in the deep forests of Caliban, and now to the roars, blood, and burning across the stars, what he faced had never truly changed.
Iron boots, stained with blood and shattered bone, trod on equally hard ground. The door had just opened, and the impatient cold wind pushed Jonson's shadow towards the center of the great hall, towards that most terrifying... creature.
The Primarch looked up, and at a glance, he saw the thoroughly twisted and deformed monster. Monster, beast, cannibal... The world called them by a thousand different names, but in his eyes, they had only one name: prey.
The [Manipulator], across the vast star sea, countless throats on countless worlds had, in endless fear and madness, conveyed this name. It was once one of the most terrifying shadows cast by Ran Dan upon this galaxy,
one of the most blasphemous among the Tyranid armies. It and its fleet—comprising a battle moon and a hundred capital ships, a mobile wave of destruction—were exquisite prey, worthy of Jonson's personal planning, strategizing, and even bloodshed.
And now, it was time for the harvest. Judgment Day had arrived. But not for him.
Jonson advanced slowly, various anti-psyker decorations scraping against his armor, occasionally emitting crisp clanking sounds. The crystal-like formations, symbolizing the souls of the Ran Dan warriors, were now mostly shattered, transformed into scattered fragments strewn beneath his feet.
His steps were slow, yet steady. The terrifying creature lurking in the hall restricted his speed. The chaotic psychic energy, a convergence of tens of thousands of wills, had transformed into an invisible pressure,
making every step the Primarch took feel like he was carrying a mountain. But this did not stop his advance. Jonson's gaze continuously lingered on the distant monster, searching for a fatal angle.
Only when he was close enough did he don his helmet, allowing the last vulnerable area to also be enveloped by layers of protective measures.
Ran Dan's [Warmaster], or rather, his newest prey, was sprawled across the throne and its steps, its body and the arrogant stronghold fused into one. It was like a giant python that had swallowed a steel pine tree whole, roaring in agony amidst the clash of flesh and metal.
Jonson could see the twisted face. The already blasphemous and ugly Tyranid head was now grotesquely contorted, transformed into a terrifying image capable of making the strongest warrior lose courage in an instant.
It was covered in eyes made of flesh, which constantly rotated, emitting shifting roars. And when one of them caught Jonson's figure, in an unprecedented excited roar, all dozens of eyes maniacally fixated on him.
The next moment, the most colossal assault arrived. It was the unrestrained howling and gnashing of tens of thousands of souls. And the [Lion] was still some distance from his prey.
Invasion. Jonson felt it—a chaotic, utterly disorganized assault, yet one whose sheer power demanded his full attention. The [Manipulator] had completely lost the ability to speak and act. Like a massive, putrefying mass of flesh that refused to die, it could only emit roars and shrieks, having become a thorough beast.
But even so, its sole offensive maneuver—a coalesced impact formed by tens of thousands of uncontrolled souls—still made Jonson's body involuntarily tremble. The Caliban beast slayer listened as the most vicious restless spirits soared beyond his will. They tore at the barrier he used to protect himself and his secrets, leaving behind horrifying psychic scars.
For a moment, he even felt he was fighting an equal opponent. Amidst the ceaseless collisions and resistance, countless souls shrieked and lunged at his psychic kingdom. The anti-psyker devices were almost useless against these arrogant dead. They used screams and impacts to make the ocean of consciousness begin to overturn, to boil.
And Jonson continued to advance, steadily, step by step. He walked from the center of the shattered crystal stars, all the way to the monster's eyes, until he could clearly discern every detail on it. The psychic beast, with its tens of thousands of heads and thoughts, continued to shriek, to struggle, and to search for a way to break through the Primarch's mind amidst its ceaseless roars.
But it had no more chances.
[Enough.] Jonson raised the greatsword in his hand. With just one strike, everything ended.
The colossal head flew, carrying shattered blood and churning flesh with it, tracing a crimson and sickly white arc across the shattered starry sky. Jonson quietly watched as yet another monstrous head crashed to the ground, a fleeting flicker of color passing through his eyes—a momentary immersion and satisfaction.
He created the hunt. He enjoyed the hunt.
Blasphemous blood flowed onto the ground, soaking the steel boots of the First Legion's Primarch. Jonson stood before the dead behemoth. Beside his ears were countless faint sounds—the tens of thousands of Tyranid souls splitting and dying as their host fell. He didn't care where they went. At the very least, in the real universe, within the reach of his sword's blade, they were no longer a threat to the Human Imperium.
The Primarch lowered his head, gazing at the Ran Dan [Warmaster] lying at his feet. As countless souls disintegrated, this powerful psyker, who had been ambushed by despicable means, finally revealed his true form:
the so-called Ran Dan [Warmaster] was not a particularly tall or sturdy individual. His body was hunched, like a curled-up dwarf, but even so, Jonson could still feel the immense power of sorcery emanating from him, a power so vast that no one could ignore it.
He could also feel that, with the complete death of this Tyranid, its once majestic power was rapidly draining away at an incredible speed, as if it were being actively sucked dry by the very ground beneath him.
He didn't concern himself with these trivial matters, but instead began to ponder other, more important things. This was something he had been considering for a long time, and the recent somewhat arduous hunt had made him pick up this line of thought again.
Perhaps, he needed a target... a training subject. A controllable, powerful psyker.
Although he possessed no exceptional talent for the vast psychic ocean, nor did he have any interest in it, it was undeniable that the galaxy teemed with psykers and psychic overlords. Most of them harbored no intention of obedience or subservience to the Imperium, and certainly no goodwill towards humanity. He needed training; he needed more practice.
Back on Caliban, to hunt the aquatic behemoths, the Knights had to learn how to shed their cumbersome firearms and heavy armor in the rivers, how to maintain direction and balance in the raging currents, how to understand the rhythm and correlation between high and low tides. Only then could they wield their greatswords to cleave the slimy, wicked heads of those aquatic beasts.
This was a long, tedious, intricate, and absolutely essential process. For thousands of years, countless Caliban Beast-Hunting Knights had, with blood and lamentations, starkly revealed to all: the greatest danger was never the cunning or claws of the beasts, but the Knight's loss of respect, patience, and vigilance towards the [hunt] itself.
A swift current, a shift in wind direction, or a flock of startled birds... Knights who ultimately fell to the claws of beasts due to such trivial matters far outnumbered those who honorably fell in direct combat.
Hunting was not a simple or reckless affair. Never. It required complete preparation, the most complex, cautious, and meticulous preparation. He would not make those mistakes. He would not allow it.
As Jonson turned and left the now-worthless hall, he had confirmed a new requirement and goal. He needed a psyker, a powerful and safe sparring partner, to test methods of resisting and killing those sorcerous overlords.
Just as he once practiced aquatic combat techniques to hunt the cannibalistic behemoths lurking in swamps and lakebeds, he needed to understand the power of psionics and sorcery, to know their operation and might.
He did not expect to become a psychic scholar like Magnus, but he had to possess the strength, foresight, and skill to kill beings that defied physical laws, like Magnus. He needed an imaginary enemy.
It couldn't be an Astartes, preferably not, because a Dark Angel always meant trouble. Among his own sons, he couldn't think of anyone who could pose a significant threat in the psychic domain.
And among the Astartes of other Legions, perhaps some could do it, but their identities were sensitive, making the necessary secrecy protocols after a private Dark Angels operation difficult.
So, he temporarily shelved this idea in his mind, waiting for a suitable opportunity to revisit it. He knew he didn't need to personally handle this matter; he just needed to entrust it to the right individuals: to multiple people,
listening to various reports and suggestions, as before. He walked out of the great hall, seeing the five hundred silently gathered at the entrance of the hall, seeing that the son ordered to leave had brought the mortal psyker and the warriors of the Second Legion. Everything was proceeding according to plan.
A hint of cold satisfaction and triumph stirred within the Primarch. This triumph lasted for a few moments, until a Dark Angel silently walked to his side. "My Lord... the Unbreakable Truth reports that a new fleet is warp-jumping from the star gate. Their fleet commander is... Luther."
"The Unbreakable Truth wants to know if this is part of your plan." The Dark Angel raised the question, and soon, he received his answer.
A low pressure swept across, abruptly turning from the grim [Lion] as its center, spreading in the blink of an eye. [...Luther?] Good, it seems it isn't. The Dark Angel lowered his head, saying nothing more.
When Morgan first met Magnus, he was immersed in his daily arrogance. When Morgan first met Perturabo, he was buried in endless data and planning. But when Morgan first met Jonson, she only saw a greatsword burning with fierce anger.
[Luther?] [I did not order him to come.] [That fool! What is he doing?!] This voice was like a beheading greatsword. Drops of fresh blood accompanied each word, falling onto everyone's faces. All five hundred, all five hundred, lowered their heads, silently. They stood to Jonson's left and right, allowing the Primarch's wrath to erupt in an instant.
And before this silent forest of countless steel giants, two silver figures walked step by step into the Primarch's field of vision, appearing exceptionally conspicuous. Morgan had Hector walk ahead. She safely remained in the shadow cast by the tall warrior, watching Jonson's silhouette appear little by little in her field of vision. Then, a small unexpected event occurred.
When Jonson's furious gaze mercilessly shot towards them, Hector's originally steady steps paused in an instant, as if a small carnivorous beast was being watched by the forest's top predator. His knees, calves, and even his head trembled uncontrollably. This almost fearless Astartes froze under the Primarch's gaze, becoming a trembling mass of metal.
But Jonson had no time to deal with his abnormality. The Lion Knight King of Caliban quickly walked over. After a brief look at Hector, his gaze shifted to the mortal exuding a sorcerous aura.
[Did you send the message?] Jonson's appearance was reflected in Morgan's pupils: golden long hair and beard, emerald green eyes, hard brow bone and nose bridge forming a dangerous face.
He wrapped himself in cold disguise and containment, yet still couldn't perfectly conceal the raging internal fury, and something even more primal, purer... Wildness.
Morgan smiled, bowing her knee. [Yes, my Lord.] [Well done... Both of you did well.] The Primarch nodded. His attention was clearly not focused here; his gaze casually glanced at Morgan, but did not focus further.
This made him miss a certain opportune moment, preventing him from noticing the fleeting, subtle anomalies on this mortal's body. The cries of anguish gathering beneath this [mortal]'s feet seemed too loud. Her aura also seemed to be adrift in a dangerous dimension.
But Jonson did not notice these. He was seething with rage. The [Lion]'s gaze quickly focused elsewhere. His heart was enraged by some affront, burning with flames capable of consuming the world.
Clearly, some had defied his orders, not acting according to his demands and will. He didn't care what reasons led them to do so, but any matter or offense would be punished.
As the furious footsteps gradually faded, Morgan raised her head, watching the [Lion] and a portion of the five hundred slowly disappear into the distance. Her pupils returned to lifelessness, flashing with a certain smile. She understood.
She understood what burned in her heart. That was wariness. That was fear. That was the instinct of her soul screaming for full armament. That was an involuntary battle will, longing to prepare every defensive measure. That was a [kindred spirit].
She, and he. Morgan, and Jonson. In a sense, they were kindred spirits, a [kindred spirit] that transcended the so-called blood ties between Primarchs, more alike in soul and nature.
And what burned in her heart was the most natural emotion that would erupt after encountering a true, equally ruthless, equally cold, and equally unscrupulous [kindred spirit]. That was... the instinct to guard against him. And... the desire to defeat him.
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