The girl looked at the card on the table representing Lorgar. She gently extended her finger, touching the card that signified the blessings of the domain of Indeterminate Warp.
The Calth-mark manifested clearly on Guilliman's face, like the radiation of a burning star. Hundreds of millions of souls filled with hatred gripped the Sword of the Emperor alongside him; their hatred turned into fuel, making the flames upon the blade as brilliant as the Astronomican.
Lorgar shrieked; Lorgar roared. He felt something beneath his skin trying to burrow its way out. But the Sword of the Emperor cared nothing for Lorgar's thoughts. The scalding blade fell straight, cleaving through Lorgar's brain, his spine, and all his organs, completely skewering his body.
Guilliman watched this scene with near-total calm. Hatred had boiled to such an extreme that what remained was this death-like serenity. The blood of Calth had finally been repaid.
"Cough..."
Guilliman coughed up a mouthful of blood. The Armor of Fate was almost entirely shattered, and Lorgar's final mace blows had torn through his flesh. Viscera, whose functions even Guilliman did not fully know, lay exposed.
Something moved...
Lorgar's mangled remains actually trembled. His chest cavity burst open, and a jagged, broken corner of the Eight-Pointed Star thrust out from within him like a sharp blade of the Indeterminate. That blade pierced one of Guilliman's hearts before dissipating into the air. Guilliman felt all strength drained from him; he fell to one knee, the dizzying sensation of blood loss becoming uncontrollable. Though not enough to claim a Primarch's life, it was enough to render him immobile.
The girl slowly withdrew her gaze from the game. Her chest ached—Lorgar's death had wounded her. Yet a smile played on her lips. That was a close call; she hadn't expected Alexander to use Cawl's presence in the Armor of Fate to quietly sow his own power, guiding Guilliman to embrace his hatred and realize his inner essence at the critical moment.
But in the end, the girl's skill was superior. She had long anticipated Lorgar's potential failure; Lorgar's true purpose was to release the residual power of Indeterminate Warp within him at the last second to take Guilliman down with him.
The dappled sunlight flickered, and the amber light spots on the table shifted. The distant sound of a barking dog broke the heavy silence. Outside the window, a bird landed on the roof, peering inside. A small snake hidden in the cabinet silently watched the table, while a fly buzzed through the room.
The girl tucked her legs tighter and rested her chin on the back of her hand, leaning forward to better observe the board.
She looked up at Alexander again. The exhaustion on his face was clear; his fingers were trembling, and dry veins were visible beneath his skin. He was in pain, in deep fatigue. The girl felt a pang of sorrow. She understood his obsession with humanity, but how could a human with thirty-six trillion cells cram his consciousness into the body of a paramecium?
It was a profound torment, a ravaging of the spirit that left his hard-won humanity fractured.
Especially after the draw between Lorgar and Guilliman, the girl could sense Alexander's spirit tightening further. Not just because Guilliman's heavy injuries backlashed onto him—Guilliman was a good card, but Alexander had lost him.
Alexander slowly played another card. As it landed on the table, he no longer appeared so at ease.
The girl's gaze returned to the board. Lion El'Jonson. A card that wouldn't make mistakes but was also conventional. The Lion was never the best choice, but even in the worst times, he was a card that could be relied upon.
Naturally, the girl countered by playing the Russ card. The Lion and the Wolf were evenly matched, but the Russ in her hand was far more powerful than the original. He was equipped with the Spear of Dionysus. She believed Alexander had made a tactical error; once Russ defeated the Lion, the girl would hold a massive advantage in the final round.
She would win!
Where did the duel between the Wolf and the Lion originate?
A dispute over a kill. Of course, the Lion claimed it wasn't a hunt; it was combat—not a "hunt" as Russ proclaimed. The Dark Angels were not beasts or barbarians like the Space Wolves—that is what the Lion had said then.
The Lion had severed the head that Russ had sworn to take, and Russ had flown into a rage, leading to their brawl.
Now, remembering the past, the Lion had to admit: it was a hunt. A struggle for prey. The Lion had torn the head off the prey before the Wolf could. When facing Russ, the Lion's childhood surfaced. Before he was a knight, he was a beast of the woods. He hunted; he ate raw flesh; he was of the same kind as the beasts of Caliban. When he met Russ and smelled that similar animal scent, that part of him naturally awoke, instinctively snatching the prey from Russ's jaws. How delightful it was... the Lion had to admit that.
He remembered fighting Russ to the end, the entire fortress collapsing around them. In the ruins, Russ had laughed with abandon, while the Lion had remained grim-faced, asking if he surrendered.
"House pet, tell me, do you know how to laugh?" Lion El'Jonson stood in the snow, looking at the Russ before him.
This Russ tilted his head, showing a near-perfect smile. "I am always smiling, brother."
Lion El'Jonson gathered a mouthful of saliva and spat at Russ's feet.
This was something he had learned from the pups of Fenris. In Fenrisian tradition, this act meant warding off evil—expelling the filth clinging to another.
Russ did not show a single word's worth of anger. He was so restrained. He raised the Spear of Dionysus, his movements so precise it was as if he were a machine built solely to wield this weapon. Not a single movement was wasted.
"You are truly... loathsome," the Lion stated his disgust plainly.
Fealty let out a roar, the power field shrieking like lightning. The Lion took a step, his figure vanishing into the dense woods.
Russ did not panic. He remained calm, lowering his stance, his eyes alertly scanning the surroundings.
A few forest leaves fell, and the Lion's figure suddenly appeared, like a beast lunging from the shadows at its target.
But Russ's reaction was clean and decisive. The spear in his hand swung in the simplest arc, the sharp point stopping right in the Lion's path, thrusting toward his face. The Lion was forced to pivot his steps, twisting his body to bring the Emperor's Shield into a clash with the Spear of Dionysus. Strength—the raw power made the Lion's arm go numb, nearly costing him his balance.
This Russ was more powerful than the one from Fenris. He had clearly not wasted a single day on wine, food, or revelry. Every day on Terra had been spent honing his martial arts, undergoing training that was harsh even for a Primarch, eventually forging this exquisite yet minimalist skill.
And it wasn't just martial skill...
The Lion felt a splitting headache; his nerves were screaming. It was psychic power—not the ambiguous, flashy sorcery of the other Russ, but a pure, direct, and effective mental assault. It caused the Lion's movements to stall for a fraction of a second.
Russ seized that moment. His spearhead, as light as a willow leaf, darted toward the Lion's throat.
The Lion's beast-like reflexes acted before his judgment. Fealty struck the side of the Spear of Dionysus. Sparks flew, and the spearhead slowed slightly due to the friction, giving the Lion a window. He jerked his head to the side, letting the spearhead graze his cheek, while slamming his shield directly at Russ's face. Russ smiled and pulled back the spear, dodging in an extreme fashion.
Lion and Wolf wove between each other, steps crossing as the snow swirled. They feinted, took risks, and struck with vicious decisiveness. The very air was shredded by their exchange. Yet not a single blow landed a true wound. Russ knew the Lion was a beast at heart; once those jaws clamped down and blood was drawn, there would be no escaping—the wound would only grow. The Lion was wary of the spear; the power within the Spear of Dionysus was so great that a single puncture would force him to face his inner truth.
Fealty and the Spear of Dionysus collided at the sharpest of angles. Blade and spear ground against each other, moving in tight orbits. The spear darted for the Lion's thigh; the sword slashed for Russ's face. But at the last moment, they broke apart again, pulling back to a seemingly safe distance.
"Coward," the Lion cursed. Russ had been the one to move the spear away first.
"It is called reason, my brother," Russ said, lowering the spearhead with a smile.
"Are you f***ing Guilliman?" the Lion blurted out.
The Lion settled his mind. He was certain now: he could kill this Russ. He couldn't kill the real Russ, but this one—though stronger—could be slain.
The Lion wore a smile that was almost cruel. It wasn't a human cruelty; it was the cruelty of a beast, the cruelty of a solitary predator lurking in the woods. The Lion knew that both he and Russ were beasts, but they were different kinds. Russ was a wolf—a pack animal, seemingly savage but highly social.
The Lion was a solitary beast, a forest hunter—seemingly calm, but in truth, the most ruthless.
He was releasing his childhood self...
Leaving it to instinct, leaving it to the wild...
He cast aside the Emperor's Shield, completely abandoning defense. With only Fealty as his claw, he pointed the blade at Russ. He had to be faster, more vicious; he had to know the way of the beast's slaughter.
There was only one chance. Victory would be decided in a single breath.
He breathed out softly, then in.
Russ watched, completely failing to understand what he was doing or why he would discard his defense.
All technique was discarded. Only the pale claws forged into his genes thrust toward the house pet. The agony of the spear piercing his shoulder flared.
Russ looked at the Lion with a cold sneer, as if mocking his stupidity. He had abandoned his defense, and finally even his mind, rushing forward like an animal only to impale himself on the Spear of Dionysus. The spear was the Spear of Truth; the Lion would be dragged into his inner truth, wandering within it, unable to—
The Lion raised Fealty like a lion raising its claws.
"How?" Russ was incredulous.
"To hell with you. I don't care. I am a beast." The Lion bared a savage smile. Veins bulged on his forehead as the truth evoked by the spear tried to overwhelm his soul. But he was a beast, and beasts do not understand "truth." Relying on animal instinct, he swung his sword.
It must be said that this Russ's martial skill was indeed superb. The moment the Lion's blade fell, he twisted his body. The Lion's blade hacked into his shoulder, shearing off the entire arm that held the Spear of Dionysus. Russ let out a roar and slammed his body into the Lion's sword-arm. Influenced by the spear, the Lion's reaction was also slightly delayed; Fealty was knocked flying. But the Lion did not retreat. He let out a mad laugh as the Spear of Dionysus slipped from his body, and then he tackled Russ directly.
Russ was completely unprepared for this. The two Primarchs tumbled into the snow, into the mud churned up by their repeated trampling.
"House pet, have you ever fought like this?"
The Lion laughed cruelly, his fists raining down on Russ's head like hailstones. This was the greatest flaw of this Russ: he wasn't savage enough. He had trained extensively on the training grounds, but he had never fought horrifying beasts in the snowfields like the original Russ. This was his weakness, and the Lion happened to be a horrifying beast.
The Lion opened his mouth and bit into this Russ's nose, tearing it off with raw force. Then he reached out both hands and throttled Russ's neck.
"Die, you house pet!!!"
The Lion let out a feral roar, spitting the nose back into Russ's face, covering him in blood and saliva.
Russ struggled, twisting, trying to flip onto the Lion. The two Primarchs rolled through the snow, fighting savagely with fists and teeth.
This Russ was growing; the Lion could sense it. As the brawl continued, he was gradually learning the beast's way of fighting.
"ROAR!!!" A feral howl, almost like a wolf's, erupted from Russ's throat. He slammed his head into the Lion's, again and again, with violent force. Finally, he found an opening, flipping over and pinning the Lion to the ground, hands around his throat.
"I win," Russ grinned savagely.
The Lion said nothing, his fingers clawing at the snow beside him.
A blade pierced through Russ's body, skewering both hearts in a single strike. The technique was exquisite.
Russ's eyes widened, looking at the blade in the Lion's hand with incomprehension. It was the frost blade—the one Horus had knocked away earlier. The Lion had spotted it long ago and deliberately guided the mud-brawl toward it.
Cunning...
The Lion withdrew the frost blade, kicked Russ away, and used the weapon to prop himself up.
"House pet, beasts are naturally cunning... even more so when they are Knights."
The Lion watched as Russ's body ceased moving. A bitter smile touched his lips, and he fell to one knee. The truth released by the Spear of Dionysus was eroding his will. Just for a moment... just for a moment...
The girl looked at the Lion and Russ cards, both of which had grayed out on the table. She shook her head slightly. Another draw.
"Now then," she mused, "it is time to play... the Warmaster card."