The Fallen Angel snapped his head up, his eyes widening behind the helmet as he stared at the mortal before him in disbelief.
“I said, the Primarch of the Dark Angels, Lion El’Jonson, will also return.” Karen repeated word for word, “I know this sounds as absurd as the ravings of a Chaos Sorcerer, but the best evidence stands right before you—the living, uncorrupted Lord of the Shadow Moon Pale Wolf.
Warrior, all of this is a chess game laid out by the Emperor to save His Empire.” “This must be the Emperor’s great power!!” The Fallen Angel froze completely in place.
The Lion.
Lion El’Jonson.
His genetic father, who had been missing for ten thousand years, was coming back?
Ten thousand years.
He and countless brothers had struggled in endless exile, branded with the infamy of ‘Fallen Angel,’ hunted across the galaxy like wild beasts by their own legion’s successors, captured, and thrown into the interrogation rooms of The Rock with no peace.
Their homeworld destroyed, their father missing, they bore secrets known to no one, barely surviving in the dark mire.
But no matter how fate ground them down, no matter how the world reviled them, in the most secret corners of these veterans’ hearts, there always remained absolute loyalty and hope for that proud Lion.
Even if it was just to see him once more, even if it was to receive the punishment of execution from their genetic father’s own hand, it was better than these ten thousand years of aimless loss and exile.
For this one-in-ten-thousand possibility, he was willing to bet his life.
Meanwhile, his reason was also working frantically, cold calculations spreading rapidly through his mind: First, he couldn’t win.
Even for a Primarch without power armor, killing him with bare hands would be a matter of an instant.
Second, if he truly were that Warmaster corrupted by Chaos, he would have died on Terra ten thousand years ago; there was no way he could appear here in such a clean state.
Third, and most crucially, during the chaotic battle just now, it was the Wolf Shepherd God who helped him resolve the crisis of being surrounded.
If he really wanted his life, he could have just killed him then; there was no need to wait until now.
A long, dead silence fell over the workshop.
The Fallen Angel’s arm lowered, and the combat dagger was cleanly sheathed.
He stepped back and straightened his posture.
With his feet together, his right fist struck heavily against the ceramite armor on his left chest.
This was an ancient salute from the era of the Great Crusade, given by a subordinate to a superior.
Performed by a veteran bearing a legacy of infamy toward a former ten-thousand-year nemesis.
The movement was unfamiliar and stiff, and his voice sounded as if it were squeezed through his teeth.
“I salute you…
Lord of the Shadow Moon Pale Wolf.” The atmosphere finally eased.
The Fallen Angel undid the armor locks at his neck, and with the hissing sound of depressurization, he removed the heavily battle-damaged helmet.
Revealed was a weathered face.
The left side was almost entirely covered in scars, and five gold studs were embedded in his forehead.
This signified that his service time traced back to the Unification Wars of Terra.
“Kulen.” He stated his designation, “Born in the Desha Hive of Terra.
Member of the Dreadwing of the First Legion, Knight of the Third Company, Thirteenth Chapter.” Speaking of this, he curled his lips in self-deprecation: “Now, one of the Fallen Angels being hunted across the universe by the Dark Angels Chapter.” Hearing this designation, Horus raised his eyelids slightly.
Dreadwing.
One of the Six Wings formations of the Dark Angels Legion during the Great Crusade.
They were the coldest and most violent group of killers in the entire First Legion, specifically responsible for indiscriminate slaughter and scorched-earth strategies.
But Kulen’s attention was no longer on the Wolf Shepherd God; he turned to Karen, with confusion and vigilance taking the lead.
“I’ve been living under an assumed name, specifically choosing lawless zones where not even birds would shit to survive.” Kulen’s brow furrowed into a tight knot.
“How on earth did a mortal use what means to precisely dig out an Astartes who was deliberately hiding his tracks in the chaotic Underhive?” Karen spread his hands.
“The graffiti on the third brick up from the corner.
Two crossed swords with a pair of broken wings in the middle.” “The Hexagrammaton.
That was your old legion symbol, am I right?” The scar on Kulen’s face twitched violently.
This kind of Six Wings code was something only veterans from the Great Crusade era understood.
After Caliban broke, the old legion’s heritage had long been severed; even the current Grand Masters who hunt them likely wouldn’t recognize it.
And yet, in this broken black market, a random mortal scavenger had casually exposed his deepest secrets?
Kulen stared intently at Karen.
“To even know our legion’s secrets…
who exactly are you?!”