Looking at Lancelot on the field, the Crimson Angels were in fact fully prepared.
The target of this trap was indeed exactly as Lancelot had guessed: the Emperor’s hateful traitor in this inverted world, the fallen Primarch of the First Legion, slave of the God of Schemes, the Blue-Winged Lion King, Lion El’Jonson.
Because of that, when the Crimson Angels looked at Lancelot, there was no wavering in their eyes.
Even though Lancelot did not currently possess an aura on the level of a Primarch at all, in their eyes, all of that was merely a disguise adopted by that mysterious fallen Primarch.
They believed that the trap laid by their own Primarch must have captured that scheming beast of Caliban.
After all, everything before them perfectly matched their Primarch’s expectations.
If the traitor Lion really had been lured here and stepped into the trap, then the situation he displayed would be exactly like Lancelot’s current state.
What?
You say you are only an ordinary Dark Angel?
Then how did you silently break through everyone’s senses, arrive at this place, and still have the nerve to investigate secrets between Primarchs?
This had to be the cunning Lion, transformed into the appearance of an ordinary Astartes.
And at that very moment, outside the arena, Thunderhawk gunships carried Crimson Angels one after another to the spectator stands of the dueling ground.
A force field like mithril descended, sealing the entire circular arena into a cage cut off from the world.
The warriors outside could enter and participate in this duel, but if one wanted to leave, one had to defeat every person within the dueling ground one by one.
Furthermore, the method of combat was limited to melee.
All ranged weapons were rendered ineffective.
Even the disruption field of a power sword had been suppressed until it was only a little sharper than ordinary iron.
The Crimson Angel veterans stood ready.
This was a place for a death match, and also a place meant to delay.
Everyone looked at Lancelot before them.
Their combat instincts told them that this black-armored warrior, who appeared to be only plainly adorned, was terrifyingly powerful.
That only made them even more certain that Lancelot was a disguised Primarch.
But even knowing that their opponent was once a Legion Primarch, one of the greatest gods of war in the galaxy, not a single member of the Crimson Angels Legion retreated.
They had to stall him.
Their strategic objective at this moment was very simple: delay.
When this colosseum trap had been designed, the restriction of one-on-one combat had been added precisely to buy time.
The Crimson Angels responsible for guarding this place had only one task: use gladiatorial combat to hold back the fallen Primarch who entered the trap.
Their mission was to delay until their Legion Mistress, the Emperor’s loyal daughter, arrived.
Delay until the power to punish the fallen descended.
Even if they had to pay with their lives, they would keep the traitorous fallen Lion King trapped within this tiny arena.
This is bad…
Lancelot glanced at the increasing number of red-armored Astartes gathering around him and immediately raised both hands.
“My battle-brothers!
There may be some kind of misunderstanding here.
I need to speak with a Primarch!”
Lancelot said this, but none of the people before him took his bewitching words to heart.
On the contrary, they only felt that Lancelot was trying to stall for time.
Thus, after noticing this intention, a warrior wearing a golden laurel crown and carrying a longsword and storm shield immediately strode toward Lancelot.
He had the bearing of a Company Champion.
Some mechanism within the force field seemed to complete its judgment.
The red sand appeared to automatically clear out a circular area, granting Lancelot and the Crimson Angels’ Company Champion before him space for a one-on-one duel.
Thud, thud, thud!
His heavy steps slammed into the red sand, sending fragments flying.
The longsword in his hand lit with a faint blue glow.
His body shot forward like an arrow loosed from the string as he charged into Lancelot with his shield.
He held nothing back.
Every move was a sharp killing blow.
His blade went straight for the heart, his cuts were fierce, and his thrusts were viciously angled.
His stance was completely that of a man fighting with his life on the line.
Lancelot had no choice but to raise the longsword in his hand and parry the Company Champion’s attacks.
Without question, as the face of a company, the other man’s duty was to kill high-threat enemy targets in one-on-one combat.
Those who could become Company Champions all possessed fighting power worthy of being called top-tier Astartes.
Even so, the Secret-Keeper System had granted Lancelot the bearing of a veteran of countless wars, allowing him to adapt to his opponent’s attacks with exceptional ease.
A combat score of ninety-five far surpassed an ordinary Company Champion.
According to tabletop rules, three hundred points already reached the level of a Primarch.
At present, Lancelot had at least stepped beyond the level of a common battle-brother and reached the level of a hero.
So in the face of the sword’s edge, Lancelot only shifted his body slightly.
His footwork moved laterally in small increments, yet it was so fast that it left behind only a faint afterimage.
By the barest margin, he nimbly avoided the deadly sword strike before him.
The blade scraped across his armor, throwing up a spray of sparks, but it did not even touch his flesh.
Before the veteran could recover his stance, Lancelot lightly turned his wrist and used only the spine of his sword, striking with perfect precision against the wrist armor of the hand gripping the sword.
Clang!
A crisp sound rang out.
The force was as heavy as a mountain, yet perfectly controlled.
The veteran felt a sharp pain in the webbing of his hand.
An irresistible force surged through the hilt of his sword, instantly numbing his palm.
Immediately afterward, Lancelot kicked out, sending the other man flying.
The process was not fast.
In fact, it was even a little slow.
To a Primarch, even the mightiest Astartes was no more than a slightly larger ant.
But at that moment, the Company Champion who had been kicked away only felt tightness in his chest and shortness of breath.
He knelt on one knee, looked at the power sword in the distance, then reached up and touched his own chest.
In his own expectations, his defeat might have been inevitable, but he had never imagined that the consequences of losing would be so minor.
Normally, after taking that kick, the armor over his chest should have completely caved in, and he should have been gravely wounded and on the brink of death in an instant.
But in reality, nothing of the sort had happened.
Lancelot had sent him away with perfectly controlled force.
It made little sense.
How could someone who had fallen into a trap remain so composed?
Logically, his most urgent task should have been to kill everyone present, then break free from this cage.
Yet the being before them had not done so.
Either this was within his expectations, or he had absolute confidence that he could escape from here.
With that thought, a second Crimson Angel clad in Terminator armor immediately stepped into the arena.
Without the slightest hesitation, his power fist thunderously charged, then came howling toward Lancelot.
Once again, Lancelot turned lightly and dodged.
In the next instant, the chops, cuts, rising slashes, and thrusts flowing from his hand grew increasingly ruthless.
The Terminator veteran gave it everything he had.
His hydraulic joints operated at full output, and his figure moved as fast as a specter.
Yet no matter how he attacked, he could not so much as touch a corner of the Lion’s clothing.
As the battle continued, Lancelot’s combat posture could almost be called art.
There were no unnecessary movements.
No explosive bursts of brute force.
Every evasion was precise to the extreme.
Every block was perfectly measured.
With a light tap of the sword’s spine and a slight turn of his wrist, he could easily disperse all of his opponent’s force.
He was like an unmoving mountain, standing steady where he was no matter how violently the Crimson Angel before him attacked.
The warriors of the First Legion were swordmasters by nature.
And the title of veteran of countless wars described not only experience.
More importantly, it meant that his individual combat ability had already reached the peak of an ordinary Space Marine.