Sss-laa—
Such a ferocious pounce tore shockwaves in the air mid-flight.
In the blink of an eye, Lion El'Jonson crossed more than ten meters, lunging straight for Roboute Guilliman.
His fist tightened hard, as if the next second it would smash into that infuriating face.
Make him pay for the foolishness of ten thousand years ago!
It happened so fast that even the attendants didn't have time to react.
In Guilliman's sight:
That dark-green figure was no longer a primarch, but the most savage beast of Caliban's forests, surging at him with millennia of pent-up rancor and fury.
A duel between the two had become inevitable.
Worse, because of the Lion's sudden assault, he had no space to dodge at all and had to meet it head-on.
In his pupils, his brother's fist grew larger and larger. He knew that knuckle sandwich was about to crater his face.
Leave him utterly humiliated.
"Roboute, you can't run!"
The Lion's lips pulled into a triumphant grin in mid-air. He knew that punch would make that bastard's face blossom into bruises and cost him all his dignity.
Just like when they'd fought before.
This time, he'd make Guilliman beg for mercy and admit to the stupidity back then.
Especially that Codex Astartes—every last copy should be tossed into the washroom and turned into toilet-side farce for people's amusement.
Clang!
A crisp impact rang off high-grade alloy.
The Lion's expression changed. His fist hadn't struck its target, but crashed into an impossibly hard storm-shield of auramite.
The counter-punch of its force field blasted him away.
Custodians.
A shield-wall formed by the Ten Thousand had intercepted the Lion's strike and hurled him back.
As the Imperium's absolute combat apex, the Adeptus Custodes' coordination was terrifying, capable of unleashing staggering battlefield power—
Like an unstoppable killing engine.
Which is why so many forget the Custodes' original purpose—being the Emperor's own bodyguard, the shield of that august being; a force founded for protection above all.
Deadly in war as they are, their core craft—close-protection—is peerless. In the entire galaxy, no equal exists.
Now more than a dozen Aquilon Terminators locked shields into a wall around Roboute Guilliman, sealing him in without the slightest gap.
So dense a bulwark could halt a massed army's charge; even super-heavy bombardment would struggle to break it.
Let alone the Lion. He could hardly shatter such a phalanx in seconds—especially with another primarch on the field to complicate things.
The Shield-Captain lifted an Aquila-embossed Praesidium storm shield. Force-light shimmered over his armor.
His voice was firm with warning. "Primarch, mind the danger of your aggression.
If you again attempt to strike a primarch under the Savior's protection, expect the Custodes to retaliate."
In an instant, the plaza fell silent.
On one side stood the Ultramarines' primarch in resplendent war-plate, guarded by Custodes; on the other, the Lion in battered armor, half-kneeling and not yet risen.
Anyone could see the difference at a glance.
After ten millennia, the gulf in their treatment told a dozen touching stories to the onlookers' imaginations.
It made the Lion feel his own fallen state all the more.
If he weren't a primarch, they'd probably have pinned him to the ground already, wouldn't they?
He wouldn't even have the chance to look that nuisance in the eye.
"Damn it, how does he have Custodes as bodyguards?!"
The Lion's chest tightened.
That itch of wanting to hit someone and being unable to was sheer agony.
Of course, with his strength today, he could blow through a Custodian shield-wall if he really didn't care.
But the cost would be steep—and there'd be casualties. That wasn't what he wanted.
Even a primarch cannot bear the sin of attacking and harming the Custodes; the Imperium—and the Emperor—would treat it as betrayal.
In other words, that bastard Guilliman now had an invincible defense. He couldn't touch him!
Worse—
"Why did Father give the Custodes to the Savior—and to this self-important fool!"
The Lion looked at the pest inside that shield-wall and the Ten Thousand around him, and a sting of jealousy pricked his heart.
All the primarchs longed to have these peerless warriors as their guard. Marching out with them? Pure majesty.
And supreme safety, too.
But from the Great Crusade to now, no one had been able to command those proud warriors—save the Savior.
The Lion had once quietly asked Father to "borrow" a few Custodians to fight alongside him; he'd been flatly refused.
And severely scolded.
Yet now Father—the Emperor—had given the Custodes to the Savior and to Roboute, leaving him with none.
Favoritism. Blatant favoritism!
The Lion's heart went sour. To him, it felt like the Emperor had handed all the family wealth to the others and left his eldest to weather the wind and rain alone.
Truly pitiful.
"Jealous wretch, you envy that I have Father's guard, don't you? Too bad—you're not getting any."
Arms folded, Guilliman looked down at the desolate Lion with no small satisfaction.
His words cut deep:
"If you'd beg me—and apologize for what you just did—perhaps I could arrange something. But knowing your nature, you won't apologize."
These Custodians were elite hand-picked by the Savior—arranged especially for his good brother Roboute, so that the "melee-a-bit-too-eager" primarch wouldn't get laid out again.
That would harm the Redemption Crusade's momentum; Roboute's security had to be airtight.
Also, well, a way to keep an eye on him—
So the primarch who loved leading from the front wouldn't blunder into a trap.
At first Guilliman had bristled, feeling his brother underestimated his prowess. It was an insult!
But at the Savior's insistence, he'd accepted it.
Frankly, within the Imperium's borders, only the Savior could talk another primarch down like that without sparking a feud.
Just look back ten thousand years—even before Chaos' taint, they'd piled up grievances and sparked fights.
Flaws aplenty, every one of them.
Now, after the Custodian phalanx had easily stalled the Lion, leaving him helpless, Guilliman admitted: walking out with the Ten Thousand did feel glorious.
"Brother Eden's arrangements are truly sound. Worthy of my best brother!"
He embraced the new normal on the spot, heart light, and decided he'd travel with Custodes from now on.
"Coward—cowering behind the Custodes' shields and trembling? Ten thousand years on, and you still don't even have the courage to face me?"
Knowing he couldn't brute-force the wall, the Lion switched tactics to verbal artillery.
He snorted in contempt. "I've read your carefully penned Codex Astartes. Permit me to be blunt—it's a gilt-edged piece of reeking dung.
Granted, it may be one of the strongest 'weapons' in the galaxy.
It solved eight of the Emperor's Astartes Legions in one go—no other weapon could boast that.
That's its only value: gutting the Imperium's strength. As for the Imperium, it's scarcely soft enough to wipe with."
A masterclass in toxic snark, laid on thick. Yet after the combo landed, the Ultramarines' primarch didn't react.
The Lion was taken aback. "So Roboute has grown. He can endure humiliation like this without charging out from behind the shields."
Provoked too easily—that had been one of Guilliman's weaknesses.
Just as the Lion thought his brother had matured—no longer swayed by taunts—a furious voice came from behind the shields.
"Jealous wretch, you've succeeded in angering me. You'll regret this!"
Behind the Custodian wall, Guilliman's sore spot had been stabbed cleanly—and now he was a little red-hot.
It couldn't be helped; ordinary barbs wouldn't rattle a primarch. But the Codex Astartes? That wound never quite healed.
Especially when the Lion brought it up to mock him. That hurt.
A head-shot critical—taunt potency maxed.
The kind you remember years later and still go red just thinking about.
"You want a duel? I'll grant your wish!"
Guilliman stormed out of the shields, intent on settling this one-on-one.
The Shield-Captains moved to stop him leaving the bulwark, but seeing his resolve, they stood aside.
This wasn't a to-the-death struggle between primarchs. They had no right to forbid brothers to hash out their grudges.
At his order, the Custodes collapsed the phalanx and cleared space—room enough for a primarchs' brawl. Let them have a good, clean fight.
"Come on then, you coward. This time I'm pounding you straight back onto your stasis-field throne."
The Lion rolled his shoulders; a light squeeze of his fist cracked the air in a menacing pop.
Power, manifest.
He also stood a little taller than Guilliman—more heavily muscled too—like some vicious apex predator.
On the face of it, he had the edge.
And the Lion could feel it—he was stronger than Roboute.
By the Savior's own metric, now that he'd accepted "the essence," he was at least one-and-a-half Guillimans.
He'd already decided what to say later—the moment that self-important fool fell for a simple provocation with no guard up—
He would give him the lesson he deserved!
Guilliman drew a deep breath and readied himself. Then, with a roar, he charged.
"Lion!"
His favorite tactic: plunge into the enemy and, with "advanced tactics," make a frontal assault.
In other words: bull straight in.
"Guilliman!"
The Lion gathered all his strength and threw a punch.
Two primarchs crashed together mid-air; the impact of their fists detonated the air.
Boom—
Shockwaves rolled out in rippling rings.
Before Roboute could reset, the Lion drove another heavy blow for his nose.
A fixation of his—and that self-important fellow was proud of his aristocratically aquiline bridge.
Tag that, and he'd really crack.
Old enemies both, they knew each other's secrets and soft spots—and how to target them.
But before the Lion's knuckles found Roboute's nose, he caught a fleeting smile in the other's eyes—the smile of a sprung trap.
His heart lurched. He tried to pull the punch and break away.
Too late.
Vmmm—
In the Lion's sight:
Guilliman's gorgeous plate flared with a dozen auroral lights. Halos spun around his frame.
The Savior's special rebuild—Armor of Fate, "safety version." Inside that generous war-plate were at least fifteen distinct shields, fields, and layered defenses.
Whale-tier god-gear!
Never mind ordinary weapons—caught head-on, even a Titan's guns could be tanked for a bit!
Truly, the Savior had worried himself sick over Roboute's safety—so he'd never be blindsided again.
Thud!
The Lion felt his fist hit an alloy wall—then get sucked like it was stuck in glue.
"Not good—my movement's locked!"
He reacted hard, yanked his hand free to guard—only for his vision to go black. Pain exploded in his own nose.
He hadn't tagged Roboute's nose. His own had been critted.
What an indignity.
The Lion sprang back, forcing down the sting and tears in his eyes.
He looked at that splendid turtle-shell of an armor and felt his heart twist. Losing to the Savior was one thing.
Losing to this nuisance? Unbearable. Too bitter!
If the pest didn't have that plate, the one clutching his nose would be the other guy!
"Brother, the same trick won't work twice. And I won't fall for your taunts again."
Roboute stretched, thoroughly pleased. "This is a suit my best brother gave me. The defense is absurd. You won't be cracking it lightly."
At the mention of the Savior, warmth welled in him. That was his best brother, after all.
He'd done so much.
To help Roboute overcome his weak spots, besides equipping Custodian guards and heavy force-field armor, the Savior had also put him through targeted training—
Little seminars on spotting snares and conspiracies, immersion drills for withering trash-talk, and so on.
Harshest of all were the live-fires. Sparring with the Khan and others under the Emperor's blistering banter—they'd rout in tatters, crying on the spot.
After that hell-camp, Roboute had high taunt-resistance. He didn't tilt easily.
Earlier, when the Lion riled him, he'd been annoyed, sure—but not enough to step out of the wall.
Because compared to the Emperor, the Lion's venom was amateur hour—hardly enough to make him lose it.
It had all been bait—use the Lion's overconfidence and the armor's force-fields to land a payback crit.
Old debt, settled.
That one punch left Roboute clear-headed and gloriously refreshed.
Hearing Roboute explain it, though, the Lion's mood dimmed.
Especially the way he kept saying "the Savior."
The Savior, Guilliman, the Khan; the Emperor; Father—things had happened among them of late. To the Imperium, too. He knew none of it. He had nothing.
Especially the Custodes.
He felt like an outsider.
The Lion's gaze drifted to the Savior's statue behind Roboute, and a stray thought rose unbidden:
In our world, there shouldn't be you. Everything belongs to that man, and only I have nothing.
It felt like being ostracized, even bullied—his brothers thriving together, happy; none of them calling him to war.
He turned grief to fuel and sprang at Roboute again, tearing down layer after layer of shields.
And Roboute, seeing it, powered down his fields too. They clinched and slugged it out, each punch landing with meat-thudding weight.
Before long both primarchs were swollen and bruised, strength ebbing. Even with the armor's edge, Roboute looked the worse for wear.
Fortunately, nothing serious.
At last, the two lay back on the plaza stones, laughing, heads turned to the sky—the bad blood spent.
What remained was brotherhood.
After all, they'd built the Second Imperium together; among primarchs, theirs was one of the better bonds.
"Tell me everything, Roboute."
The Lion rose, then offered his hand. With a grin he hauled Guilliman up. "I need to know about the Savior and the Imperium. The Knights of Caliban and the Forbidden Legion want to pull weight for the Imperium's situation."
After that, the primarch learned the Savior's deeds, the state of the Imperium, and Father's current condition.
A glint of joy touched his eyes. "When this campaign ends, I'm going to Dawn City to see Father!"
Since that calamity, he hadn't seen the Emperor whole again.
Now the Emperor had a cloned body—able to move in the world. That was good news indeed.
"That fallen primarch is about to invade our world."
The Lion, in turn, told Roboute about the terrifying fallen brother from his dreams—the unknown enemy the Savior had long hunted and warned of.
Highly likely to appear in Vostonia.
He'd decided to take the Extinction War Machines ahead of the column and build a defense—to shield that crucial Imperial industrial zone.
Roboute supported the choice.
Since his brother could maneuver so quickly, advance guard was sound doctrine.
He'd stabilize the theater and set the table for arriving forces.
If not for the need to wait for his own formations to muster, he'd have gone too.
He showered the Lion with weapons, munitions, and forbidden relics, then, before departure, handed over a stasis-field lunchbox. "Brother, I kept you something nice."
Inside: meat from a mutant Great Unclean One of Nurgle—a fragrant, steaming pile of dung. His revenge for the Codex crack.
What happened next, none could say. They only knew that when the Lion left, a tiny tear glittered at the corner of his eye.
Soon after, Roboute received an emergency communique from the Savior.
A top-tier warning: both primarchs were to rendezvous with the main host and only then proceed to the Vostonia panstellar region.
Otherwise, Chaos could encircle and annihilate them.
The red sigils blinked like wounds.
To draw such caution from the Savior said everything about the foe.
At least Apocalypse-grade war—worlds falling one after another, an entire theater turning to a sea of blood, countless lives dying in agony.
"Not good. I have to stop the Lion!"
He thought of his brother, gave chase—but the forest held no trace.
Which meant the Lion and his people had already left the planet—for Vostonia.
Roboute stared at the empty woods, brows knit.
"This is trouble…"
(End of Chapter)
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