Because of the earlier oracle, the people of the Kalist System already knew the Savior was about to descend.
He was the holy being dispatched by the Emperor, the one who bore the sacred sword and could deliver everyone.
When they saw the towering, sword-bearing silhouette refracted through the dark-crimson mist, they assumed the Savior had come and could not help chanting His name.
From there, the news spread with astonishing speed, like a tide rolling outward.
First there were bursts of wild cheering in the surrounding districts, then in the western front, and finally across the entire battlefield, the hive-fortresses, and beyond into more regions.
"Savior, Savior, the Savior has descended!"
It was as if the entire world was yearning for and calling out to that being.
"What majesty… what command over hearts…"
Inside the mist, the Lion also heard the rising roar of the crowd, even his own gene-sons were crying out for the Savior.
The Lion's face fell even further.
Those gene-sons and the mortal soldiery had all mistaken him for that Savior.
More astonishing still was the Savior's sheer power of appeal; perhaps only when his father—the Emperor—Himself descended did anything compare.
Only then was there an impact like this, right?
Fortunately, as the master of the I Legion, the Lion of Caliban, he too was a legend. When he descended upon certain worlds, the people welcomed him with undivided zeal.
So when he revealed himself shortly, it would not be too embarrassing, nor would it cripple morale.
Given the present state of things, if the one arriving were not a legend but merely an ordinary Chapter Master, the planet's will to resist would assuredly suffer.
As the Lion kindled his sword and closed in, he sensed a change in the Khorne Greater Daemon.
"Sa… Savior?!"
Staring at the body that, magnified by the mist, seemed even larger than his own, the Bloodthirster's hoarse, twisted voice carried a note of disbelief.
Then came fear.
A name carries a shadow.
He recalled the terrible deeds of that Daemon-Eater, that Savior—swallowing daemons alive, beating chosen champions to death, demi-god slayings, and more.
Worse, not long ago he had watched the Savior himself drive a war engine across Blood-Soil, grinding all beneath it and even ramming over the Blood God.
What a horrifying existence.
The Savior wrestling the Blood God like a "Hundred-Ton King" had left a vast psychic scar in the Khornate ranks. Hardly any daemon still had the heart to march.
If not for the word sent out by the Dark Gods—that the Savior was not on Vostonia, and that they had groomed a Four Gods' Co-Chosen capable of facing him—
—perhaps they would never have invaded this realspace theatre so quickly.
Now the Chaos host would arrive in force, the largest incursion in millennia.
They would weave a mega-hex across a thousand worlds, a witch-engine of sacrifice to make this star-domain the Savior's tomb and utterly unravel the Imperium's reborn hope.
Turn it into a playground of Chaos.
Yet to think that the moment they began, the Savior would appear—and on the very world this Bloodthirster had chosen to invade?
Blood God, what should he do?!
Backpedaling in fright, the Bloodthirster beat his wings, leapt to a colossal structure to the rear, and stared with fearful doubt.
If the newcomer truly was the Savior, he needed to flee far, pray for the summoning of that Fourfold-Chosen, the one said to have beaten the Supreme Blood-drunk Fiend, to come and face him.
Nor was it only him. As word of the Savior's advent spread, more daemons turned wary, their offensive slackening at once.
"They're afraid. The foul abominations fear the Savior!"
"By the God-Emperor, we are saved…"
Seeing the daemons' shift, the Grand Preacher and the others only grew more expectant, more excited.
Their estimation of the Savior rose again; in their hearts he loomed even greater, even more holy.
People brimmed with anticipation.
They wanted to witness the Savior with their own eyes.
At that moment, the sword-bearing silhouette in the vapor was the focus of all gazes; human and daemon alike waited for him to step forth.
Boom—
A wrecked Heldrake smashed into the ground, blossoming into a massive explosion whose shock wave blew the mist away.
The figure within was laid bare to all.
In a breath, the entire battlefield held its breath because of the newcomer's appearance; even artillery and gunfire paused for a heartbeat.
He was a figure more than three meters tall, wearing a black hooded mantle. The gust lifted his hood and revealed a bearded face cut in stark lines.
He looked every inch an aged king of warriors. Time had steeped him in hardship and wisdom, and a fearsome aura bled from him.
"I am Lion El'Jonson—Lion of Caliban, Primarch of the First Legion, the Emperor's faithful son…"
At last the Lion had a chance to speak. He raised his head to meet their eyes and declared himself.
Yet he found no awe or joy in their faces. Only disappointment.
What?
The Lion's first arrival on this battlefield was a total flop, bringing not a whiff of morale.
It actually lowered it.
That is the tyranny of expectations. If not for the Savior's phantasmal spectacle having whipped the crowd into wild hope…
Then the Lion's return would have earned cheers and reverence.
Then they would have rallied to him, launched a thunderous charge, and crushed every heretic and abomination in one sweep.
But in their minds they had pictured a glittering, golden giant—holy sword in hand, special effects blazing—through and through the Savior.
What stood before them was an older warrior in a black cloak.
The gap was simply too great.
Not just the mortal soldiery—even Dark Angels present failed to react. It was as if they had not even processed what this older warrior had said.
Their minds held only a single thought:
"We're doomed. It's a stranger in a black cloak. The holy and great Savior didn't come!"
So the morale that had surged on the rumor of "the Savior's descent" dropped straight down.
The battle-fury that had spread over the field vanished, and a faint dejection began to seep out.
No one cheered the Lion's return, nor offered any words. It was as if he had simply shown up. Oh well.
He was no Savior.
"…"
The Lion stood there, at a loss for words.
His scalp tingled. This might be the most awkward entrance of his life.
Had the galaxy truly forgotten the First Legion's master, the Lion?
Had his own gene-sons failed to recognize him?!
A sorrow pricked him then. He had not thought a legend could fall so far.
In this world, a being without prestige cannot accomplish anything. No warrior will follow.
Before they are mastered, the proud will never obey orders, and there is no hope of winning a great war.
Indeed, the Emperor's own disaster had much to do with the long silence within the Imperial Palace, hidden from legions and war.
Whispers of ill omen, coupled with the Ruinous Powers' fomenting, had gnawed away at His prestige.
He could not quell the rebellious pride of his gene-sons.
Had the Emperor still moved among the armies in those days, Horus would never have dared conceive rebellion. At his first stirrings, others would have pinned him to the deck—
—then thrashed him and offered him up to the Emperor in sworn loyalty.
This is why the Savior labored so hard to craft atmosphere. To stay hidden and far from military command is perilous.
Aside from the Emperor, no emperor dares such recklessness. And even then, Calamity forced His hand.
He thought he could bear it, and Terra was besieged.
The Savior studied and absorbed the lesson in full. Each appearance he maintained sacred awe.
On every world, he arranged a celebration. He inspected mustering grounds on schedule.
The manner of descent shapes image and morale, and forges prestige. It keeps him in view—irregularly, but in the vision of Imperial officials and warriors, aloft over the masses.
Prestige, and deterrence.
Besides that, he put more propaganda engines to work to mold his image.
Otherwise, as prestige ebbed, who could keep the high-born warriors in line?
Even courtiers and administrators of the palaces would hatch unworthy thoughts, and the xenos and Chaotic foe would grow ever more brazen.
But now the Savior's prestige blazed like a noon-star, an inviolable golden body. Few dared even think of assassinating him.
"My lord?"
A delighted voice came from across the way—Grand Preacher Saffo, the first to grasp the truth:
"By the God-Emperor, our Dark Angels' gene-sire, the Lion, has returned!"
Within the Dark Angels' inner circles there had long circulated a prophecy: their Primarch would soon awaken and return to the Imperium. Now, seeing the Lion with his own eyes—
Saffo knew the prophecy had unfolded into reality.
It was the Lion, without doubt. Though older than the portraits suggested, that posture and that aura were inimitable.
More than that, at the instant he saw him, there was a subtle sense of blood calling to blood.
They had only been swept up in the fever of "the Savior's descent," and so overlooked the signs.
"My lord!"
The Dark Angels rallied, performing ancient rites to offer honor to their gene-sire.
Gene-sons thrilled at their Primarch's return, and morale ticked back upward.
It arrested the slide.
Yet the Lion keenly sensed that even now they were not as excited for him as they had been for the Savior. There was a gap.
It stung, if only a little.
Still, at least his gene-sons had not, like the Fallen, run off wholesale to the Savior's banner. That offered him a sliver of comfort.
The Lion was close to growing a complex over it.
Thud.
With a sweep of its wings, the Bloodthirster hopped down from the top of the colossal structure and slammed into the ground.
Sparks of molten rock splashed wide.
It returned to the field, full of swagger.
There was even a hint of glee and scorn: "Hahahaha—by the Blood God, it is not the Savior!"
That roar, carried far, drew howls of joy from the daemons, as if victory were already in their grasp.
As long as it wasn't the Savior, anything was negotiable.
As if, in the human Imperium, aside from the Savior, nothing else was worth a damn.
To the Lion and the Dark Angels, that raucous cheer was salt in the wound.
It could not be helped. The daemons' fear of the Savior was simply too strong; the rumor of his arrival had rattled them.
Now that it wasn't him—
It was like hearing "the Cursed One" had come for their heads and then seeing it was Guilliman without his holy blade—an utter pushover.
How could they not be thrilled?
But in behaving so, the daemons made the Lion feel the gulf between Primarch and Primarch.
It was an insult.
"This has to change…"
The Lion's thought hardened.
He tore off the black cloak and bared the heavy, scarred panoply of a Primarch, laced with dark-tech relics and plates.
It cut a formidable figure.
He had realized his problem: his prestige was lacking. If he did not fix it, no one would be easy to lead.
There was only one way now—find a foe strong enough and make of it a pillar for his renown.
And the Khornate Greater Daemon before him was the perfect target.
"I am not the Savior. But I am more than enough to make you repent in pain."
The Lion did not ignite the blade's power field. He actually sheathed the sword and advanced bare-handed.
He would crush this profane thing in a way no one could forget.
"I know you—an Imperial Primarch. A decent opponent. Your head is mine!"
Newly ascended into the top ranks, the Bloodthirster bellowed and lunged. A colossal fist came hammering down.
The Dark Angels watching held their breath. The size difference was obscene; their gene-sire wasn't half as tall as the daemon.
Yet the Lion did not evade. He clenched his fist and swung to meet it.
Thud—
Knuckles like piledrivers collided, striking a fountain of sparks.
The pressure wave kicked up dust, even peeled tin plates from nearby walls.
"Im… impossible!"
The Bloodthirster stared, eyes wide. The Lion had stopped his punch.
Even a Primarch shouldn't take his punch head-on. He knew this from experience; decades ago, he had floored another Primarch—
Roboute Guilliman of the Ultramarines.
If not for the Primarch's prodigious capacity to recover—to get up again and again, and then to reclaim the holy blade of the Cursed One—
—he'd have killed him already.
He was stronger now than then. Yet a full-force blow had been stopped?!
Unwilling to accept it, he hurled another punch. The air tore; to Astartes eyes, only a red smear remained.
As for ordinary mortals, they could not even register it.
It had ripped past the limits of their eyeballs.
After the air quaked, the Bloodthirster's pupils pin-pricked. The Lion had caught his fist again—this time, with an open palm.
"You're not strong enough."
The Lion let a cold smile slip, squeezed, and pulverized the brass gauntlet—trapping the daemon's fist.
It could not withdraw.
Then came a savage kick. The daemon flew, smashed into the superstructure.
The Dark Angels' spirits surged.
The dread Bloodthirster had been swatted down so easily?
"Die, die, die!"
The daemon's rage spiked; red fire wreathed him as he drew a blood-axe for a killing sweep.
The metal pillars of the colossal edifice popped like foam; a touch, and they were dust.
The gale of axe-edges all but encircled the Lion, as if the next breath would see him severed.
He still used no weapon. He watched his foe, unblinking.
He no longer leaned only on brute strength and stubbornness. He now held another weapon—
Focus.
He had learned patience.
Roboute—that guy—could attend to dozens of things at once and finish them at a pace beyond human. It made him a superb logistician.
But it is for that very reason that, as a warrior, he was merely passable.
At least among Primarchs.
He could not put all of himself into a single matter.
Not focused enough.
With that daily dig at that annoying fellow out of the way, the Lion poured all his attention into the enemy before him.
He stepped like a man at leisure, sliding through the blood-axe's arcs—and paid the daemon back with sledgehammer blows.
In mere seconds the Bloodthirster's frame was bitten in a dozen places. Even the brass war-plate lay in tatters.
The Lion had torn it apart bare-handed. What terrible strength.
"Damn you!"
At last the daemon felt fear. It tried to turn and run.
Too late. More blows came, like a storm—
A single minute later.
The Dark Angels saw the Lion's silhouette emerge. He dragged the Bloodthirster's broken carcass behind him; the shattered superstructure collapsed with a long roar.
It was a sight to sear the soul.
Before their eyes, the Lion tossed the daemon's remains like trash. Its wings were torn, its limbs twisted to unnatural angles.
It said enough of the Lion's might. He had crippled a high-ranking Bloodthirster with his bare hands.
Staring at the gasping abomination, the Lion said:
"Tell your fellow blasphemers this: the Lion shelters Vostonia. No matter how many you send, your fate is annihilation."
Knowing there was no escape, the Bloodthirster choked out its last words in fear:
"Ke-ke-ke… how laughable.
More Chaos hosts are almost here. You cannot protect this place. Not even the Savior can. Slaughter!"
"Let them come."
The Lion did not so much as twitch. He stamped and crushed the daemon's skull, banishing it back to the Hells.
Yet before the Dark Angels could celebrate their gene-sire's destruction of a great foe, the stench of the Warp thickened.
More Chaos troops were descending. Colossal daemon engines and fresh burning hordes were tearing one line after another.
They butchered every living thing they could see.
Human beings howled in pain.
In the trenches—
An Astra Militarum trooper, half mutated, trembled and prayed:
"Great Emperor, please save us helpless lambs…"
Before his eyes the Chaotic tide rolled on. Daemon engines flicked aside roaring super-heavy tanks.
Nothing looked able to stand in the way of that evil.
Despair had arrived.
"My lord, we no longer have the manpower to hold them!"
The Grand Preacher spoke in anguish.
Their gene-sire had just crushed the Bloodthirster like an avalanche.
That was heartening, but a shortage of bodies is a problem no single blade can solve.
Even if their gene-sire is all but unstoppable.
"Do not worry. We will annihilate these daemons."
The Lion seemed untroubled, and said so.
"What?!"
His words shocked the Dark Angels.
"The Proscribed units are in position. Prepare to counter-attack."
The Lion offered no long explanation—only one command after another.
His voice made one feel safe.
Without hesitation the Dark Angels believed. The Lion had just proved his words were not empty.
He could shelter his gene-sons and humanity.
"God-Emperor, the Kalist System is saved. The Vostonia Subsector is saved…"
Grand Preacher Saffo murmured in his heart. Their gene-sire's return had brought a shield.
Even without the Savior, they could defeat the foul abominations.
The Lion gazed at the horizon, at the black mass of the Chaos horde rolling in like a tsunami ten meters high.
He thought, silently: "What the Savior cannot do, let me do. I, the Lion, will shelter Vostonia.
Father… I can guard the Imperium and mankind."
No sooner had his orders gone out than pillars of translation light flared.
People stared in wonder as one after another ugly, many-armed automaton and larger, forbidden battle-vehicles appeared along the lines.
The malign shape of those machines alone made the daemons falter mid-charge.
They were forbidden heirlooms of the dark-tech age, engines of consummate slaughter—
The Extinction Automata Corps.
(End of Chapter)
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