"Fulfill the duty Father has entrusted to me?"
Lion's brow furrowed, his gaze falling upon the Custodes Tribune, Endymion.
An indescribable sense of doubt welled up in his heart.
If the information he had received since stepping out of the forest contained no errors and was entirely genuine and trustworthy—
The Imperium had not fallen, and human civilization, far from collapsing in iron, fire, and blood, had instead ushered in a era of prosperity he had never imagined.
In that case, why did the Imperium of Man still need him, a Primarch, now?
The Lion fell into deep thought.
Even for the proud Lion, under the premise that the current Imperium possessed Guilliman for logistical coordination, Ferrus for military command, and Sanguinius for individual combat power, it was hard to say what could possibly be lacking in such a lineup.
Three loyalist Primarch brothers had returned, each playing an indispensable role within this colossal war machine that was the Imperium.
What was more, according to that female Knight, a presence capable of rivaling Father had even appeared in the Imperium.
To say the odds were overwhelmingly in their favor would not be an exaggeration in the slightest.
Did Father really need to notify him with such solemn gravity?
He had even uttered words that had never been heard even during the Great Crusade.
Why was that?
However, the pride of a Primarch quickly swept those stray thoughts aside.
He was the Lion of Caliban.
No matter how powerful the Imperium was today, no matter how outstanding his other brothers were, he would undoubtedly be able to do something for humanity and the Imperium of today.
This was a fact that required no external evidence to prove.
The Custodes Tribune seemed to perceive Lion's train of thought.
A flicker of surprise flashed through Endymion's pupils.
Evidently, the Lion's current reaction was beyond his expectations.
Thus, Endymion spoke to explain.
"That is because there is currently a task that perhaps only you are suited to complete."
"The other Primarchs are not suited for this matter."
"What do you mean?"
Lion's brow furrowed even deeper. What did he mean by saying the other Primarchs would find it difficult to accomplish?
"Simply put, this is related to your Warp essence."
Warp essence.
Those words caused Lion's pupils to shrink abruptly.
"What are you referring to?" he pressed in a low voice. "Speak clearly."
Endymion did not elaborate further.
Instead, he merely turned slightly and raised his hand toward the inner side of the shuttle's hatchway—a gesture clearly signaling Lion to step inside.
Lion fell silent for a moment, then strode across the threshold of the hatch.
He asked no further questions.
Because over his long years of service, he had already grown intimately familiar with this.
During the Great Crusade, the Dark Angels Legion was the blade in the shadows.
While other Primarchs enjoyed the cheers and reverence of the people under the spotlight, the Dark Angels were already in the unknown darkness, helping the Imperium and humanity eliminate terrifying threats one after another—threats that would not even be recorded in the history books.
The names of those xenos empires had long been erased from the galaxy, swallowed up alongside every trace of their existence by the secret archives guarded through generations by the First Legion.
Countless secrets that, if leaked, would cause immense negative fallout across the entire Imperium, were carried precisely by these warriors in the shadows.
This was the First Legion.
This was the battlefield Lion was accustomed to.
"First, let me take you to meet some warriors who likewise wish to see you," Endymion said.
With his words, the hatch slowly closed, completely shutting out the wind and the scent of soil from outside.
The shuttle's anti-gravity engines let out a low, powerful roar, the hull vibrating slightly before accelerating toward that city full of a sci-fi aesthetic.
Soon, the vista of this city was reflected in the Lion's eyes through the viewport.
Right now, the shuttle was weaving between the city's soaring skyscrapers.
And between these three-dimensional structures, on those elevated skybridges and the walkways winding along the ground below, humans moved to and fro in dense crowds.
They were rosy-cheeked, full of vitality and energy, bearing no resemblance whatsoever to the gray-faced, numb-expressioned lower-class citizens of the Imperium in Lion's memory.
Without a doubt, even on Terra during the Great Crusade, the lower-class populace had never possessed a life like this.
It was a scene teeming with vibrant life, where all things strived and flourished.
Lion watched quietly for a moment, then gave a slight nod.
In the past, he would not have considered these matters.
He was a Primarch; his cognitive structure was designed for war, for command, for engaging the most horrific enemies on the darkest battlefields.
Perhaps having just awakened from a long slumber, or perhaps ten thousand years of time had left some imprints in the deepest depths of his soul—
Seeing this scene, Lion felt a sense of genuine gratification.
However, considering that this was a planet directly ruled by a Custodes Tribune, Lion felt this situation wasn't entirely unexpected.
If it were like those other humanoid Governors who drove the populace into misery, that would be what felt wrong.
However, what made him feel slightly uncomfortable was another matter.
Lion saw those preachers.
"Praise the Omnissiah! Praise His glory! It is His wisdom that saved us from darkness and ignorance!"
An old man clad in red robes, embroidered with the Aquila and gear iconography, proclaimed loudly.
Passersby stopped in their tracks. Many bowed their heads, extending their right hands to trace the shape of a cog across their chests to express their reverence.
That fanatical atmosphere—that air of regarding a single individual as a god—caused the newly awakened Lion to feel a slight wave of discomfort.
Nevertheless, Lion dutifully kept his ill-timed suspicions to himself.
He was not someone who made judgments based purely on first impressions.
At least not for now.
The shuttle drew a smooth arc in the air, flying toward an extraordinarily magnificent skyscraper in the central district of the city.
The shuttle touched down smoothly.
The hatch opened.
"Follow me," Endymion said simply, stepping out of the hatch first and turning into the corridor ahead.
Lion followed close behind.
They crossed the landing pad and walked forward along a wide corridor.
Up ahead.
Lion's footsteps slowed slightly.
Relying on a Primarch's superhuman hearing, he was already able to catch faint sounds drifting from dozens of meters ahead.
The voices were chaotic and intense, as if a group of people were arguing, or as if some long-suppressed emotion was seeking an outlet to vent.
Among those voices, one particularly intense emotion pierced through layers of obstruction, entering Lion's ears with crystal clarity.
"What in the blazes is your Custodes Order up to?!"
That voice roared, deep as rolling thunder, carrying a long-suppressed anger and agitation. "I am Zabriel! A warrior of the Dreadwing! I demand a glorious death worthy of my status, not to be locked up in this place like a prisoner, waiting for your damned arrangements!"
Dreadwing.
That word was like a key, unlocking a crucial point in Lion's memory.
Zabriel.
Terran-born, warrior of the Dreadwing, Executioner of the Council of the Three Keys.
When Lion returned to the Legion, this veteran had already served in the Dark Angels for over a century.
In a single instant, Lion's memory completed its search and match.
So that's how it is.
A few realizations clicked in his mind.
They stopped before a heavy metal door.
Endymion waved his hand to open the door, but stopped at the threshold, not following inside.
So, Lion stepped in and looked around.
The room was massive—much more spacious than it appeared from the outside.
And inside this room, a dozen Space Marines—likewise clad in jet-black armor—instantly ceased their arguing the moment they heard the door open, snapping their gazes over in unison.
Lion's gaze swept over them one by one.
Through the various somewhat battered heraldries on their armor, Lion precisely identified every single one of their identities.
Without a doubt, every single one of them was a Dark Angel.
Moreover, they were Dark Angels from ten thousand years ago.
Lion could call out every single one of their names.
But how was this possible?
He was absolutely certain that no Space Marine should be able to live for ten thousand years.
At this very moment.
Zabriel, who was closest to him, had the most violent reaction.
Lion met his gaze, preparing to speak.
He instinctively resumed a majestic yet aloof posture, while rapidly pondering in his mind the Emperor's intent behind gathering these people here.
However, before he could finish his thought—
"Repent, you traitor!"
Zabriel let out an earth-shattering roar, charging straight at Lion with his entire body.
That massive fist was raised instantly, carrying all the strength a legendary veteran could muster, slicing through the air straight for Lion's face.
What is going on?
Before Lion could fully pull himself out of his mental inertia, his combat instincts acted faster than his consciousness.
Ten thousand years of slumber had not weakened this instinct in the slightest.
Just like an adult receiving a punch thrown by a child—
Lion raised his hand.
That broad hand covered in a metallic gauntlet caught Zabriel's fist dead-on.
His arm didn't shake in the slightest; he didn't even take half a step back.
Then, Lion raised a foot and kicked heavily against the armor plate on Zabriel's chest.
Zabriel flew backward like a cannonball, crashing heavily into those few Dark Angels behind him who were likewise eager and preparing to rush up to give Lion a punch.
"What do you think you are doing?!" Lion bellowed.
"How can you even bring yourself to say that?! Where were you during these ten thousand years?!"
The Dark Angels roared back in fury, their voices actually louder than Lion's bellow, laced with an equal amount of pain.
They did not back down.
Even after just witnessing their comrade defeated in a single blow like a child, these Dark Angels showed no sign of shrinking back whatsoever.
They stood there, refusing to back down as they barked right back at their former gene-father.
Lion fell silent.
In his mind, he recalled himself sleeping through those ten thousand years.
And even earlier times.
All along, Lion had never been a good judge of character.
If he were a good judge of character, he would have realized Horus's disguise long before the Heresy.
If he were perceptive enough, he would not have lent the Ordinis Centurio siege guns to that traitor Perturabo.
If he had trusted his brothers enough to speak with complete candor to Guilliman in the Five Hundred Worlds of Ultramar, would the Heresy have had a better outcome?
If he had trusted his own sons enough—if he hadn't been driven so easily by suspicion—would the shattered fate of Caliban have been avoided?
Yet, all of that was in the past.
Irreparable.
"I am deeply sorry," the Lion bowed his head deeply. "This was my mistake."
This time, it was the Dark Angels present who fell into silence instead.
Even Zabriel, who had been the most intense just moments ago, was completely stunned.
The entire room fell into a suffocating quiet.
In the hearts of all the Dark Angels, the exact same thought echoed:
What is going on?
Is this really our gene-father?