Chapter 504: Laine: Russ Laughs When He Hits Me!

Why do you always remain silent?

The Child of the Forest asked the lake.

He was the Child of the Forest, the King of the Woods, a wounded man who had forgotten his name, a hunter, someone's son, the Guardian Duke of an empire.

He awoke in this fog-choked forest, on the decaying humus beneath dim tree shade.

In the forest, streams murmured over stones, polishing them white and smooth like prehistoric eggs.

In the forest, twisted beasts lurked and hunted, only to be hunted by him.

Birds often flew across the canopy; he instinctively dodged their gaze.

He wandered lost through the forest, unaware of who he was, where he came from, or where he was going.

He followed his hunting instincts through the woods until he reached this lake's edge and found the only other living being besides himself.

On the vast, seemingly endless lake floated a tiny boat, so crude it was made of rotting wood, unpainted, as if it would collapse under the weight of time.

Standing on the boat was an ancient man, his face withered, his once-brown skin like sweet dates now dull and lifeless, his sunken cheeks revealing the shape of his jawbone, making him look like a mummy.

This decay did not resemble natural aging; it seemed the result of endless violence, deceit, disease, and abuse.

His hair had once been as black as a long night, but now it was dry, filthy gray, and atop his head rested a ring.

Though caked in grime, the Child of the Forest could faintly recognize it as a crown of pure gold.

The old man gripped a fishing rod with grotesque, swollen joints, hunched over, lowering the line into the water, fishing for something.

The Child of the Forest knew the answer to this question.

He had tried to speak with the Fisher King, but the Fisher King remained silent; so the Child of the Forest ventured into the lake and saw more.

Beneath the seemingly calm water lurked countless blasphemous shadows, swirling and hungry, seeking to tear apart the Fisher King—yet fearing him, locked in a stalemate.

And the Fisher King was wounded; his body pierced through and through, blood pouring ceaselessly, staining the water around the boat red.

Before the shadows could swallow him, he retreated from the lake, returning to dry land—yet still unsure of his path.

He wandered the forest endlessly, often returning to the lake to try to communicate with the Fisher King.

But the Fisher King remained silent, only staring down at the water with his head bowed.

Because you did not ask the right question.

The King of the Forest faintly understood why the Fisher King remained silent, yet did not know why he understood.

Yet the Fisher King was not entirely unchanged.

Recently, his wounds had inexplicably healed somewhat; he carried more vitality than before, and occasionally scratched his own buttocks.

He even took out round cakes from somewhere and ate them a few times.

But he still remained silent, never answering the King of the Forest's questions.

What is the meaning of your silence?

What question should I ask?

The King of the Forest asked again, his voice low.

This was his two hundred and twenty-second question.

As always, the Fisher King remained silent, head bowed, fishing, occasionally scratching his buttocks.

The King of the Forest sighed, feeling another futile attempt.

Suddenly, something flew toward him from the lake's surface.

The King of the Forest instinctively tried to dodge—but for some reason did not. It was a glass petri dish, inside which some viscous fungus writhed.

The glass dish shattered against his face; the viscous bacteria splattered across his skin and instantly burrowed into his flesh and blood.

Yet strangely, the King of the Forest felt no discomfort.

Instead, his once-foggy awareness sharpened; memories surged from his mind.

The Emperor, the Great Crusade, Luthor, the Horus Heresy, the Second Empire, the damned and dead Korsin, the immortal Fire Dragon, the damned but not-dead Guilliman, the one who should not have died, Saint Guilliman, the damned but better-not-die Russ, the unexpected betrayal, the shattered Caliban.

And the blade—the blade Luthor drove into his own body.

"I am."

The King of the Forest whispered to himself:

"I am. I am Laine El. Draxon, the Emperor's first son, the Primarch of the Dark Angels."

Burning Terra, burning Caliban, the Emperor upon the Golden Throne, the fallen Luthor—these sorrowful images surged from his memory, nearly drowning him.

He lifted his head, gazing at the water's surface.

Beside the Fisher King's boat stood another figure: a blue, faintly visible lynx, its fingerless round hand pointing in a direction—as if guiding Laine El. Draxon back to the world of clarity.

The dense forest slowly parted; a path emerged through the mist.

The blue figure vanished after showing Laine the way, gone without trace.

But Laine's hunting instinct told him the path the blue figure showed was correct.

Blue… but not a trick of Chaos. Was this another of Guilliman's schemes?

Laine did not know, nor did he dwell on it.

If Guilliman excelled at handling many tasks at once, Laine's strength lay in finding the single most critical one among many.

Laine moved with agile strides, swift as flight, following his hunting instinct along the sudden path, weaving through the mist.

Sometimes monstrous beasts of the forest tried to block him—but the lion tore them apart effortlessly.

As the mist before him thickened, he grew ever more Qingxing; the forest ahead thinned gradually.

So close… Laine could smell the scent of reality. He was near the place he belonged—just a step away.

Suddenly, a fist shot from the mist and struck Laine's face, making him grunt.

"Traitor, you do not deserve to return." A voice like winter wind echoed beside Laine's ear; a figure stepped from the mist.

The figure had golden hair like Laine's once had, but braided and hanging over armor the color of a winter night, engraved with ancient, mysterious runes and patterns.

He wore no helmet; his unmistakable face was exposed to Laine—a face with wolf-blue eyes and canine teeth bared between his lips.

The anger from the punch vanished in an instant; relief and elation surged—but also doubt. His hunting instinct smelled deception.

"Russ?" the lion asked tentatively.

"Shut up, traitor!!" the wolf roared, his hands like claws lashing toward Laine's throat.

Laine said nothing. The label of traitor stung and enraged him—especially coming from Russ.

But his body remembered old battles.

He sidestepped, threw a rising punch into Russ's chin; a muffled grunt escaped Russ's lips.

Then the wolf's mouth curled downward, revealing a cold, hateful expression as he swung his fist into Laine's face.

But Laine couldn't help laughing.

Too many times—he had fought Russ, argued with Russ too many times. He knew Russ. Knew the wolf disguised as a savage.

You're a liar!!

Laine's lips curled into a smile; he no longer hesitated or held back:

"You're a fake. You're not Russ. Russ laughs when he hits me—you don't!"

(End of Chapter)