Chapter 689: The Misfortune of Ma Lan

How could the Lion suddenly appear here, staring at Azriel with eyes full of anger and hatred?

He had already considered in his heart that he might encounter the Lion on the battlefield, that he might not be able to hide his identity before the Lion, that he might face the Lion’s wrath head-on.

But this suddenness, at this exact moment, left Azriel utterly unprepared.

“The Lion… how could this happen?” Azriel involuntarily asked; his voice was not loud, but he believed the Lion, as a Primarch, must hear.

But the Lion’s response was only a louder roar of fury.

“Azriel!” The Lion’s roar reached Azriel’s ears; Azriel felt his soul shatter, as if his spirit were being torn from his body, dragged toward the Lion.

This sensation was like his Primarch seeking to reclaim the extraordinary gene-sequence he had granted, even to take back his life and his soul.

“Get down here, Azriel!!” The roar grew even louder; Azriel instinctively wanted to step forward and leap from the fortress to stand beside his Primarch and accept his punishment.

But… but Azriel chose to follow his heart; he silently took one step backward.

This was not because he was cowardly, but because the situation was too strange, the timing too wrong—certainly not because he feared the Lion’s anger.

Yet the Lion continued advancing, his eyes locked on Azriel with furious intensity; a powerful pulling sensation surged from within Azriel, making his head spin and his mind ache.

BOOM!!!

One of the Deathwatch beside Azriel staggered and collapsed heavily to the ground, his body twitching faintly like a frog struck by electricity.

Not just this one Astartes—around Azriel, more and more Astartes fell inexplicably, some writhing on the ground, others tumbling from the fortress walls to land on the still-hot earth.

They were like diseased rice stalks, brittle and prone to collapse under the slightest wind. How could this be?

Azriel’s confusion and bewilderment deepened, yet his thoughts felt as if being silently gnawed by swarms of insects, growing ever more chaotic; the scene before him began to fracture.

His vision split into countless fragments, as if seen through the compound eyes of an insect.

He saw a cave-child, just as he had been in his childhood, emerging from a burrow, staring at him with unblinking eyes.

“Accept the Primarch’s call,” the child said to him. “How can you, as a son, refuse your father?”

He saw the first Fallen Angel he had killed, its corpse staring at him with wide, unseeing eyes.

“You judged me,” the Fallen said. “Why dare you not accept judgment yourself?”

He also saw Ezekiel, the psyker, gazing at him with eyes that seemed to pierce his soul.

“You fled once,” Ezekiel said. “Will you flee again?”

“This isn’t fleeing—it’s a strategic withdrawal!” Azriel replied without hesitation.

Ezekiel’s expression froze, as if unable to comprehend what Azriel meant.

Then Azriel turned to face the Fallen Angel, who still stared at him.

“It’s not refusal of judgment—it’s delayed judgment, measured judgment, judgment guided by loyalty to the Emperor and humanity, judgment suited to reality.”

The Fallen tilted his head slightly, as if unable to grasp Azriel’s words.

“There’s a saying from Calth: ‘Small stick, endure it; great stick, run.’ That is true filial piety! If I let the Lion kill me now, wouldn’t I cast him into dishonor?”

Azriel had learned this from a White Scar Deathwatch—he found the saying profoundly wise.

Among the famed Chapter Masters of the Imperium,

Cardinal Diego of the Grey Knights was the most powerful psyker; Azriel had met him once and knew his terror firsthand.

Logan Grimnar, the Old Wolf of the Space Wolves, was the greatest warrior; that Fenrisian alpha wolf had even wounded Primarch Magnus with his crimson axe.

Dante, Commander of the Blood Angels, was the finest tactician—even Roboute Guilliman acknowledged it, entrusting him with half the Imperium and appointing him Regent.

Calgar of the Ultramarines combined unmatched combat prowess with peerless command; his martial strength struck fear into countless enemies of the Imperium, while his administrative skill allowed him to govern the five hundred worlds of Oltremar.

And Azriel?

Azriel’s martial skill was unremarkable; his command extended only to the Unforgiven. But his strength lay in his clarity and adaptability—he could discard or adopt ideas at will for the sake of the Imperium, for humanity, for his Chapter’s interests; sometimes, even the very concept of “loyalty” was something Azriel could manipulate.

Azriel could confidently say that, if reality demanded it, he would dare to secretly mobilize troops against the Imperial Palace.

Such an act, if discovered, would indeed be treason—but only if discovered.

Azriel’s clarity and adaptability had not only protected the Unforgiven over the years; he had secretly aided other Chapters in concealing their own secrets.

Leaving aside the Inquisition, within the Emperor’s Eyes—the Imperial Guard’s intelligence network—some Imperial Guardsmen had repeatedly uncovered secrets: the Fenrisian werewolf transformation, remnants of the Second Empire’s history, bloodlust and mutations among certain Blood Angel Successor Chapters, even the Dark Angels’ own Fallen secrets. Each time, Azriel quietly eliminated those Guardsmen, ensuring no secrets were exposed and preventing the Imperium from fracturing over them.

The situation now was the same. A clear instinct told Azriel he must not surrender, must not submit to the Lion’s judgment.

The Lion roared, the cave-child shrieked, the Fallen stared with unblinking eyes, Ezekiel berated him—

Amid these voices, he felt the fortress itself trembling, shaking.

No—this was no illusion.

The wall of the fortress facing Laine collapsed and shattered; bricks and stones flew upward, disintegrating into dust in midair. Many Astartes were swept skyward by an invisible force, then dropped lifelessly, their bodies crashing onto the ground.

Around the Lion, some force seemed to coil like tentacles, crushing everything nearby.

He could not understand it at all—Azriel could not comprehend what the Lion was doing.

This was their position against the Tyranids! How could the Lion destroy the fortress?

Azriel understood less and less what the Lion was doing.

The Lion stepped toward Azriel; the oppressive pressure radiating from him grew fiercer, wrapping around Azriel like tendrils, locking him in place.

“The Lion…” Azriel moaned; he felt his muscles and bones humming as Laine El Joss drew near.

His blood, his bones, even his soul seemed to be slowly being dragged from his body.

The Lion stopped before him.