Chapter 696

Lyne El Janssen turned his head, looking at Azriel, who was trying to slip away silently.

Azriel’s steps were light, like a black kitten fleeing from a fearsome beast—tiptoeing, his body trembling slightly, as if discovered, he would collapse on the spot, belly-up, begging for mercy.

Needless to say, Azriel knew this behavior was evasion, even bordering on disloyalty to his genetic father, but after facing the Lion himself, he had to admit one truth:

He was afraid.

In the presence of the Lion, all excuses and justifications vanished; only pure fear surged from within Azriel—he lacked the courage to face the Lion directly.

Sneak away quietly. Don’t shoot.

“Where are you going?” A grim voice asked, a gauntlet clad in emerald-green armor settling on Azriel’s shoulder.

Azriel’s power armor instantly dented; a sharp pain surged from his shoulder, mingled with the terrifying fear radiating from behind him—his knees buckled, half his body collapsing, while the other half was yanked high by Lyne.

Lyne’s other hand extended a finger, gripping Azriel’s helmet and squeezing hard—the helmet exploded violently, revealing a face somewhat resembling Lyne’s, yet lacking the typical Calibanite gloom, instead bearing a Fyrisian roughness, with an odd sense of humor in his brows and eyes.

In fact, many battle-brothers had remarked that Azriel’s personality was not dark angelic—he always enjoyed mocking jokes, his words and actions infused with a strange wit, fond of provoking and teasing allies and enemies alike; Azriel himself believed one of his duties was to ease the chapter’s gloomy atmosphere.

But in this atmosphere, Azriel felt he could not possibly lighten it.

Azriel faced the Lion’s face, a painfully awkward smile crossing his lips.

He felt death approaching at terrifying speed; he knew he had to say something—it might be his last words, his dying utterance.

Yet staring at the Lion’s face hidden behind his gray-gold beard, Azriel’s mind went blank; finally, he opened his mouth slightly.

“Glory be to you, Father.” Azriel blurted out.

“Ha!” The Lion let out a thunderous growl; searing hatred burned Azriel’s skin. In Azriel’s eyes, the Lion’s figure swelled, swelled, until it filled the entire space, becoming a monstrous Calibanite beast—his breath a scorching wind slamming against Azriel’s face, burning his skin.

Azriel saw the Lion raise his fist; in his view, death was inevitable—who could stop an Primarch’s murderous intent?

Hrael raised his blade, its sharp edge slicing through air to intercept the Lion’s fist—the finely crafted power sword twisted and deformed beneath the Primarch’s punch.

Yet despite this, Hrael had genuinely blocked the Lion’s punch; Azriel’s eyes widened in shock as he stared at Hrael’s back, no longer seeing a contemporary brother, but a hero of the Great Crusade.

The Lion, however, showed little surprise, slowly withdrawing his fist.

“Move aside.” The Lion spoke with absolute authority.

Hrael shifted slightly, adopting a half-yielding, half-resisting stance.

Hrael understood: he could not refuse the Lion in his rage—that would only further enrage him and make persuasion impossible. Yet complete obedience was equally unfeasible; he had to find the balance between refusal and compliance, the precise point.

“My lord, I have fought alongside him for months. I can vouch for his loyalty. His retreat stems only from fear.”

Hrael was no fool—he sensed the Lion’s rage had cause, but he feigned confusion, pretending to believe Lyne’s fury arose solely from his brother’s cowardice and retreat:

“We, as Fallen Angels, have been hunted for ten thousand years by the current Dark Angels Chapter; caution is etched into our bones. It is hard to accept this sudden change in identity. You may not know how cruelly we were pursued, especially in recent years—since Azriel, the new Chapter Master, took command, their methods have grown even more brutal.”

Hearing Hrael’s words, Azriel’s head tilted slightly, his gaze flickering.

The Lion’s expression shifted slightly; though anger remained, it was no longer as wild as before.

Success. Hrael exhaled inwardly—it was a method taught to him by Lu Se many ages past. Truly, the wisdom of the elder lion-tamers.

But Lyne’s expression now struck Hrael as strange—Lyne’s gaze at Hrael held something peculiar, almost mocking.

This was unfamiliar to Hrael; he had rarely, if ever, seen the Lion wear such an expression.

“He is Azriel.” The Lion raised his voice slightly.

“.?” Hrael tilted his head, as if not understanding what the Lion meant.

“He is not a Fallen Angel. He is the Azriel who persecuted you.” The Lion sneered.

Hrael’s body stiffened, staring fixedly at Azriel’s shifting eyes.

“I acted only for the Chapter’s interest, to protect the Dark Angels’ secrets, Hrael. Brothers like you who still remain loyal are rare among the Fallen. The Unforgivable have indeed grown more extreme—but I am moderate. I have worked hard to suppress them, preventing further extremism.”

“.You are right.” Hrael sighed faintly, nodding in acknowledgment of Azriel’s words, then turned to the Lion: “My lord, I do harbor resentment toward him, but he should not die for this. The fault lies not with him, but with fate—the destruction of Caliban tore our Legion apart, forcing us into mutual slaughter. It is not the fault of one man.”

“Caliban was destroyed by him.” Lyne said calmly.

“.Ah?” Hrael stared at Lyne, bewildered—what was the Lion saying? Azriel could not possibly be connected to Caliban’s destruction.

When Azriel was born, Caliban had been destroyed for nearly ten thousand years—how could he possibly—

Hrael looked at Azriel and sensed his guilt, his unease; his sharp perception, honed by Dark Angel gene-seed and decades of training, instantly confirmed:

The Lion was not joking. The true culprit behind Caliban’s destruction was indeed Azriel.

“Ha!!!”

Hrael let out a low roar and swung his twisted blade straight at Azriel’s face.

The power sword, already damaged, carved a deep gash across Azriel’s face—but failed to kill him.

Hrael hurled the sword aside and punched Azriel’s face with his fist; the sound of shattering bone echoed beneath Azriel’s skin. He staggered backward several steps, only to be seized again by Hrael.

“What did you do?” Hrael growled in accusation.