For Zahariel, the Burning Galaxy is not much different from the Caliban's forests.

The young Dark Angel loved Caliban, his hometown, and he missed it, often remembering the time he had spent there: the mighty Great Hall of the Knights, the sinister beasts of the woods, and the days when they fought alongside their brother knights, often hunting down the behemoths of the troubled side, and occasionally going to war with other rival knights, but such fratricidal encounters were always rare.

Zaharel even remembers the first time he met his genetic father: after joining the waiting list of the great Order of Order, he went through two years of unimaginably difficult combat training and final selection, but in the end, he successfully passed all the tests, and when Zaharel was nine years old, he entered the most sacred main hall of the Order of Order.

Leon-Johnson is there.

There he stood, in the very center of the auditorium, at the core of the ground molded of bluestone.

Like a lost god.

The most famous and greatest monster slayer in all of the Caliban's body was unusually tall and burly, and his dark green armor was covered with the scratches and faint blood spots of the beast, and even the most luxurious medals for a Caliban knight were far from the marks of these battles.

He stood there, silent, looking his candidate up and down with a calm gaze, the great knight lord was not alone, the most prominent men of the Order: Luther, Lord Sever, and even Lemuel, the mentor of Zahariel, gathered around him, but these mighty knights were like a bunch of clumsy servants compared to the Lion King.

The memories that followed were shattered and blurred, and Zaharel could barely remember how he had faced Johnson's problems and trials, like a dream, an expedition that existed only in poetry, as if he had traveled through unimaginable mountains and turbulence, slain countless monsters and demons, and traveled alone to the lost temple in search of treasures that had been buried for countless centuries, and armed with the blades of the gods, he slain the devouring dragon that existed only in the oldest legends.

But when Zaharel really raised his spirit and faced the reality, he only saw Johnson's plain but majestic gaze.

[He, yes.] 】

He heard the words of the lion, the shortest and most solemn voice, but one that brought endless joy and success, and he could hear the affirmation, first Luthor and then the others, clapping and smiling, singing the old knightly ballad that wandered among the frescoes of the Order's thousand-year journey, drifting out of the skylights made of fine glass and crystal, and into the endless forest.

Zaharel had imagined countless times how he would face this moment: he might have been unusually indifferent, or he might have been so complacent that he would make the greatest and most arrogant vows aloud, and he even feared that he would lose his demeanor and become a harlequin on such an occasion, and so on.

But when it all happened, when he was really acknowledged and licensed, none of the scenarios he had envisioned came up.

He could hear Luthor's warm words, he could feel his teacher Lemuel and his cousin Nemir shaking their bodies, tears of joy and blessing, and he could even feel the cheers of the crowd and the slight jealousy buried in the laughter......

But they don't matter, all right, they don't matter.

He just looked forward, desperately forward, his gaze might be offensive, longing, even dangerous, but he didn't care so much, he stared at himself and just watched.

Leon-Johnson is there.

With his long golden hair, solemn countenance, and the majesty of countless killings and hunting in his eyes, the greatest hunter of all looked at him, and although it was still as cold as an iceberg, Zaharel could see it, and he nodded to him, as a great man for beginners, champions for candidates, and marshals for soldiers affirmed and welcomed.

That's enough!

A tear flowed from Zaharel's eyes.

He only felt that everything around him seemed to be a little too noisy, and it seemed to be just right, the congratulations of his mentor and brother were like a vague trill, shaking his ears and thoughts, he seemed to be able to smell the smell of blood, and he could see countless battlefields and trials unfolding towards him.

He will join the Great Order of Knights, he will fight alongside the greatest Behemoth Slayer, he will be a comrade of Leon Johnson, and they will fight side by side under the same banner, slaying Behemoths and demons for a future full of strifes and blood.

He will become a comrade-in-arms with the King of Lions, and become a knight who will go to life and death together.

That's enough.

At this moment, even the endless gifts of the gods seem so pale.

——————

"Before officially joining this war, I personally hope that you can have a basic understanding of our enemy: no matter how dangerous you imagined Ran Dan before this, please forget this estimate, it will only be more dangerous and powerful than you imagined, maybe ten, maybe hundreds."

Zahariel's voice had a pride and lightness peculiar to a young man, and he certainly had the right to do so: not everyone would be personally recognized by the Emperor to earn their place in the Dark Angel Legion at such a young age.

Led by the Lion King's Son, Ahriman and Morgan slowly descended into the depths of Geyemara, while behind the group, the two Thousand Sons remained, and they followed the overly rigid mortal official and began to confirm the trivial details: stationing, supplies, and itinerary planning.

The footsteps of two Astartes and a mortal gradually left the harbor in the void, and they delved deep into the interior of the starport, trudging through the areas that had been repaired and maintained, which had been uniformly painted by the Dark Angels in a simple mixture of black and crimson, with the only decorations being snow-white swords and six-wings, and golden Imperial Double-headed Eagles.

Morgan saw a number of warriors who were not part of the First Legion wandering the outer areas, their armor painted and their very different behaviors telling of where they belonged:

The savage warriors, clad in beast fur and blue-gray armor, wandered almost aimlessly, observing everything to the left and right with a rather curious look, the hand that did not have the hilt of the sword restlessly probing and colliding with all the delicate objects.

Occasionally, they will be lucky enough to activate them, but more often than not, they will simply rudely destroy them, causing bursts of frightened howls and laughter.

Morgan's gaze wandered over the massive black wolf heads on their shoulder armor, and she heard Ahriman's sigh.

"That's a space wolf...... Bear with it, just as the philosophers in the city-state tolerate the barbarians who drink blood from Rumao. ”

Next to the rude samurai, there were often a few silent warriors, their armor was a mixture of light green and dark green, with large patches of paint peeling, which looked excessively shabby.

These Astartes often had scars and wounds on their bodies, but that didn't stop them from sitting upright, letting their breathing echo muffled through the myriad pipes that connected to their helmets.

"The Fourteenth Legion, the Twilight Raiders, the son of Albia, has suffered considerable losses in the previous Battle of Xana, so be cautious and careful when fighting alongside them, their favorite chemical warfare is often a constant source of accidental damage."

Zahariel's whisper reminded him to wander through the small group, patiently and cautiously waiting for the last of the Fourteenth Legion's warriors to disappear from view before speaking slowly.

As the Dark Angel spoke, they passed through a rest area, where there stood several warriors in mottled armor, few in number and who didn't seem to have much interest in outsiders, and farther out, surrounded by a vast number of black-armored warriors, who noticed an almost innate contempt and arrogance in the latter's gaze towards her.

"The Fifth Legion and the Nineteenth Legion, they are the first protectors of the world-forged Xana, I don't know much about them, but the Nineteenth Legion has always been ...... to mortals Not very friendly. ”

Zaharel pondered his words, and Ahriman's words seemed more brazen.

"You can stay away from them, Morgan, the Nineteenth Legion recruits mainly from the sons of the evil slave owners at the foot of the palace, who have brought the bad habits of the mortal era to their own legions, who are passionate about tyrannical and horrific killing, and have an even worse attitude towards mortals than the Iron Warriors."

At the words of Ahriman, they quickly left the Astarte warriors behind, and as Zaharel entered the code at the end of the corridor, a huge door made of alloy slowly opened, this was the true core of Geyemara, and the only part of the Dark Angel Legion.

Morgan was still a little surprised, but Ahriman, who had heard of it for a long time, was no stranger: it was nothing more than a trick with layers of interlocking, and there was a link within a link, which could even be regarded as a unique feature of the First Legion.

If the outer perimeter of Gyemara is dressed in a modest way by the children of the Lion King, then the real core area is shabby: as far as the eye can see, there is a sea of deep blue, the color of the most basic patchwork of steel plates, and only the dim lighting can barely distinguish the difference between the walls and the floor.

On the left and right sides of the cloister, groups of dark angels gathered in small groups, all dressed in pure black armor, but cold to each other as strangers.

Morgan and Ahriman tried not to squint as much as possible, but this did not prevent the mortal female officer from using her own consciousness to observe the situation left and right, and she soon discovered something very interesting: although these soldiers of the First Legion wore the same armor, the logos and honor symbols on their armor were different, and it was not at all obvious that they looked like the same legion.

The conversation between them is even more interesting: even the conversations within the small groups are unusually subtle and complex, often using riddle-like tones and special terms, and when they talk about other small groups, they speak as if they are discussing unrelated or even slightly hostile strangers.

But the amusing scene didn't last long, for soon they were at the end of the cloister, where stood a solemn gate with a huge Imperial Aquila spewing out of it.

"Lord Luthor is inside."

At the mention of Luther, Zaharel's tone involuntarily carried a certain respect for his junior.

"He is the most trusted man of our Genetic Father, a great diplomat, coordinator and warrior, and a seasoned monster hunter, and Lord Johnson has authorized him to hand over reinforcements from the various legions and coordinate all the supplies and data needed for this war."

"If you have any questions, you can ask him for advice."

Before the Dark Angel could finish speaking, several Astartes were seen walking out of Luther's room and into another passageway, where Morgan could not make out the color of their armor in the dim light, but their leader was unusually striking: it was an overly tall Astarte warrior, about a quarter taller than his countrymen.

Who are those people? 】

"Ah, them."

Zaharel just glanced at it, and gave the answer casually.

"They are representatives of the Second Legion."

"It's also part of this war."