In front of the Genoplasma of the First Legion, Morgan has always been a very docile person.

She would not oppose any orders, nor would she be found to be in any disobedience, she would always march in silence, hunt relentlessly, or pour out her thoughts in an unabashedly languid tone at moments of insignificance.

Johnson always knew that she had a problem.

But he has never had enough reason and motivation to eliminate this hidden danger.

The silver-haired woman had been silently beside him, she had never shown true awe, but she had never allowed herself to be worth less than the red line of being cleansed, her abilities and exploits had grown with the spread of war, and even the most stubborn Dark Angel would have shown respect and understanding for the fact that she existed on the Indomitable Truth.

Many times, when the lion's fingers lightly traced the pattern of the hilt, he was contemplating the scene: the sword unsheathed, tore through the air, sliced the snow-white neck, and poured the cold blade and colder air into the hot veins, like a relentless flood breaking through the delicate embankment, engulfing the fields, the city, and life in a whirlpool of powerless power, sucking all the vitality and sorrow away.

She might have died of blood loss, or she might have died of a pulmonary embolism caused by a blocked airway, and if he had been a little stronger, her beautiful head would have fallen like an abandoned crown, but the scene would have been too savage to remind him of some bad memories.

But there was no doubt, but inevitably, that there would be bloodshed, lots and lots of blood, that white swan's arrogant long neck would be tainted by scarlet vipers, and that her face, which was always full of laziness and contemplation, might glow a slight purple, like the rows of mellow liquor she had brewed.

Eventually, the thin body would fall, not even a trace of dust would rise, and she might have accepted it calmly, struggled with anger, cursed viciously, asked reluctantly, or resorted to small methods of witchcraft and other methods that he did not expect, to confirm her untrue identity.

In any case, everything will end.

As long as he actually wields that sword.

Everything will end and go to the right end.

His sensibility, his instincts, his side as a man, the flashy armor he wore to squeeze into the prison of the Empire, all roared and exhorted, they were eager for his sword to swing, to let the wanton blood splash the walls in the shock of all, and to let the ill-intentioned masked girl die in a whimper of astonishment.

The genetic's fingers rubbed against the pattern of the hilt, feeling the sweetness of blood and death.

The next moment, his fingers skimmed it all, patting the shoulder armor on the other side, brushing away the ashes that had drifted with the fishy wind.

He didn't need to do that.

It was a waste, a shameful waste, a misjudgment, a cowardly hesitation, a most stupid act of giving far more than it gained.

Look at this silent mortal, she can do a lot of things, can solve a lot of suffering, can make him feel at ease and boldly take her to the most dangerous front, the worst battlefield, the most extreme area, the bloodiest mission, her ability is obvious to all, her attitude is worthy of recognition, and her death will not be particularly painful, but her brother's narrow discrimination is just a little more.

And more importantly, the most important factor on top of all this reason is that she is controlled.

Her abode was in his fleet, her comrades were his most loyal heirs, her neck, her head, her fragile little life was all in the palm of his hand, and he didn't even need his hand, and the hidden devices of Coswayne and Arajos were enough to make the most insane psionic person as weak as a lamb.

There's no reason why he shouldn't take advantage of it all, give orders and wield the sword as much as he wants, until she's shattered completely, or he doesn't need her anymore.

What reason did he have to refuse all this?

His reason, his savagery, the shadow he left in the deep forests of Caliban, the real Leon Johnson that he had hidden in his heart, were all bitterly telling this truth.

This silver-haired masked girl, she still has value that has not been squeezed dry, she is still in her own hands, and she has not touched her bottom line because of ambition and stupidity.

So, she could still leave a little life to conceive her own plans in the shadows, and he didn't care about that.

She can survive, for the time being.

But when he no longer needed her, she would have to get out of his legion, or remain silent forever.

It won't be long, maybe a month later, maybe after this battle is over, and he'll soon get rid of her, get rid of this hidden danger.

——————

Three years ago, Johnson thought so.

——————

[Something is wrong. 】

When they were only a stone's throw away from the command center of the Randan, Morgan finally spoke again.

[With all due respect, Your Excellency Johnson, don't you think it all went too well? 】

[It was very smooth. 】

With no unexpected opponents and no real dying struggles, this core area that controls four million Randan warriors and hundreds of millions of slaves seems to pin all its fate on the ethereal concealment, and Randan has never been such a weak race.

The genogen nodded, and then he let out a chuckle that turned into a loud reverberation between the metal through the lion's helmet.

[So what?] 】

[So ......]

Before Morgan's words could be heard, Aracus rushed up from behind them.

"My lord, Coswayne reports, a huge subspace energy suddenly ...... on our right side"

[I've seen it.] 】

Following the words of the Lion King, in the endless wind on the right side of the Dark Angel Army, a dark blue psionic door was like a giant beast's open mouth, suddenly cracking from the storm, and just here, behind them, on their left and in front of them, one portal after another was opened at the same time.

They were so tall, dozens of meters tall, that they silently spoke of the horror of the presence on the other side of the gate.

What do you think it will be? 】

Morgan heard Johnson's slow inquiry.

She didn't even need to think about it.

[If it's a counterattack, it's too late. 】

[If it's a struggle, it's too early. 】

[But if this is an ambush, a trap, a gamble with Ran Dan's dignified battle commander as bait to kill the [Lions] and [Soul Drinkers] who are bothering them, it is indeed a good time to pinch it. 】

[I saw some familiar memories, and it looks like they had guessed what was going on in the Sabis system, and they had guessed how you had hunted their fellow human beings in the first place, and they began a clumsy imitation, albeit a failure. 】

[They think that the so-called hunt only requires the bait to be neatly arranged, and then the traps and the hunters are laid out, and these aliens will never understand that it is the noble, savage, and cunning mind that really makes the hunt successful.] 】

Through the steel helmet, the corners of the lion king's mouth were slightly hooked, and he spoke.

[It was indeed a big gamble. 】

But there's no reason why I shouldn't eat it. 】

[Aracos, gather all the troops behind.] 】

He uttered the order, then turned his gaze back to Morgan, watching the mortal tilt his head slightly and make an innocent appearance.

[Behind my Ninth Order and the Five Hundred Knights, there is an army of about a thousand men, all of whom are veterans brought from the Knights of Terra or Caliban, and before I return, these thousand men are under the command of you. 】

[Stop those guys in the portal, I don't care what they are, stop them, or destroy them.] 】

[They weren't enough for me to give up a hunt.] 】

Morgan smiled, her pupils like the ice-blue sun in the midst of a storm.

[Yes, Your Excellency. 】

——————

War is the most merciless contest and the greatest teacher.

It's fair, brutal, ruthless, and well-organized.

If you don't study, you will fall behind.

If you don't make progress, you will be beaten.

If you don't win, you will perish.

In the face of war, no one dares to be a lazy student, a delayed plan can be the collapse of a front, a skill that is not passed on in time can cause thousands of deaths, and even if you learn the fundamentals, maybe in a few years, or even a few months, everything will become a different picture, and you can only study, continue to study, study desperately, and progress.

Because in war, no one has a second chance.

While the Empire and Ran Dan were fighting in the endless stars and worlds, they were also engaged in a silent battle in the greatest academy of the galaxy.

In Mars and countless casting worlds, technocrats and priests loyal to the emperor risk the greatest danger to collect Randan's weapons and unravel their secrets.

In the trenches and camps, countless pamphlets and countless meetings were taking place, and all the veterans were passing on their experience so that others would have even the slightest chance of victory against the twisted aliens.

In the council of Terra, in the command of the front, countless plans were turned into scrolls of paper, proposed, refuted, modified, adopted, or scrapped, and the most fearsome of the Randan individuals were frequently mentioned, and how assassinating them became one of the most important components of the war.

No one would think that all this was unnecessary, because everyone knew that Ran Dan was doing the same: cracking the Empire's technology, stealing the Empire's intelligence, and writing the Empire's best commanders and generals on a list of assassinations.

Both sides are learning, they are plagiarizing, they are improving, and they dare not do it, because the only bet in this contest is what they must not abandon: the eternal fate of their respective races, who will die, who will be eternal, who will be nameless, who will embrace hegemony.

The weapons in the hands of the Sandalwood Order and even every dark angel are becoming more and more deadly for Randan, and among those alien armies, there are also profane weapons that have never been seen before, but can cause more terrible damage, and the weapons of Astarte began to appear in the hands of the Randan warriors, and on their sides walked the Rand Raider, the Blade of Brutality......

Or even ......

"Titans!"

The dry roar was swept away by the wind, but everyone knew what he was going to say, for they had seen the behemoths with their own eyes, heard the dull footsteps with their own ears, and felt the earth tremble with their own eyes.

Titans, the machines of the gods, the pillars of the Empire, the most powerful battlefield behemoth that every legion aspires to have.

This is what they used to be.

Now, that's all changed.

Appearing before the eyes of Morgan and a thousand dark angels was the most blasphemous creation, enough to make the skull of a mechanical bishop smoke and even explode in an instant with anger and madness.

These behemoths, great behemoths, have completely completed the creation of Randan's desecration: their bodies are in tatters, and the huge chest armor and leg armor are still covered with hideous scars, telling how tragic the battles they fell, and in those fatal wounds, at the junction of those joints and mechanical arms, countless flesh and veins are filled in them, and with the desecrated technology of the aliens, these dead behemoths have once again stood on their feet, becoming evil weapons loyal to Ran Dan.

Morgan looked at the mobile scourge in front of him: war dogs, marauders, wolves, warlords...... She even saw an ancient Mars-Alpha, with two triple laser blasters on its shoulders now emitting ominous shadows.

These dead behemoths are not driven by mechanical and energy power, but by a merciless oppression: in the bodies of these Titans, a psyker who has been squeezed to the point of almost exhaustion, who has been tortured by Randan to complete madness, can only howl in disorder, driven by those torture instruments, squeezing every trace of psionic energy, and these behemoths are accompanied by a scream that resounded through the sea of souls, enveloping Morgan and a thousand dark angels.

And the moment they walked out of the portal, the attack began, and invisible waves of qi shot out from the flesh and blood of these giant beasts, divided into four angles, and roared towards Morgan's location.

And Morgan just lifted her scepter.

The guns converged again.

But this time, her chanting seemed different.

She whispered, her voice shattered at the sound of the wind, which was then pushed to the ground by the blasphemous weapons that had strode to the ground, trampled into dust in the endless yellow sand.

[Ah......h

[Banshee.] 】

——————

Johnson's hunt lasted about one Terra Standard Time.

By the time he brushed away the blood and returned to the battlefield, the hunt was over.

The genoplasm raised his head and looked around, his pupils shrunk violently as he saw everything, and then, with a somewhat stiff step, he left behind the five hundred people who had been stunned in place.

A thousand Dark Angels, most of them alive today, are clearly caught up in some strange oppression, and these survivors are neatly lined up in a circle to greet their genetic father.

And in the middle of the circle, Morgan sits, on a hill made of ruins and steel.

She was laughing.

And the dark angels are moving away.

They were far away from her as if they were a terrible beast that could never be defeated.

Johnson walked up, and he looked at the usually obedient mortal advisor, who sat there with an unusually rare, distinct smile on the corner of her mouth, which was clearly not for some sweet emotion.

What did you do? 】

The genoplasm looked up and asked.

She opened her mouth, as if sensing the hoarseness of her throat, and muttered a few letters.

[Anger.] 】

【…… Wrath? 】

[That's really obvious.] 】

Johnson turned, and once again he looked at a desert that was already very different: the sound of the wind had completely disappeared, as if swallowed up by a savage god, and at this moment, the landscape had changed.

Torches, torches everywhere, burning torches everywhere in this endless desert, billowing smoke everywhere reaching the sky, each stack of torches symbolizing a completely scrapped piece of metal, and every puff of smoke symbolizing a completely dead war beast.

Johnson looked at them with an unprecedented solemnity.

Then he turned and gathered his team, and behind him, above the desert, seventeen blazing torches, were left behind by everyone.

Well, from today the book was renamed "Warhammer: In the Name of Nirvana", as for why it was renamed...... According to my investigation, the name Emperor Calamity seems to be too corrupt for passers-by, and many readers have a bad first impression.

So I decided to trick them in and kill them again (no).

In addition, I am today, for the first time in my life, pushing books!

The title of the book is Warhammer: I Don't Want to Be a Stinky Can! Right at the starting point.

At first glance, you can tell that it is written about Motarian's cub.

The author is a newcomer to the starting point like me (but I collect tulle), but the rhythm of the story is very good, the plot is also very stable, the protagonist's inner drama is occasionally a little active, but the overall style of Warhammer is mastered, and the death guard, it really needs a more active character.

Anyway, I'm here to pry with him, and I hope both of us can make good progress in our books.

(End of chapter)