The battle and cleanup in the Bileven system lasted about sixty Terra standard days, but it would be another sixty days before the last Xenomorph gun was fired.

The Armada of the Randan Empire did not completely collapse until the last moment of the battle, and the twisted, gloomy Void engines wrestled with the warships of the Human Empire for a long time, until one of them completely turned to dust and dissipated in the blazing heat of the stars.

And just like most of the past, in this battle, it was still Ran Dan who fell, an alien, and an enemy of the Human Empire.

After all, the Empire of Humanity will fail, but their defeat will not be a sudden end: no amount of painful loss will prevent the Emperor's followers from reorganizing a larger, more resolute, and more brutal army of revenge, knocking down their victorious opponents to the ground again and again, until they are bleeding until they are crushed to ashes.

The Titans of the Empire are falling, the fleets of the Empire are disintegrating, and the warriors of the Empire are bleeding, shedding blood like the vastest ocean, soaking countless worlds and galaxies.

But despite this, the Empire is still winning, the Empire is still advancing, and the Empire is still erasing one once glorious alien realm from the galaxy, claiming on their corpses all the former territory of their ancient race: the people of Holy Terra will not stop until the great rise of humanity is once again realized.

And the remains of the four million Randan warriors who wander between the stars and planets of the Bileven are just another roar and demonstration of this awakened revivor of the ancient hegemon against the small spurt of his territory in the galaxy.

The Emperor's will finally converged into a dragon-slaying sword that was even greater than the most vast star region through the countless warships and legions, and it was the genetic prototype of the First Legion that wielded this sword, once again drawing an unhealable wound on the never-ending hegemony ambition of the Randan Empire.

Four million warriors who fought in battle, a large fleet of companions, a vast sea of slaves and logistical supplies, and permanent fortresses built in sixteen worlds......

Compared to these living losses, Bilivan's ethereal value as a [traffic pass] is insignificant.

As an alien hegemon that is slightly superior in science and technology, but is obviously inferior to the human empire in size, such a huge loss is enough to make Ran Dan feel unforgettable pain: these blasphemous aliens have tempered their entire race into an extremely bloodthirsty army for the burning ambition in their hearts, coupled with thousands of years of dormancy and accumulation, and have attracted and controlled countless equally huge alien races, so that they have the foundation of the Shura field with the human empire using the entire galaxy as a battle front, a chess game, and a fight.

But now, this foundation is being consumed at a rapid rate, countless fronts are full of holes, countless occupation areas are ready to move because of the scarcity of defenders, and countless so-called [allies] are greedily watching over their rich homeland, planning one tacit conspiracy after another.

And more importantly, despite the great price they have paid and the results they have won, the Emperor's realm is still like a silent temple of war, with more legions and fleets coming out of the river in a steady stream, returning to the table again and again with a stronger posture when Ran Dan believes that victory is in his hands.

This is not even the full strength of the Human Empire, maybe not even half of it: although the northern part of the galaxy is ravaged by the flames of war, in the west, east, and south of the galaxy, the army led by the Shadowmoon Wolf and the Ultramarines is calmly harvesting massive territory, subjugating one rich Pocket Empire after another, and the blood shed by Divine Terra in the war with Randan is not even comparable to the energy it constantly eats away at the whale swallow.

After realizing this, a shadow that had not appeared for a long time began to condense over the head of this unrelievable alien hegemon.

Fear.

Fear for humanity, for the Emperor, for His Empire.

It was a fear that could not be shaken, that could not be overcome, that could not be resisted, that could not even struggle more.

This most desperate emotion was accumulated with defeat after defeat, destruction after destruction, and the death of famous kings and marshals again and again, until the Bilevenn Galaxy, as one of the core front-line military centers of Ran Dan, finally succumbed under the onslaught of the First Legion, even the dullest general of the Human Empire could feel that in the boundless void in the northeast region of the Milky Way, Ran Dan's army had gradually disappeared into the shadows, and a mentality of evasion and retreat was on the paper.

Countless fortresses have been abandoned, countless galaxies have been emptied, countless worlds and peoples have been bloodily slaughtered because they could not be transferred in time, leaving only the vanguard fleet of the Empire with large swaths of barren areas.

The blood-drinking blade of the Xenomorph Overlord sucked the cream and life of countless galaxies, creating a pale and barren barrier that temporarily hindered the First Legion's footsteps, and it was undoubtedly extremely dangerous and reckless to venture across these no-man's lands and into the heart of the Randan Empire for an expedition.

Thus, under the direction of Holy Terra, in the sixth year of the war, the Dark Angel Legion finally got its first de facto rest, though its brethren had withdrawn from the war for some time, either publicly or privately.

The Fourteenth Legion has long since left, and Mortarian has returned to Barbaros with his children to recruit new blood in the only place he admires in the galaxy.

The Nineteenth Legion was ordered to travel to Riobia to destroy one of the world's most threatening repositories of knowledge.

The Fifth Legion has reunited with their mysterious Genetic Father, and they have given it a new name: White Scar, and now, the high-spirited and swift Legion is gathering a large force ready to answer a sacred call: the Lord of Humanity has issued a call to his sons and heirs, including Chagatai Khan, Fogham, Horus, and Johnson.

The Emperor decides to conquer a world of Lost Knight called Moro, which apparently holds a huge secret enough to keep the Emperor in mind.

In addition, there is also the Sixth Legion, this barbarian army that came out of Fenris, under the leadership of their genetic prototype Riemanrus, has long been unwittingly separated from the confrontation with Ran Dan, and there is no trace to be found.

Naturally, there are many people who are dissatisfied with this, but when the critics collect the battle reports of the Sixth Legion, they have to admit that the Wolf King and his heirs have completed every combat mission, and despite the bad attitude, procrastination in execution, and even reckless means, the Sixth Legion has not been derelict in its duties.

So, in a fury that bordered on shame, another mission was thrown in the face of Riemanrus, and the King of Fenris laughed, leading his heir to disappear into the waves of subspace once again.

In this way, in the sixth year of the war, after the blood of hundreds of millions of imperial soldiers was spilled on the battlefield, when the nails of Ran Dan were lifted from the land of the empire, with the simultaneous silence of both sides, the rhythm of the war seemed to enter a slow stage of recuperation, and only the northern front of the Eleventh Army occasionally came with news of pursuit and annihilation.

This alien hegemony that intends to compete with the empire seems to have been dealt a heavy blow, and they continue to shrink their sphere of influence, clustering more and more fleets together, and never take the initiative to attack again, but face the temptation of the empire with a kind of forbearance and retreat.

Ran Dan seemed to be retreating.

Even Johnson thinks so.

——————

But retreat and abandonment don't seem to be the same thing.

——————

[How long has she been down?] 】

"A Terra standard, my lord."

【……】

[Prepare an airdrop pod for me.] 】

"My lord, what you have ordered is for Miss Morgan to prepare in at least two Terra standard hours, and then you can go to [tackle the problem]."

[The unprepared start is part of what no war can escape, Couss. 】

Coswayne could only sigh in his heart as he watched the pure black drop capsule belonging to Johnson streak a brilliant crimson meteor across the atmosphere of the Dead World.

After the victory of the Battle of Billyvan, everything seemed to be happy, and the Legion finally ushered in a long-awaited rest, and even the rigid face of the Father of Genes was somewhat relieved, and the breath of relief began to surround the Indomitable Truth.

It wasn't until the fifth day of the battle that Johnson summoned his most trusted heir.

Coswayne stayed in the Lion King's office for ten minutes, and when he came out, he took the Lion King's secret order and went to the most secret corner of the Indomitable Truth, and when he came out again, he already had a weapon in his hand that could kill almost all psykers, and deadly anti-psionic devices like this began to appear quietly in the hands of more Dark Angels.

In this case, they ended up on Sisyphus III, a dead world located in the Far East, in the northern part of the Maelstrom region, where there were no oceans, deserts or permafrost, and the whole world was shrouded in savage deep forests and obscuring mist, where stories of carnivorous plants and cunning poisonous beasts ruled everything, and even the people of Katakan had to advance cautiously here.

And this is the place Johnson has chosen.

——————

The drop pod of the original genotype crashed into the deep forest, like a bursting meteor, rumbling through the endless trees and vines, and even dispelling the thick fog.

The bolts were loosened, the hatch peeled off, and the genomorph couldn't wait for the trembling shell to fall to the ground completely, and strode out.

He was fully armed, but he didn't wear a helmet, the imposing Lion Sword was held in his right hand, and the plasma pistol Aktinus Fusiliers, which wasn't always used by the genotypes, hung from his waist on the other side, with several stasis grenades next to him.

Emerald green pupils, more vibrant than the endless forest, scanned everything in front of him mercilessly, but saw only silence and death like never before: no birdsong, no running water, no rustle of tall trees rubbing against each other in the wind, not even the sound of the wind.

Johnson took a deep breath, and the extremely high oxygen content of the air was poured into his throat and lungs, and the ointment in the air fed the strange and huge life here, and made this lush world a world of death for humans.

The prototype took a step, he didn't deliberately hide the sound of his advance, and the huge steel boots trampled on the ground, shattering the stones and rotten wood that blocked the way, making a sound like a forest patrol beast, echoing in the forest for a long time.

He left the small plain created by the drop pod and stepped into the shadows of the deep forest, where the light from the stars was completely blocked, and the glowing green pupils of the genetic prototype were the brightest colors in the darkness.

He walked and walked until the last light behind him was cast out of sight that he could no longer see.

Johnson raised his head and listened to the voice of the deep forest.

The forest was quiet, almost eerily quiet.

But he could still hear it when he was surviving in the cannibal forests of Caliban; When he joined the Knights and returned there as a slayer; He could hear these voices as he watched the industrialized Empire harvest vast swaths of Caliban's primeval forests, the sounds of the forest.

It was howling, a silent howl, a howl that belonged only to a pathetic beast that had lost its self, manipulated by countless threads and cables.

The genoplasm's pupils glow dangerously.

Johnson raised his sword and stood on the ground with a screeching sound.

[To this day, no human has ever dared to challenge me in the forest. 】

His voice echoed through millions of towering trees, like the judgment of the gods, and traveled among countless peaks until it disappeared at the end of the horizon and spread to the farthest places.

In the next moment, much later, at the second when the two hearts of the protogenus were beating together, Johnson finally waited for a response.

That's laughter.

Cold, empty, chaotic, meaningless light laughter, they seem to come from heaven, and they seem to come from some expressionless face.

[Then may I ask, do those of your kind do this often?] 】

The air was quiet for a moment.

Johnson rolled his Adam's apple and let out a muffled sound of not reading.

He drew his sword and listened to the laughter coming from all directions, which surrounded him greedily like hungry vipers, unwilling to leave.

The Genoplasm's eyes shone with a cold light that could kill a hundred Astartes.

——————

"I fought in the forest. 】

【Fight the beast.】 】

[Fight hunger. 】

[Fight against the most primitive desires. 】

[Fight against those sinister and cunning monsters that are better than humans.] 】

[Fight against the darkness of abandonment, compromise, escape, and madness in your heart.] 】

[Even with the forest itself...... Fight. 】

[To this day, all battles will only have one result. 】

And you. 】

【……】

[It will not be an exception.] 】

(End of chapter)