"I haven't seen you in a while, Hecht."

"Yes, senior Tarasin, it's been a long time."

——————

Ever since the young Fang stepped aboard the ship, there had been a lot of greetings and nostalgia, after all, everyone in the fleet had been impressed by this surprisingly tall nova, and the years-long war had literally taken many of them.

Hector had been on the front lines of the war with Randan for years, maybe five, maybe seven, in short, he rarely rested, and he rarely counted how long he had been fighting.

At first, he tried to remember the course of the war by marking the fallen comrades, but after one endless bloody battle, he wisely abandoned the idea, and the only thing thankful for him was that his four-man team had survived unscathed to this day, at least without attrition: a miracle.

In Hecht's opinion, this may be the second thing to be proud of in his life, and the first thing to be proud of is the secret buried in his heart, which even Mr. Chiron does not know: his original body, his genetic mother, and the arbiter of his bloodline.

He always obeyed her will: to keep this secret and to improve himself at all costs in this war, he took this short word as the creed of his life, and carried it out selflessly, he did not know when this task would end, after all, what the original body was thinking, how could he guess?

The thought swirled through Hecht's mind, and he walked through the corridors of the Seeker of Knowledge, his chest puffed up, his eyes constantly looking at the recorded paintings on the walls.

The interior decoration of the Second Legion's ships is probably different from that of other legions, they don't make their Void Home a work of art like the Emperor's Son or the Blood Angel, but they do decorate it with care, but the most ornamental decoration in the Second Legion's warships is not oil paintings and statues, but a kind of documentary painting.

These paintings record in the most general terms what the battleship and its members have experienced: perhaps a battle, an adventure, or even an argument or something interesting, like passing by an interesting planet, meeting a creature of primitive intelligence, or reuniting with a human world that has been struggling in the long night under the banner of an empire.

These paintings are not an official act, anyone who feels that their experience is meaningful can hang on them, and they can also put a small sign next to it to describe it all briefly, or put a memento that proves the story, of course, the stories of those who visit are also encouraged to put on them, and some of the more active warriors will even find a way to put up the stories of these guests, after all, mortal experiences are as wonderful as mortals.

Each warship is like a campfire in a wagon camp, and each warrior has a soul to tell.

Someone once said of the Emperor's Second Legion, and although this evaluation cannot symbolize the entire Second Legion, in some fleets, it is indeed an accurate generalization.

Of course, among the other fleets, it may be a different scene, after all, the Second Fleet is now divided, and the style of each fleet is naturally very different, Hecht's Second Fleet prefers to record and some healthy archaeological activities, while the Third Fleet prefers the art of psionic energy, and the Sixth Fleet is more interested in contact with mortals......

It is said that this recorded custom originated from Hecht's current battlecruiser [Seeker], and the person who knows this custom best is undoubtedly the oldest warrior on this battleship......

"I'm looking for a technical sergeant, Tarasin."

Hecht's request was quickly reciprocated, and he turned left and right in the cloister according to the address provided by the mortal minions, and finally came to a room deep in the battleship, which was more like a storage room, too close to the engine and a little stuffy, and no one usually hung out here.

He pushed the door open and walked inside, and the first thing that caught his eye was the assortment of parts and fixtures, followed by various pieces of equipment waiting to be repaired neatly arranged on the workbench, and next to them were small bits and pieces, apparently personal belongings, and at the other end of the room, some worn-out armor and even larger ones could be faintly seen.

Frankly, the room was actually quite large, and it was more suitable for the name Warehouse, but it was a bit crowded because there were so many things on display, but the owner of the room was clearly comfortable with this, and Hector soon saw a figure hidden under his robe slowly getting up from a pile of old equipment and unknown objects, and walking towards him.

Hector stood still and saluted in a proper manner.

"Talasin seniors."

"Ah, Hecht, you haven't been here in a while."

The senior was still the same, he didn't wear battle armor, but a simple linen robe, and by Astarte's standards, he was a little thin and a little tall, but in general he was still very inconspicuous, and he belonged to the group of Astartes who would be rightfully ignored.

But no one will despise him, even the most experienced ancient warrior can't tell when Tarasin joined the legion, but it is certain that he was one of the first soldiers of the Second Legion to go to Mars for further study, and soon received the title of technical sergeant, he liked the position very much, and repeatedly refused to command the squad or be promoted, until today, this seemingly mediocre technical sergeant is actually one of the oldest people in the entire Second Fleet.

Tarasin rarely participated in battles, but he had a unique skill in archaeological activities, he was always able to find the hidden ancient ruins with great precision, and then let the legion return with full loads, Hector even remembered that the only time he participated in such a team-building activity was spearheaded by Tarasin, and about two hundred volunteer warriors followed the veteran to a wonderful place: without a breath of life, the eyes were full of cold machinery and sleeping metal skeletons, as if they were buried in this mausoleum, The owners of these tombs are already corpses.

The place looked like a small dynasty from countless years ago, and the fangs had broken in, spent a moment cleaning up the strange metal skeletons, and seized a lot of things that were still usable, but the only pity was that when they rushed into what looked like the throne room, they found that the most precious things were gone, and the other treasures were unusually intact.

However, Tarasin does not seem to be disappointed.

"Repair, or do you need it?"

The technical sergeant walked slowly to his workbench with Hecht, always with an inexplicable smile in his shriveled voice.

"I hope to fix it, Senior Tarasin, you may be the only one in the legion who understands these techniques."

"Ah, I only know a little, Hecht, and I can't promise to fix it."

Hector gave his weapon to the technical sergeant, and it was from Tarasin that he had taken over the Astral Phase, and he used it fairly well.

"How's this weapon going?"

"It's okay, overall I feel like I'm getting my hands on it, but I always feel like I'm not using it to all my strength."

"Maybe they're still asleep, but who knows?"

The technical sergeant did not immediately touch the weapon, but went to the side of the bookshelf to pick and choose, and took out one worn-out book after another, turning two pages and looking at the other, and returning to the workbench from time to time to record something, but despite this, he did not stop chatting with Hecht.

"What is the situation at the front? My little Hecht, it's been a long time since you've had a new story back to the Seeker, and I'm even feeling a little lonely. ”

Hearing this, Hector suddenly remembered some fragments: it is said that the Second Fleet's tradition of collecting stories was first initiated by this ancient warrior Tarasin, but that is already an unknown history, and no one knows whether this is true or not.

"Plainness often means safety, Tarasin seniors, but it is true that Ran Dan has not launched a large-scale offensive for a long time, and the mainstream conjecture on the front line is that their slave state has fallen into turmoil due to the decline of the Juche race caused by this large-scale bloody war, so it cannot continue to support this war with no end in sight."

"So, do you think this war will end in our victory?"

"It's not a victory yet, but we can already see the light on the horizon, and Tarasin's predecessors, even the most pessimistic front-line officers, think that we may no longer be able to make the northeast and north of the galaxy prosperous, after all, the traces of destruction caused by this war are too hard to erase."

Tarasin smiled, his back to the young warrior, busily busily on his bookshelves.

"I've been through a lot of things, more than you think, Hecht, and my memory tells me that the tranquility of war isn't always a good thing."

He turned his head, a smile that was so deep that it was a little unsettling.

"War is a storm, boy."

"Tranquility doesn't belong to it."

“…… What do you mean? ”

"While your tactical squads are broken up and are constantly fighting and gathering intelligence on the front lines, I am also listening to other information in boredom, some information from within the empire, from the center of the galaxy."

"Do you know the Eleventh Legion? Their home system has long been considered one of the safest regions of the Empire, but in recent days, it has been rumored that some strange alien fleets have been haunted there. ”

"Oh, and the Eleventh Legion itself, they've been in this war for too long, so long, it's not normal."

"How long has it been since you received a message from the Eleventh Legion, boy?"

"We ......"

Hector opened his mouth, instinctively trying to answer the question, but then, he froze in place, his mouth open and closed, but he could not give a suitable answer.

That's right......

How long has it been since they heard from the Eleventh Legion?

How long has it been since the purest of primordials led his legion headlong into the heart of the Randan Empire?

A year?

Two years?

Or three years?

Still is...... Longer......

——————

Johnson breathed with some difficulty.

He leaned against a broken pillar full of sand, and did his best to adjust his breathing, regaining his strength and energy: although those wounds were rapidly recovering under the superhuman physique of the genetic protoplasm, the consumption of physical strength and energy was real.

He was a little weak, a little tired, and more importantly: he was too embarrassed, too embarrassed to let anyone see him as he was.

Although they didn't care about the furious struggle just now, when the battle was over, when the duel was won, when the burning anger and recklessness finally cooled down in the cold air, the lion of Caliban suddenly realized what kind of stupidity he was doing.

……

In a sense, Ruth's bastard was right, they were like two dumbasses.

No, that stupid wolf must have been the dumber one, he messed up everything, Magnus and Roga combined were not as stupid as him.

Johnson lowered his head and looked at the tattered armor on his body: the damage to the armor was not a big deal, but the appearance of his body covered in sand and dust really pierced the reserved heart of the Knight King.

Especially......

When the sound of footsteps appeared in his ears.

Obviously, a large number of his heirs were about to come, and he had to show this tattered appearance in front of his subordinates, although the dark angels may think that it was nothing, but just appearing in front of outsiders in this dirty beggar state made Johnson himself unacceptable.

That's not going to work.

He tried to pat the dust, only to find that the dirt had spread all over his body, deep into his eyebrows and nails, and even every strand of his blonde hair had become entangled with the gray soil, forming disgusting dreadlocks that looked like a worn, earthy sack

Damn, he can't look like that......

Johnson gritted his teeth, and then, he heard a strange sound.

The Dark Angel's footsteps seemed to be urgently stopped, and then, as the argument between the two voices reached his ears, he immediately recognized that the thicker one was Arachos, who insisted on coming in at once, and the colder and more crisp one was Morgan, who was blocking the Dark Angel's movements in an almost irrational manner: she could not explain anything, but instead stopped the Dark Angel's steps.

And while this unreasonable argument was going on, a small whirlwind of psionic energy floated all the way to Johnson's feet without anyone noticing, and Johnson looked at this familiar psychic power, he struggled to stand up, and then, this psionic energy wrapped around him.

Like a spring breeze, or the crisp water of a mountain spring, Johnson could clearly see the dirt on his armor and face being blown away by the psionic energy at a great speed, just as the autumn mountain breeze blew away the rotten leaves, and they even blew his blonde hair, making it shine again like the sun peeling off the clouds.

He accepted it all submissively, and when the last shred of psionic energy finally left him, he even felt that his spirit had changed a lot, and at the very least, he could walk a few steps again.

And it was at this time that the short and gruff quarrel outside the room came to an end: he could even hear the sound of Arachos drawing his sword, and it was evident that the silver-haired lady's obstruction had made it easy for the Dark Angel to overcome her little jealousy.

[Enough. 】

Johnson spoke, his order easily ended through the wall, and then, slowly, he walked out of the room, not letting his heir come in to see what was going on: Ruth was in the other corner of the room, he didn't look very good, and although Johnson could hardly say anything positive about him, he still didn't intend to embarrass his brother in front of his heir.

He walked out to meet his men and accept their audience and concerns, his gaze seemingly casually swept over the silver figure on the side: she stood on the periphery of the group, looking uninterested in joining the father-son interaction, Johnson looked at her, and then glanced at the room behind him, as if unintentionally.

Then, Morgan nodded, holding up a finger with the same psionic breeze on her fingertips, and with a wave of her hand, the breeze blew into the room to help the other Primordial, who was still unconscious.

A hint of satisfaction crossed Johnson's heart.

In the present, or rather, from a long time ago.

The communication between him and his blood relatives no longer needed words to be too direct and troublesome, and she knew what she was thinking with just a look.

……

Sometimes.

He even hoped that Morgan would be a mortal.

——————

When Riemanrus awoke, he had been moved to the Great Hall by the Space Wolves who had awakened first, just before the Tyrant of Duran's throne.

The wolf king of Fenris opened his eyes, and it took a moment to be confused, sober and remember what had happened, and then, he leapt to his feet.

"What about Johnson? Fuck, where's that bastard? He still owes me a punch. ”

Then this roar did not last even a second, a tsunami of wolf howls and a large pile of black and gray markinged fur completely submerged the wolf king, and the wolf king wasted a lot of strength to pull down the group of cubs that pounced on them one by one.

"That's it! All right! Tell me, you little wolf cubs, what about my brothers! Black Blood! You answer! ”

The Wolf King's guards stepped forward to inform him that the Dark Angel's fleet had just departed.

“…… Fuck it. ”

Ruth wanted to curse again, but the enthusiasm of the wolves overwhelmed him: his children were desperate to know which primordial had won the battle, after all, it was Johnson who stood and walked out, and many dark angels raised their noses to the sky in front of the wolves.

Ruth thought about it, didn't hide it, and made it clear that Johnson's final [sneak attack] made every space wolf feel righteous indignation, so Riemanlus became the winner of the wolf pack as a matter of course, although his mind was now full of other things.

It wasn't until the Wolf King's gaze swept over everyone in front of him once again that he suddenly realized that there was actually a mortal among them: it was the narrator of the Space Wolf Legion, one of the few mortals who looked at Riemanrus, he did not participate in the first line of battle, but the shriveled head of the tyrant of Duran was now in his hands.

"Hail to you, Wolf King."

He stepped forward and saluted.

"Master Johnson has told us everything that happened inside the fortress, and the battle between the two of you to kill the tyrant of Duran will be a legend for the expeditionary fleet, and even the most discerning officials on the Holy Terra will not be able to say anything."

“……”

Ruth was silent, and it took him a few seconds to sort out the meaning of the sentence.

"You mean...... Johnson told you that we joined hands to kill Duran's tyrant? ”

"This battle will be the best proof that the space wolf can fight well, my lord, those guys who criticize us will definitely have nothing to say this time!"

“…… Yes...... Oh, yes...... That's great...... I mean...... That ......"

Ruth scratched his face and leaned closer to look at his narrator.

"Did he tell you anything else? For example...... Werewolf? ”

“…… What? My lord? ”

"I mean, my brother, did he tell you anything else!"

"Master Johnson only told us how he joined forces with you to kill the tyrant Duran, and then left with the legion."

“…… Oh......"

“…… That's right. ”

Ruth's eyes rolled, and he wanted to smile gladly, but then he felt a sense of shame and chagrin.

In this strange feeling, his gaze wandered around, but he accidentally discovered something engraved on the tyrant's throne.

He stepped forward and looked at it.

Then, laughed.

"Your Excellency."

Black Blood walked up, and the Primordial Guard hesitated again and again before confessing to his Primordial a defeat, or rather, a complete fiasco.

"Huh? Well...... That's right. ”

To his surprise, Riemanrus's mood did not know why, but in an instant he became very good, and after listening carefully to the fiasco of the wolves, he actually patted his heir on the shoulder casually, comforting him while sighing in a joking tone.

"According to you, that little guy named Morgan isn't bad."

"Not bad...... It's really not bad......"

Riemanrus muttered to himself, beckoned his cubs, and walked away from the room happily, but the narrator, in some curiosity, walked to the tyrant's throne.

He found that on the throne, a few words were engraved, which were words carved with a sword and an axe.

He read it softly.

——————

[The following is not an example.] 】

(End of chapter)