Ever since he had been given ownership of the wars and had held them to the bloodiest light of the galaxy, the Knight King of Caliban hadn't rested even once for four months.

He finally got what he wanted: all the duty, all the trust, all the difficulties and loyalty, now in his hands.

As for what the price was, how much, where, when, and what additional things he would need to pay, he didn't care.

In his eyes, there is only the burning galaxy now.

The lion of Caliban threw away the defense line he had painstakingly managed for years in the east of the galaxy, and threw the rich or empty star sectors to the bewildered auxiliaries and world governors, and those that were really unimportant or worthless were abandoned, except for a few hundred trusted dark angels who were entrusted by him to those remote worlds where important secrets and relics existed, Johnson had gathered all the power in his hands, whether it was the veterans of the inner ring or the new blood of Caliban, All of them have to join this most brutal war.

The genogen was even ready for a long tug-of-war: he called one of his most trusted men, his left hand, Luther, to his side and gave the highest order to his former adoptive father, who was already fully armed and ready to go to the front.

Luther would not follow the First Legion to the front line with Randan, and he was ordered to return to Caliban to recruit as many recruits as possible for the Dark Angel Legion, so as to ensure that even if the worst sacrifice occurred among the stars, the First Legion would hold out until the Emperor's dictates were fulfilled.

Even Johnson himself couldn't be sure if this order was completely rational, maybe somewhere in the heart of the genetic protogen, he instinctively didn't want Luthor to be contaminated with such a terrible war.

But soon, he used reason to convince himself: Luthor was indeed suitable for the job, he had indeed taken care of all the logistics in order during the years of fierce war with Ran Dan, and in such a special situation, he did need a trustworthy person to sit on his home planet to complete the task, and he was dissatisfied.

Genogen knew that there had always been disgruntled voices in the Caliban.

He'll deal with them, but it's not the time yet: the Great Expedition continues, the revival of humanity isn't yet complete, and the Caliban still have more to do for the Empire.

So, Johnson gave that order.

He vaguely remembered that when he called Luthor to him and gave the order, Luther's face seemed to change somewhat.

Johnson didn't look closely.

He has more important things.

And he was sure that Luthor was worthy of his trust.

As he thought, Luthor finally had no complaints, and his adoptive father, his right hand, silently took the order, unloaded his armor, and left the Grand Fleet of the First Legion, which was ready for battle, and disappeared into the sea of stars in only a small boat.

After all this was done, Johnson turned around and once again commanded his legions, leaving the gloom of the eastern galaxy and plunging headlong into the blood mist of the northern galaxy.

Luther's somewhat gloomy, somewhat distorted face always flashed through his mind inadvertently.

But without exception.

He never cared.

Luther, always trustworthy.

——————

Thinking of this, the genetic prototype actually had a trace of regret.

If his blood relative hadn't been temporarily away from the subspace storm that Randan had sparked, perhaps he could have asked her to relay those words to Luther, who was always better at words than he was.

He also always disliked these things.

——————

Johnson opened his eyes.

His mind was detached from the fleeting memories and feelings: these things had taken him less than a second, and now, once again, his whole energy had returned to the only thing he cared about even when he looked at the entire galaxy: war, endless war.

The Knight King of Kaliban clicked on the star map in front of him.

Once again, the beacon fire of the universe was clearly presented in front of his eyes.

In Johnson's turquoise pupils. Tens of millions of crimson lights were reflected, each symbolizing a bloody war, a tragic defeat, or the fall of a world.

The cycle never ends, as if thousands of wailing people were hung upside down on top of a spiky iron cage, each of their struggles spilling only more blood, leaving this twisted painting on the ground.

Such a thought flashed through the mind of the Caliban Lion, and he frowned, sinking into a low anger for this bloody desire that interfered with his thoughts, and he subconsciously touched his somewhat shriveled skin, feeling that his beard could become a little too long, even savage.

Maybe he needs to be released.

Johnson thought.

A release, a kill, a chance he was waiting for, such as if his Indomitable Truth had been attacked, whatever the attack was, he could pick up his sword and pistol and chop off some heads, aliens or enemies.

He did need some killings now, even if it was as a break.

Johnson raised his other hand and covered his face, feeling the skin between his features grow old, shriveled and rough, his ears still dutifully catching the sounds around him: there were always more voices wandering around the room.

He heard the sound of more messages pouring into the screen from distant stars, each shrill sound bringing one or more bad news, just as every dawn was accompanied by distant bad news.

He heard footsteps of all kinds ringing in every corner of the room: his heirs, mortals, officials, officers, envoys of Terra......

There is always bad news, there is always help, there is always questioning, there are always more troubles and doubts coming to him all the time: no one wants to bear all this, so when someone stands up, he should bear all the problems and additional accusations.

Everyone was looking at him, questioning him, whispering.

He knows.

He knew Horus and his tangled thoughts, the wolf god always wanted more, he was entrenched in the western part of the galaxy, but he was full of thoughts about the things in the north of the galaxy.

He knew that his other brothers, whether it was Riemanrus, Mortarian, or the ethereal Great Khan, were looking at him with a freak look, and he was sure of that, for he was looking at them with the same gaze.

He knew the mortals: those from the Holy Terra, from the front lines, from every supply world and transportation center, from every inch of the shadows in the lower decks of his Glorious Queen, the mortals, who were whispering, whispering, watching his every move from the shadows with suspicion and criticism.

They suspected his motives.

They mocked his abilities.

They questioned him about his means.

They hastily dodged the responsibilities and burdens, and then stood triumphantly beside the executor, commenting wantonly, letting their words drown out the voice of hard work, and suddenly became the truth.

He knew they would.

And he ......

——————

Johnson lowered his hand, revealing his face once again to his sons, his men, and everyone.

The face that was originally the most majestic, the most perfect, and the most solemn can now only be described as haggard.

When the war had not yet broken out, when Johnson had just returned to Holy Terra from the forests of Caliban, he had walked in his father's palace. Handle court chores for him.

At that time, all the officials did not dare to look him in the eye, and the soldiers and guards were dressed at his right and left in awe, and every word about his countenance and state could not be separated from the seriousness, the sacredness and the nobility.

But now, those words no longer apply to him.

The Lion of Caliban's eyes were completely overrun with scarlet blood, his beard was like a mass of the most savage straw, brutally occupying his jaw, lips, and more cheeks, his skin was thin and pale, his eyes were deep-set, and they looked a little black in the shadow of his eyebrows, when he looked up at the star chart or his offspring. His face looked so thin that one could see the clear bones.

It wasn't that no one had reminded him: Coswayne had repeatedly begged him to take a break, and even after he had forbidden it, he risked a confrontation and repeated it; Astran had mentioned it twice out of duty as a subordinate, and after he had explicitly refused, he kept silent; Even Luther, hesitating in his letters, then mentions somewhat cryptically wishing he could take a break, as he heard from the front that the genoplasm had been sleepless for months.

In the face of Luther, he was much more adept, and in the next contact, he took a few seconds to warn Luthor to focus all his energy on Caliban and not worry about anything else.

None of them could convince him.

No one could convince him.

Beneath the haggard countenance, the sunken eyes, and the dead silence, the still-sharp, terrifying, and sharp gaze in the eyes of the Caliban Lion is the only evidence that still speaks of the calm and meticulous thinking of the original genobody.

——————

And he ......

He doesn't care.

——————

Anyone, no matter how arrogant his pride and stubbornness are, when he looks at the genetic prototype, he will realize from the bottom of his heart that Johnson at this time is still the extremely powerful Caliban monster killer. Still the great marshal who deserves to be entrusted by the emperor to half the galaxy.

He was not crushed.

He will never be crushed.

After all.

He doesn't care.

He's got what he wants.

He has got everything he desires.

——————

Johnson from Caliban turned around and he felt something.

In the next second, the door of the room slowly opened, and some of the once too noisy sounds seemed to be quiet, they were still noisy, but this time, the noise was just right.

Johnson saw it, he saw the silver figure: some overly long hair, blue-blue pupils, always with that rather dead smile, slender arms, slender curves, she disguised herself as a genetic prototype strong and tall, just casually in his legion.

Feel free to leave and return at will.

She was still wearing the armor he had given her, the pure black armor, which looked like it had been well maintained.

Johnson just looked at her.

The Genogen of the First Legion snorted, his lips muttering, as if he wanted to say something, but in the end he didn't say anything.

Johnson just quietly watched the silver-haired lady slowly walk over.

Walked past the dark angels and mortals who stood silently and solemnly.

came to his side.

Morgan, it's back.

——————

She smiled, slowly came to the side of the genotype, then tilted her head, and frowned slightly when she saw the genotype's somewhat wild face, but soon, Morgan reopened a faint smile, a cold smile.

And her breath was just as cold, a cold sound that made Johnson feel worthy of even a long-lost productive work.

Johnson looked at her and didn't say a word.

They stood at the innermost end of the room, surrounded only by the workbench and the mottled starry path in front of them, and the busy mortals were left behind them, so far away from them. Let the original body and his blood relatives feel as if they are in a private space.

Morgan walked in front of the First Legion Genetic Prototype, she looked at her brother for a long time, and then stretched out a hand and placed it on Johnson's armor that had really accumulated some dust and stains, a refreshing power gathered in her palm, and with the random rotation of a thought in her mind, this power covered the whole body of the First Legion Genetic Prototype in an instant.

In the blink of an eye, the Genetic Prototype's armor became as bright as new, his face became solemn again, his beard was no longer rampant, and even his pupils were brighter and more dazzling.

In a trance, the old lion-like commander of the empire vanished, replaced by the knight king of Kaliban who could make anyone rise from the depths of their hearts with confidence and pursuit of victory.

During this period, Johnson remained silent.

He just sat quiet, letting his blood relatives' spells cleanse him of the exhaustion and dust that had accumulated over the years.

And when Morgan was finally done with all this, he lowered his head, looked at his blood relatives again, saw her casually looking at her armor, and then silently stretched out a hand, grabbed the honor-symbolizing legion articles and pendants on Johnson's chest, and put some of them scattered and neatly rear.

Johnson waited quietly for her to finish all of this before a low voice came out of his throat.

[I'm back.] 】

Morgan looked up and smiled.

[I'm back.] 】

(End of chapter)