Many years later, in those last years when he was still able to be a pure warrior and a reckless man, the first company commander of the Shadowmoon Blue Wolf would still remember the duel that had been interrupted.

No, it wasn't a duel, it was just the most modest of races, but that didn't stop Abaddon from remembering the giant of the Second Legion from the bottom of his heart: after all, a burly opponent like that would impress everyone.

The rush of battle is like a hungry meal, you won't even remember what happened at the beginning, and when Abaddon could recall it, he would always start from a sharp pain that his breastplate had been pinpointed by the heaviest blow, causing him to take several steps back along with his heavy armor.

Hecht, that guy.

He's a monster, a monster born with the purest powers, and he doesn't even have to wield his blade: he just needs to clench his fists, grit his teeth, and swing it hard, enough to shatter a surprise helmet and skull, and kill an Astarte.

Abaddon even wondered if the man who was a small genoplasm in height and size was the heir of the Lord of the Second Legion: if it were possible, he would rather believe that Hector was from the Salamander Legion, or a wandering Shadowmoon wolf.

After all......

He didn't deny the power of the Morgan, but he didn't think that the relatively slender protogen could be the mother of the genes of a big man like Hecht or the bloodthirsty [madman] like a shark: it was beyond the limits of his imagination.

Just thinking about the sight of those crazier than war dogs gathered around her throne and bowing their heads was enough for Abaddon to feel a real chill.

However, the actual time did not give him room to continue thinking: after the first move forced back the most powerful Shadow Moon Wolf, Hector's offensive did not delay in the slightest, and Morgan's proudest chess piece had already known his strengths and weaknesses in the bloody battle with all kinds of Ran Dan elites that had spread for more than ten years.

He knew what he had to do, he knew what he needed to avoid, he faithfully fulfilled those knowings, and rarely tried to break through his shortcomings in battle: and because of this, he survived.

His body was the most formidable weapon he could wield: his tall stature, his unrivaled strength, his strong bones, and his steady center of gravity were enough to give him the upper hand at the very beginning of the battle, to unleash a series of attacks that would make it impossible for any opponent to breathe, and to defeat the most cunning opponents with the most unwieldy methods.

Correspondingly, once his offensive is successfully blocked, delayed and seen through, then his disadvantage in combat experience will be specifically targeted and hit: although he has experienced the entire Second Randan War, compared to the Terra veterans and elites of a hundred battles that are now everywhere in many legions, Hector knows that he is still a young figure.

His battle cannot be delayed.

The Son of Morgan's pace and attack were like a hammer enveloped in a thunderstorm, and he twisted his strength and speed into an indestructible whip in the most savage way, biting Abaddon's retreating steps, striking the Shadowmoon Wolf's battle-hardened Terminator armor again and again, and Abaddon only felt as if he was facing a mountain that could breathe.

It was an unstoppable offensive: if Abaddon was an ordinary Astarte warrior, it wasn't.

But he wasn't, he was Horus's proudest reckless heir, a veteran of expeditions that had fought for nearly eighty years, an immobile master of confrontation strengthened and augmented by a specially made Terminator armor.

He retreated under Hectac's savage barrage, gritted his teeth, brandished the tomahawk and power claw on his hands, and collided and confronted Morgan's proudest pawn again and again: when he felt that this would be an opportunity, his tomahawk and Hecter's longsword would think fiercely at each other.

On the contrary, when he felt that Hecht's attack was too heavy, he would raise his power claws as cover, and with his heavy armor and steady pace, he blocked Hecht's most ferocious attack, waiting for the possibility of the next counterattack.

The silver and black figures seemed to bite and collide in the open field, which was supposed to be a vast cage that could hold ten duels at once, but when the two most terrible beasts began their battle, before they knew it, all the battles were over, and all the Shadow Moon Blue Wolves were already engrossed in the fight, cheering on an equal footing for each wonderful battle between the two sides.

The silver and black whirlwinds continued to observe each other and destroy each other in a non-stop fight, and Hecht's advance and Abaddon's retreat continued for most of the arena, until the pace of the Shadow Moon Wolf became more and more steady, until Hecht's brow became more and more furrowed, until the heavy Terminator armor, which had been stabbed again and again by the dark green poison blade, had been covered with large and small marks and white marks.

Until Abaddon's pace stood firm after retreating again.

This time, he didn't back down.

Some time after the contest began, and after countless silent confrontations, Horus's proudest son took the initiative to raise his battle axe for the first time and launched a swift attack, which was only met with Hecton's silent blow.

Neither Horus's beloved son nor Morgan's pride were characters who liked to talk at length in battle: at least not yet, and besides, they were far from familiar with each other.

The battle continued in the silence of the fangs and the moon wolf, and the onlookers continued in the incessant cheers and discussions, and the most experienced sons of Horus easily recounted the prophecy that the battle was coming to an end: Hector's offensive was blocked, and he was about to start facing Abaddon's counterattack, which meant that he had no chance.

The silent swing of the Morgan's son began to be predicted, his rhythm was interrupted, his sword was jammed fiercely, and white marks symbolizing his fate began to appear frequently on his armor, although he still launched a ferocious counterattack: a single swing of his clenched fist was enough to make Abaddon grit his teeth and secretly curse and marvel at his monstrous strength.

But that didn't stop the tide: when Horus's instructions reached the ears of every Shadowmoon Wolf with the clarion call of war, it was clear to anyone that Abaddon's victory was only a matter of time.

But even so, the Shadow Moon Wolves who witnessed the battle were still willing to pat Hecht on the arm, admiring his talent, and showing him a smile of recognition and affirmation as they passed by him.

Abaddon, in particular, solemnly introduced his name to Morgan's heirs, and felt sincere regret for the abrupt end of the fight: Hector was not the most powerful of the warriors he had ever seen, and Abaddon knew at least twenty Angels of Death who were as far apart as Hector is now, but this did not prevent the battle with Hector from becoming his happiest memory.

This kind of fist-to-flesh fight, with little need to think about strategy, and the purest strength and instinct to fight for victory and defeat is simply a scene that only appears in Abaddon's dreams.

It's just a pity that such a battle will not be repeated for a long time: he and Hector are not in the same battle sequence, and not even in the same legion.

The next time we will be able to fight side by side, I don't know when it will be.

——————

Before he was assigned to Morgan's ranks, Abaddon thought so.

——————

However, he really did not expect that he would also have a day as a diplomatic envoy.

He had always thought it was Ceyanus' job.

Horus's most reckless child clawed down a dying Randan soldier, spitting contemptuously as he surveyed the corridor he had just single-handedly captured.

It was almost impossible to describe the twisted and ugly alien warship in human language, and Abaddon's gaze swayed for a moment on the rickety chains and shackles, and then he searched for the direction of the fight and strode towards another unknown battlefield.

About a Terra standard hour had passed since Horus and Morgan made that easy bet aboard the Vengeful Spirit, and the slaughter of the Randan's fleet had come to an end.

It was a simple battle, so boring that there was little to remember and tell again: although Horus did not bring his entire legion, there were still at least 60,000 warriors from Sacred Terra and Ksunia who followed the wolf herder god to this galaxy, and in the face of such a disparity in strength, tens of thousands of warriors of Ran Dan could not afford to stir up even the slightest storm.

After losing less than a hundred sons of Horus, the battle was over, and the vast majority of Randan soldiers died in the long-range fire of a hundred times their fleet, and the [Spirit of Vengeance] belonging to Horus alone won the most kills in this hunt, until the few remaining Randan ships were forced to huddle together to meet the jumping forces of the Human Empire.

The Wolf Shepherd longs for a close-quartering hunt with his blood relatives, and also hopes to capture a few alien warships, six Morgan's descendants and one hundred and fourteen Shadowmoon wolves follow their genetic protogens to the devastated hunting grounds.

Over the next hour, Horus led his children into a bloody storm of aliens dozens of times his own, his iron boots and claws soon stained red with blasphemous blood, and whenever he killed a hundred opponents with his own hands, he would quietly count his numbers in the communication channels of the two primitives.

Victory was easy, and with the Lord of the Second Legion not using her psionic powers, Horus always had at least a hundred more hunts than his own blood relatives, and although the Spider Empress's voice was always calm, the Wolf Shepherd still heard some of the smiles and frustration and broken thoughts of defeat.

He smiled, and across the distance between the battleship and the void, the genetic father of the Shadowmoon Wolves imagined the smart eyes of his blood relatives.

——————

In Morgan's pupils, there was a dead silence.

She casually called out her power in the sea of souls, explored the forces of the Ran Dan army that had gathered together, and then turned over, and completed her hunt in her careless mind.

The most elite Xenomorph warriors are determined to die, and their sturdy armor allows them to sustain themselves through the cross-energy and roaring chainsaws of Astarte warriors for a long time: until the arrival of the Primordial.

The weak Lord of the Second Legion waved her arms casually, her attention had already shifted to thousands of miles away, and her not-so-heavy fingers curled up a stream of quiet breeze, slapping tons of alien elites out one after another, smashing out the incomparably hard walls and turning into a pool of blood and mud.

At this time, Morgan was already in a state of almost out-of-body state, and she did not pay any attention to Horus's words, but answered Horus's words from another warship in an instinctive tone of disappointment that was enough to cope with the little pride of the wolf herder.

The Spider Empress's will was drawn to the world before her: a commonplace, barren world, dotted with fortresses large and small, and alien defenders in despair.

From the outside, no one can figure out why this world is so attractive to the Emperor of Razor: before the Battle of Taks, the main force of the entire Randan fleet stayed in orbit in this world for at least three Terra standard days, which even affected many of the military operations of the alien army against the Taks system.

Morgan was also puzzled by this strange question, until she teleported her consciousness to that world, until she saw the underground kingdom under those ordinary fortresses, which spread over most of the world, until she realized that it could not be the work of the army of Randan, because it was undoubtedly excavated and developed by a powerful force little by little over a long period of time.

And Morgan soon knew who these underground kingdoms once belonged to.

There she is.

She's beneath the world before her.

Feel the breath of a genotype.

That's a kind of ......

A taste that belongs to the soul.

——————

There is a genoplasma who has left something in this world.

Moreover, it was not taken away by the emperor of Randan.

——————

When Morgan realized this.

Horus's place in her heart had temporarily fallen to an inconsequential position, and he was swept away by the cobwebs farther away, making way for the new prey in Morgan's eyes.

But then, Morgan blinked her eyes and thought of something, so she temporarily pulled Horus back to his position.

After all, based on what had happened before and the state of all the protogens, the most likely one to leave something here was the eleventh protoplasma that had lost its trace.

If this barren world was once one of the command centers of the Eleventh Army in the Second Zandan War, then there is a reasonable explanation for those vast underground networks, and it is not impossible that Menger left something here.

However, at this time, Morgan actually did not have more understanding and deep understanding of the Eleventh Primordial.

But it doesn't matter.

Isn't there anyone who has it?

Morgan's gaze gradually returned to clarity.

She listened to Horus's affectionate counts on the private communication channel, revealing a smile that would make anyone shudder.

——————

[You won. 】

The wolf shepherd god could hear that there was a certain frustration in this short sentence.

He laughed.

"It's not a serious and formal game, Morgan."

While chatting with his blood relatives, Horus casually strangled the three-meter-tall Randan overlord.

"It doesn't mean much."

All I heard was Morgan's soft hum.

Horus continued to laugh as he stood in the former cabin of Captain Ran Dan and watched as the Shadowmoon Wolf fleet began to bombard the alien fortress on the ground.

"Again?"

He asked tentatively.

There was a slight grinding sound on the other end of the communication channel, which seemed to symbolize some kind of thinking and decision.

[Of course.] 】

Morgan's gaze locked on the entrance to the subterranean realm in the sea of souls, and she spoke again, changing her tone and adding a certain undeniable arrogance.

[This time, I'll choose first.] 】

The wolf shepherd god smiled.

"Of course."

He whispered yes, and ended the battle that had slaughtered thousands of Xenomorphs.

The wolfwrang's chest was now filled with a relaxed gesture: he didn't know if it was his delusion, but Morgan's words seemed to make one instinctively feel relaxed, and some kind of comfort.

Maybe it's her power?

Horus thought so, and he thought of St. Giles: so did the Archangel of Barr, who, like a tiny sun, unconsciously exuded a light that made people feel intimate and warm.

Truth be told, Horus even envied the power of the archangels, and when he had to bother with all sorts of observations and relationships, some of his blood relatives could do the same thing with a more natural power, or rather a simple gift.

They are like the sun, born to attract countless admirers.

The sun is always a favorite.

Whether it's bright or warm.

Still is...... Icy cold.

The face of the wolf shepherd god was dark,

When he saw these slaughtered Randan soldiers, he thought of his other brother, the brother who was also like a round of sun, the brother who had disappeared in this war with Randan.

He didn't know what had happened to him and his legions.

Where is he?

Is he still alive?

Why did his father choose to keep silent about what happened to him?

His lost blood relative.

His brother.

The Primordial.

The man of miracles.

The god of war named Menger.

The ......

The blonde beast.

(End of chapter)