Stone:

All the while, Rog-Dorn rarely asked his genetic father for anything.

Or rather, he never did: ask, demand, or actively express a desire for anything.

That's all pointlessness.

The lord of Invit did have what he wanted: but in the face of his duties, missions, and tasks, longing was insignificant.

Ever since he first saluted his allegiance to the Emperor's two-headed Aquila, the haughty leader of the Imperial Fist had always had one of the strongest thoughts: it was never his power to ask for it, nor was it something he was supposed to do.

After all, what he got in this galaxy, what he got from his father, was enough:

Life, Legion, Duty, Expedition......

And most importantly, a grand dream, a dream that would allow him to spend the rest of his life chasing and building: the first time he heard from the Emperor that the Lord of Humanity had planned for the future and the galaxy, he was willing to devote himself to it, whether as a warrior who was born or died, or as an ordinary architect.

That's enough.

In his eyes, in the eyes of Rog-Dorn, the day the Lord of Humanity first set foot on the Mountain, he gave the Invit everything they needed for the rest of their lives.

He has obtained all the things he is worth fighting for, what he is worth holding onto, what he is worth blood, and from that day on, all he needs to remember are the shortest and most unquestionable words:

Rog-Dorn, the Emperor's heir, the genetic prototype of the Seventh Legion, the seventh returning son, strong and unyielding.

He had memorized them.

He's got them.

What else does he need?

He shouldn't have been craving anything anymore......

It shouldn't have been ......

I can't ......

……

The fist slammed against the hardest cold wood tabletop, paused for half a moment, and slowly turned into a huge palm, wrapped in solid golden armor, and did not move for a long time.

The Fist of the Empire Lord with short white blonde hair was in the Eternal Crusade's largest command room, standing next to his favorite command table, his right hand resting on the table, which had always remained absolutely cold and hard.

It was a simple creation made from the roots of the only tree that existed on the Bitter Cold World of Invet, an office appliance that Dorn had built for himself as a child to suit his increasingly unusual size.

The lord of the Imperial Fist had taken only a few of his beloved things from his home planet: the eternally cold table was one of them, it needed no heat, no matching seats, and its only purpose was to stand tall, keeping the frost cold of Invit's harshest firmament.

When the storm of thought swept through the chest of the Imperial Fist Lord, making it impossible for him to remain sincere and calm, he needed the coldness here, and he needed the coldness from Invit, to make these precious coldnesses come back to him, to his chest.

For example: now.

This is necessary, and even Rogdorn will need the necessary means and help: he will never deny it, he will not overly trust and boast of his power, after all, the power of the protogens is often insignificant in the face of the things he needs to accomplish.

The genetic prototype of the Seventh Legion closed his eyes, his right palm simply touched the cold that was enough to freeze ordinary people, and patiently waited for his somewhat chaotic heart and mind to return to calm again.

Reason.

In his heart, he said to himself.

Rational, honest, calm, unyielding.

He needs these: whenever and wherever he needs them.

He is Dorne, the heir of the Emperor, the genetic protogenone of the Seventh Legion, and the son of the seventh return...... Strong.

Heavy breathing took again and again under the golden armor, and Dorne just closed his eyes and let him spend every moment of breath like a thoughtless stone statue.

It didn't take long.

When the heat of the palms of his hands began to eat away at the ice and snow that had not slept all year round, the Fist of the Empire opened its eyes.

Now, retelling.

Dorne said to himself.

Repeat the facts: don't pause, don't lie.

He will never lie: even if it is so-called well-intentioned, even if it is to himself, even if it is a silent word in his heart.

Forever...... No.

Now, let's get started.

He's Roger Dorn.

Commander of the Emperor's Seventh Legion.

He was about to have a remote conversation with his father, and here he was.

During the conversation, he would have hoped that the Emperor would allow the Imperial Fist to retain a portion of the warriors of the Eleventh Legion.

It's not his duty, and it's not something he's supposed to do.

In terms of duties, this matter has nothing to do with him.

As far as the order was concerned, he should not have made any requests for these warriors, nor should he disturb the emperor for this.

But he ...... It still does.

…… Yes.

He will do it.

Dorn blinked, and he took a few steps forward to the wall: it was a song of remembrance of the past, each sonorous sign meant an undeniable victory, some of which were the result of the Fist of the Empire alone, and some of which were topped by the Seventh Legion and the other legions, symbols of joint operations.

The Wolf Under the Moon, the Imperial Aquila, the Holy Blood, the Merciful Fire Dragon......

And that...... Steel Eagle.

It was the most widely distributed symbol after the Fist of the Empire: an iron-gray eagle with a steely line and solemn majesty, the symbol and symbol of the Eleventh Legion.

It was a symbol of Dorne's trust.

The lord of the Imperial Fist stared at the birds of prey, which symbolized victory, and after a moment, he finally stretched out his hand.

One, two, three......

The fall of the eagle left those gaps that were too abrupt, and Dorn looked at the discordant places in silence, silent, but did not really erase them, but allowed the abrupt voids to remain on the only memory of the two legions having fought side by side.

He held those steel eagles, pinched his five fingers heavily, and slowly twisted these brazen steels into a ball.

Heydrich ......

He whispered softly to his heart.

He had trusted him, lord of the Imperial Fist, had trusted the blonde beast.

No one knows exactly when this trust was born: perhaps, it was a joint operation filled with silent tacit understanding, or perhaps it was watching the undefeated Eleventh Primordial patiently depict a beautiful tactic without the slightest ostentation or delay.

Or perhaps, when Dorn mercilessly pointed out a mistake made by Heydrich in front of several primitives, the blonde beast pondered for a moment, then nodded sincerely, thanked him, and never made such a mistake again.

Maybe it's this, maybe it's that, maybe it's two legions, two primordials, in the thinnest interactions and the most serious exchanges, the countless worlds and kingdoms that have been fought side by side, and the countless dangers and tribulations that have been passed side by side.

In short, Dorne would never deny it: he did trust the blonde beast, his coldness, his rationality, and his humility before they broke up.

It wasn't until they received different missions and orders, separated among the stars, and fought each other for decades, until they met again and again in a mission, that unprecedented dead silence had enveloped the Eleventh Legion.

Until he saw a reason in Heydrich's golden pupils that was different from anything he had ever been: no, it was not reason and calmness, it was a fire sealed in ice.

He had thought he had seen it wrong, he had thought it was the long war that had interfered with his judgment and perception: sadly, he had not seen anything wrong.

He needs to face reality: Heydrich, who he trusts, is gone.

Lost in the so-called efficient orders of slaughter and extermination, and disappeared into the words of sand to the heirs and civilians.

Disappeared in the ...... When the soldiers of the 11th Legion, who refused to give up on rescuing the people, were gathered in one world by him, he gave the order to fire without hesitation.

……

The former Heydrich is gone, completely gone.

But Rog-Dorn, no.

The cacophony of metal grinding and firing filled the ship's command room, and even the most elite guards of the two legions did not react: as the soldiers of the Eleventh Legion, who looked like dead men, were about to carry out the ridiculous order, a huge golden whirlwind swept through everyone's vision.

The communicators in the hands of all the warriors were destroyed, and the original body of the Imperial Fist clung to the last communicator: it was being clenched in the hands of the blonde beast.

The astonishment spread throughout the room, and when the soldiers of the two legions hurriedly drew their weapons and confronted each other after a dazed look, the two primordials had already completed their communication in silent eyes.

Until now, Dorn remembers Heydrich's last and only words: a phrase mixed with desolate laughter.

"Are you sure?"

He laughed and sarcastically, sarcastically at Dorne and at himself.

The Fist of the Empire didn't know how to respond to the sarcastic laughter, maybe he should tell a white lie, or maybe he should have confided some delaying words: if it were some other primordial, they would have done it.

But he's Dorne.

He didn't hesitate for a second.

……

"Of course."

……

In the end, he brought back those fighters.

To this day, he can't believe he did: but he's sure he would do it again if he did it again.

He gave them weapons, gave them lodging places, gave them tasks, and saw them as a large friendly army: he was reluctant to talk to them, because even Dorne did not want to face the pupils of warriors who had been abandoned by their original bodies.

He deliberately forgot about them: for a while, he did.

Until the beginning and end of the Zandan War.

Until...... Today.

Dorne closed his eyes, but soon did.

It hadn't been long since the moment of the call he had agreed with the emperor, and the Imperial Fist straightened his face and slowly came to the front of the projector, rarely, his Adam's apple rolling up and down.

Retell.

He said to himself.

He will speak to the Emperor.

He will send a request to the Emperor: he will ask the Emperor for permission to take in the soldiers of the Eleventh Legion.

He will promise, he will assure, he will be sure that they are an equally noble group of warriors, a group of heroes who should not be dragged down by the mistakes of the original.

They deserve to exist, they deserve to fight, they deserve a glorious death.

That's his request, his only request, the one he will hold on to to the end.

It's an offense, it's a line crossing, it's everything he shouldn't care about, it's a disobedience to the Emperor's orders, it's a word that will provoke anger and hostility, it's a harbinger that will put him on a par with Gilliman and other ambitious men......

This is the worst thing that can happen.

But he won't give up.

……

He's Dorne.

The heir of the Emperor, the genetic protogenone of the Seventh Legion, and the seventh returning son......

Strong.

——————

Sword:

The owner of the Dark Angel watched as Horus and Morgan drifted away, towards the improvised hill.

The Second Legion is coming, and soon, they will meet their genetic protogens beneath that hill.

His two blood relatives had already gone a little far, but the Lion King didn't choose to follow in the first place, and he stopped, because the Lord of Humans behind him was the same.

The Emperor had something he wanted to talk to Johnson about: the First Legion's Genoplasma could sense it all, because he had been waiting for this conversation.

The lion turned, and he stood solemnly in place, waiting for his lord, the silent king beneath the black hood.

The emperor came quickly, but it was only a matter of moments, and he was already standing in front of Johnson, his eyes hidden under his hood, and his tone was flat.

[We haven't met and talked in a while, and the war with Ran Dan has consumed all your energy and that of the First Legion. 】

"It's a matter of duty, father."

Johnson's salute is a sign of submission to the lord of mankind: his conversations with the emperor are often not long or intimate, but the shortest and most important communication between the king and his courtiers.

Issue an order, complete an order, in general, that's it.

Even the terrible secrets of the knight kings, who had been handed over to Caliban by the Lord of Mankind, would never be the subject of conversation: in fact, they always avoided talking about them.

When dealing with these deadliest topics, the emperor and Johnson would use another way: silent giving and receiving, a simple way that could be used to convey thousands of words.

The Emperor nodded, he had always been satisfied with Johnson's attitude, which was the most important reason why he was relieved to hand over to the First Legion.

[Now that the war with Ran Dan has ended in a sense, all they can get from their defeat will be merciless slaughter and extermination, but I still hope you can be vigilant, Johnson. 】

"I will, father."

The Lord of Humanity nodded.

[Maybe in the future, I will find your legion again and give you a new mission: that mission will be related to Ran Dan, we have not yet found the home planet of the alien empire, but the moment we find it, you need to end everything about them.] 】

"Always on call."

[Not only that, maybe at that time, I will also order you to complete other tasks, some tasks that you need to complete with Riemanrus: for now, I don't want to go into more details, but when the time comes, I will tell you about it, and I hope you will be prepared for any situation.] 】

[As we said when we first met, I need your sword, your sword without hesitation, no matter what you want to cut...... Stuff. 】

"I always remember, Father, that I will kill everything you point at."

The impeccable words silenced the Lord of Humanity for a moment, and his gaze came from under the hood to the hideous marks on Johnson's unreplaced armor, the scars and glory left by Ran Dan.

The Emperor hesitated for a moment, hesitating whether to bring up the subject, the one that might offend and grieve his knights, the one about help.

And while the Lord of Humanity remained silent, an imperceptible bead of sweat slowly slipped down Johnson's sideburns and dripped into his armor.

The emperor was silent.

What is he silent?

Is that hesitation?

Is that a disappointment?

It was the defeat of Tacks, the defeat of the First Army, the defeat of his Johnson...... Disappointed?

For the first time, Johnson thought of this terrible possibility: after all, the moment he opened his eyes, the moment he heard that the emperor had killed Emperor Randan, apart from the anger of some robbery, what haunted the lion's heart was a kind of grief and indignation: a kind of grief and indignation that had not completed the task.

He failed, he didn't hold on to Tax, which was forged with blood, and it was undoubtedly his failure: Ran Dan's power, strategic purpose, or the birth of the alien emperor and the engine of destiny were all pale excuses in Johnson's eyes.

In many cases, the lion's vision is not so broad, he can only see the subtlety of tactics, but he cannot see the strategy that can cross galaxies and cosmos.

Now, that's it.

No matter what happened on the battlefield, no matter what was decided strategically, no matter what reality Tuckers was already difficult to hold, in Johnson's eyes, none of this mattered.

He failed, that's all.

He had promised the emperor, but he had not fulfilled it.

From the moment he awoke in the light of the Lord of Humanity, this reality made the Lord of the Dark Angels uneasy.

So, when the silence of the Lord of Mankind appeared, this uneasiness rightly struck Johnson's heart.

Until he heard the words of the emperor.

[You have accomplished an incomparably great cause, Johnson, I can't make a better evaluation of everything you have done in the Dan War except pride. 】

The Emperor's approval was low and sincere, but in the heart of Johnson, who bowed his head, it was even more heart-wrenching than the most violent accusation: what a sad scene it was for his father to comfort him against his will.

[But, I also know, Johnson.] 】

[The First Legion, it has taken too much, and this is not a scar that can be repaired with a single replenishment and rest: it is permanent. 】

Here it comes.

Johnson's countenance was occupied by gloom.

The defeated legions, the defeated generals, no longer have that kind of trust, the kind of trust that is enough to entrust the empire.

[Your casualties are too great, my knights, it's an indisputable fact. 】

In the shadows, Johnson clenched his fists.

Yes, casualties.

Disappointing casualties, casualties that made his brothers shake their heads secretly: after witnessing the sacrifice of the First Legion, anyone would doubt Johnson's ability, whether he would be able to continue to lead the Dark Angels, and whether he would be able to shoulder more responsibilities and missions.

Doubt, disappointment, and other ......

No.

He wasn't going to sit back and die.

So, I think maybe it's time to think about it so that you can fight side by side with other people......]

"Nope! Father! ”

"I don't need to!"

The firmest words cut off the Emperor's slow bass, and the Lord of Humanity looked at the firmness of the Lion's face with some surprise, and he was silent for a few more moments before he spoke slowly.

Are you sure, Johnson? 】

"Yes."

Without the slightest hesitation.

"The First Legion still has the strength to wash away the shame, the strength to fight for you, the strength and determination to face everything in this galaxy alone, we are still the blade in the darkness, you can trust to slaughter everything."

Johnson's countenance was one that no one could refute with seriousness, and the Lord of Humanity glanced at his most reliable heir with some hesitation.

[You know very well, Johnson, what the First Legion has done in the war, and I think you do need help, a reason to fight alongside others: even if only for the shortest time. 】

"No, father."

There was a light like a torch in the lion's eyes: neither he nor the Dark Angel had fallen to the point of being like his brothers, reporting to the group for warmth, and the unique responsibility and mission were the only glory and bottom line of the First Legion: he must not lose it.

"I'll take care of everything, nothing will change for the First Legion."

"Ran Dan didn't defeat us, we are consistent, there are no secrets and decadence."

"We don't need any changes."

"We are still the Dark Angels, we are still the First Legion."

【……】

Are you sure, my son? 】

"Of course, father."

【……】

[Okay.] 】

The Lord of Mankind sighed, and in his sigh, Johnson actually felt an inexplicable sense of loss and unease.

The emperor nodded, and did not continue the topic, since Johnson was so persistent, then he could only think of another way.

He could only think about where he was going to send his only daughter, the Second Legion.

But obviously, that answer won't be the Dark Angel.

(End of chapter)