Johnson has always felt that his temper is still very good: if you look at the average level of genetic protogenes.

The Lion of Caliban was convinced that, of all his blood brothers, he was not as good as the formidable optimists of Horus, Volcan, or St. Giles, but at least he was in the middle: and in the upper middle.

What's more: deep down in the Caliban's hidden heart, he sometimes secretly speculated that perhaps his character, self-cultivation, and restraint were actually superior to that of his most trusted silver-haired blood relative.

Yes, better than Morgan.

This was not a lie, for the First Legion's genetic protogens had seen the wrath of the Spider Empress: the monstrous rage, though extremely rare and quick to come and go, had almost never obvious signs, and it had never lacked terrifying lethality, and in Johnson's mind, it was far superior to the most terrifying extermination weapon the First Legion could wield.

In front of the silver-haired queen's vision that was cold enough to completely freeze the entire star area, both the dark angels and their powerful genetic protogens had learned to keep their mouths shut and avoid the edge of the moment.

After all, the real source of this monstrous anger is often the various mistakes and wastes of the lion and his warriors: it is an act that even Johnson has to admit to being [profligacy].

In the face of such facts, their proud combat power is as pale as shredded paper, and opening their mouths to resist will only cause the situation to fall into the abyss of disbelief.

Moreover......

Everyone knew that no matter how devastating the anger from the Dark Angel Legion's internal affairs chief, as long as they obediently shut their mouths, leaned against the wall, and endured the raging anger with silence, then everything would return to its original state.

No matter how angry Morgan is, as long as the stipulated time comes, the documents she has reviewed by herself will definitely be in place on time, and the flowery characters on them are even more beautiful and pleasant.

The silver-haired genetic prototype is as if it has two unrelated brains, one pretending to be sensual, the other pretending to be rational, and no matter how much the emotional one is falling apart and angry, it will not prevent the rational one from fulfilling all her responsibilities.

In a sense, it is this ruthless efficiency that will never affect the work that is what makes the entire Dark Angel Legion, and even their original body, so respectful of the Spider Queen, an outsider.

However, this still does not reverse the definition in Johnson's mind: the Caliban, who has seen the anger of the Spider Queen, is quite certain that he Johnson must be the mild-tempered one compared to Morgan's furious sensibility.

And if we reason from this, it will be easy to conclude that Morgan is known for his mildness among the genetic protoplasms, so Johnson, who has a better temper than Morgan, will only be the best group even if you look at all the protoplasms.

That's what Johnson thinks.

Although this sentence sounded like a meaningless joke, when the genetic prototype of the Dark Angel Legion recalled this self-evaluation in his heart, he was undoubtedly serious: even more serious than the Seiko Saber at his waist.

The Lion from Caliban is not a mediocrity who does not know his true nature, nor is he arrogant enough to fail to see the tyranny in his heart, but he believes in his will, in his restraint, in the ruthlessness, repression, and patience that he has honed in the ten years of Caliban's deep forests, in the midst of countless hunts, tracks, and ambushes, and they have always been solid and reliable.

He knew the complaints that circulated in the shadows that slandered him as a beast in the woods, and in his heart he never denied it: for he was convinced that, contrary to what the fools of the world think, the beasts of the woods often understood the value of restraint and patience better than the so-called civilized people behind the walls.

The lion of Caliban straddles the barbaric and civilized worlds, so no one is more qualified to judge this right and wrong, and no one is more qualified to be sure that he is a rational man with patience and restraint: this is not in conflict with the fact that he is a beast.

In fact, the two have fused perfectly: the lion of Caliban gathered his claws, set his hot armor on his body, and became the great knight of the Caliban beast slayer.

This made him proud, and it made him more convinced in his heart that he should value patience and reason, and that he should control his thoughts and emotions and not be affected by those who are not important.

Except for those who really mattered: the Emperor, Morgan, Akau, Luther......

Nothing else deserves his anger: he's been working on it.

——————

But today, the Kaliban feel that his efforts may be ruined.

——————

Six seconds had passed since his blood relative, Morgan, had left with the canine of Fenris: the superhuman senses lurking in the mind of the progenitor were more reliable than any beautifully crafted subspace timer.

The Caliban, who was immersed in cleaning up the papers, only divided his stingy gaze to the two who left before the first second: Johnson didn't care what they were going to discuss, and even if Riemanrus's "legion privacy" that he tried so hard to suppress didn't actually escape his ears, he didn't have any more interest.

The Lord of the Dark Angels ensured that he was in charge of many secrets, but it was only his responsibility, and he himself had no more preference for anything that was hidden, all because of the Emperor's command: if the Lord of Humanity required him to be an arrogant warlord like Horus, or a hard labor like Perturabo, he would still choose to do so.

Johnson cared more about the papers and data he had in his hands than the little secrets that Fenris wanted to cover: for ten years, he still hadn't learned the tricks to fight these monsters on the table, and he even had to wonder how his silver-haired blood relative had learned to swallow all these messy troubles and produce rows of orderly tables in an orderly manner.

Could this be a special ability: like that bad seed of Killiman?

“……”

Speaking of Killiman, Morgan seems to have made a connection with the Otlama man, hoping that she has not been influenced by the bad guy: Johnson felt that he should pay attention to this issue, and that he should sign a bill for it, and keep some of the extermination warrant weapons in his possession.

The Calibans understood that if Avalon wanted to be based in the Far East in order to fulfill his responsibilities as overseer, Morgan would have to make contact with Gilliman: and whatever the reaction of the Otlama to such contact must have been ill-intentioned.

Killiman must have been playing tricks: this sentence was close to the truth in Johnson's case, and even he himself was a little skeptical as to why he was so sure, after all, he had not even seen the Otrama man.

“……”

Johnson blinked, all his thoughts were in the second after the door was closed, and in the next moment, a document lifted by the wave of air that closed the door touched his finger protected by steel, which was enough to recall his somewhat divergent senses.

So, the Caliban, bowing his head, continued his battle with the data and legion sequences, slowly shedding another precious blonde hair for a shipload of bombs and ointment that he had never seen before.

He reined in his thoughts, both Killiman and Morgan had been temporarily swept away from the dark green Caliban, and as for the secrets of the Space Wolf Legion: even if he didn't delve into it, with the strict tone of those Fenris, it would spread to the entire expeditionary fleet in less than two days.

In this second, the genetic protogens of the Dark Angel Legion finally had no distractions.

But his heart was unavoidable, and lasted only for the fourth beat of the second.

For, at the very moment when the fourth second really came, at the edge of the Caliban's desperately constricted pupils, the new blood relative, whom he had tried so hard to ignore, came alive like an overnight stew that had just been taken out of the fridge and placed in a frying pan: Johnson could even visualize the wriggling coagulated grease next to the trembling black hair, melting into something that made the dish tastier, or worse, in a sizzle that didn't actually appear.

He thought of Caliban, of the days when he was a knight: Luther rode and led him along the hunters' trails that had been carved out by generations of explorers, groping for the tracks of the behemoths.

When they spent the night by the river, Luthor would always cook a barbecue, and then the fat would inevitably appear, accompanied by the neighing of the only horse, which became an aid to the strange tales in Luthor's mouth: he had only acquired his horse on the eve of becoming the head of the Knights, for no horse of the Order had been able to carry a single genogen, and although they were all carefully selected bloodlines, Johnson's was evident and obviously more [excellent] than theirs.

"Bang ......"

A non-heavy crash interrupted the protogen's thoughts for a second, forcing him to raise his head and face the cold empty reality in front of him.

Well, the Nostramo grease had managed to break free from gravity, and had managed to put itself on the most expensive conference table of the Dark Angel Legion, and had completed its magnificent transformation from a street stall to a state banquet hall: Johnson even felt that he was going to shed a few tears belonging to a lion for this.

So the lord of the Caliban raised his head and gazed without sorrow or joy at the fortress of cholesterol that was approaching him: and ignored the bright smile that hung on it, full of Nostramo's style.

That smile was even more lethal than the lump of cholesterol itself: even one more glance at it would make Johnsen feel that his life had been dealt an irreparable blow, more efficient than the Herud man's forte.

Fortunately, the emperor had to endure less than three seconds: even the nostramo man who was wriggling in front of him, apparently not yet learned the value of his legs, actually crossed his lower body, sat down on the table, and moved his body with his long and excessive arms, as if he still owed Darwin a certificate of completion of about three million years of evolution.

However, the fine breed carried by the genetic protogens still played its due role, and as the ill-intentioned black hair was rapidly approaching his precious document barrier, Johnson suddenly remembered a strange scene: the arching appearance of his dear Nostramo fellow on his oak table reminded him for no reason of the toffee that had been glued to Luther's tooth hall and pulled with the steel hand armor of the Caliban knight for half an afternoon decades ago.

It didn't seem to make a difference: aside from the fact that toffee was obviously healthier for human functioning, as for the lump of flesh in front of him, which was already approaching the center of his vision, Johnson preferred to draft a declaration of war on every floor he squirmed on, and mercilessly used up all his extermination warrant reserves.

But fantasy is fantasy after all, and when that breath mixed with the smell of lavender blows the documents that Johnson is holding down, no matter how reluctant he is, the lord of Caliban has to raise his head: after all, Conrad sat on the reference document drafted by Morgan, without which Johnson could not have fought alone in this long office war.

Thankfully, the Emperor: luckily this guy can brush his teeth, and they are very clean, with sharp teeth that are sharp enough to compete with Johnson's sword, and it seems that their genetic father has not forgotten to cram this basic knowledge into the activation program of the Nostramo people.

But that didn't make Johnson look good at his close blood: less than two meters away from his face, the frighteningly thin Nostramo invasive species was cross-legged, scraping the Knights' priceless antique table with his steel boots, and his crazy black pupils shimmered with excitement that no mortal could understand, like a Fenris, who had been thirsty for three days, and found a barrel of fine wine walking in front of him.

Johnson's fingers subconsciously touched his waist: well, his Seiko Power Sword was still there, and it looked perfect for cutting off the head of a mammal's rat.

He had wanted to do this for a long time: when the Nostramo man was cowering behind Morgan and wantonly provoking him, the Indomitable Truth, and even the entire Dark Angel Legion, Johnson decided to update his hunt list for the first time in a long time.

The last update on this list was because of a certain canine.

The Calibans didn't even bother to conceive a pretext for declaring war, after all, the scene that happened before him was like a wild beast walking to the moat of the Knights' fortress, and there was no additional route of development: could it still come to sign a non-aggression pact with them and work together to develop the Great Forest?

War never needs excuses and justifications, war only needs ability and motivation.

He was not lacking in ability or motivation right now, and the only thing he had to think about was whether he was going to break the spine of the guy in front of him or break his neck: he should think carefully about what would be the best option for him and Morgan.

Or......

Hear what he has to say?

The thought of this kind of thing, like a pineapple slice on a Margaret's pizza, flashed through the minds of the Caliban for no apparent reason, but he could not erase the thought: because it was clinging to the name Morgan and enjoying a lofty domestic immunity.

“……”

Johnson blinked, he had to turn his head and look at the Nostramo smile that was destined to make him die: at that moment, he immediately decided, Ran Dan's alien was no longer the ugliest thing he had ever recorded in his heart.

"You...... Is there something wrong? ”

Using all his patience, the Dark Angel Legion's genetic protogens squeezed out four words dryly, mixed with his emerald pupils that were neither sad nor joyful, as a pathetic kindness shot into Conrad's heart.

Or maybe it's an ultimatum.

“……”

Conrad's smile was still as bright as it was, and he didn't seem to take Johnson's words at first, but maintained this infiltrating kindness, enjoying the present situation: the Nostramo man sitting at the table was naturally taller than the Caliban man sitting in the chair, and this childlike contrast actually made Midnight Ghost feel real joy.

But soon, he returned his first arrow,

"Johnson, my blood relative."

Midnight Wraith's hoarse voice came with the tenth second.

"You're well domesticated."

“……”

The voice from Nostramo reverberated through the room without fear, and it was greeted only by a cold silence, and Midnight Wraith spent all his attention focused on the Caliban face, eager to catch the instinctive fury of the first moment: but in the end, it was only the lion's brow raised slightly after a long dead silence.

Boring.

Conrad pouted.

"What the hell are you trying to say, Conrad?"

In the fifteenth second or so, the Dark Angel's Lord's inquiry reached Conrad's ears, and he could clearly hear a few hints of annoyance more than mere doubts, which rekindled the fighting spirit of the Nostramo people.

He glanced at Johnson again, and examined his eyes carefully: the emerald pupils shimmered with a restless forest, far less tranquil than it appeared on the surface.

So, Conrad laughed.

Sixteenth second.

"You know exactly what I want to say, my dear beast brother: the first time I stepped on the deck of the Indomitable Truth, I became aware of what kind of land this was, not a knight's fortress, but a beast's lair floating in space."

"Your sons must not like your style of décor, especially those from Caliban: I've heard they're all knights, so it's natural to be able to tell the difference between knights and beasts, maybe you can't?"

“……”

Conrad was answered by a brief silence and a soft snort.

"You're bothering a lot of time for these boring topics? If you can take your paw off my conference table, it's going to be a lot more civilized. ”

"Don't."

Conrad grinned, resisting his brother with a childlike stubbornness, and his gaze with Johnson lasted all eighteen.

He continued to speak.

"Perhaps you should be careful with your knights, my dear brother: believe me, this is the last kindness I have left to you, and although our war was inevitable by the time my beast stepped into the lair of your beast, I tell you that you should see your sons and warriors more."

"Look how much they hate you."

"Bang!"

The explosion of the Iron Hand Armor on the table ignited the feverish pale faces of the Nostramos.

"My Legion, I don't need you to dictate, Conrad, you might as well go and see your Legion when you have this time, it's a bunch of scum fished out of Terra's prison, their ridiculous loyalty matches your face, it's something that should lie in the grave."

"It's hard not to agree, great Johnson."

The Midnight Wraith showed no anger, raising a hand high and waving an exaggerated salute in mid-air.

"I know who in my legion deserves to die: they all deserve to die."

"But their poor little lives don't mean anything to us right now: after all, those burning worlds will have to wait a few decades before they can receive their cries, and then I have enough reason to slaughter these fools who don't understand me."

He spoke these words with great enthusiasm, and then his voice changed abruptly, from a high-pitched oratory to a kind of whisper that could only appear in the midst of intrigue.

"But ......"

"Why don't we care about another, more interesting question: the great Johnson was so resistant to the admonition of his poor brother, like a vain old goat, trying to protect his legion and his face from any disturbance."

"But on the other hand: one of our silver-haired blood relatives is really pointing fingers at the entire First Legion: is the pride of the Dark Angels different from person to person?"

"What does all this have to do with you?"

The voice of the twentieth second crossed the Caliban's chest, and Johnson could clearly feel the anger burning in his heart at the smile of the Nostramo man who was too close.

Conrad smiled elegantly.

"Because I am a man who cannot hide the secrets of my heart, brother, at this point, you have to pity me, I am not like you, I will not learn to keep my mouth shut and bury my head in the myriad benefits that secrets bring me: just as you have always done."

"So, when I see this funny scene, I always want to point it out."

He was so close that Johnson could clearly see that every tooth of the Midnight Wraith was mocking him wantonly, his voice low but deep into his bones.

"Oh, Johnson, our great King of the Knights of Caliban, who has a mighty legion of his own, and has even learned to share it: to a witch who appears in his castle, for she is so magical and so trusted."

"The king of knights trusted his witches as much as he saw them as much as he trusted him, and he even forgot who he really was: he was not a knight, much less a king, he was just a beast wandering in the deep forest, using heaven and earth as a lair, flesh and blood as romance, until one day, a witch led him to the fortress of civilization, and became his companion and friend."

"It thinks this is trust, it thinks this is immortal loyalty, it thinks this is a connection that can spread to eternity: by common battles and the blood of its enemies, it can gain a real trust, a mutual trust that will allow it to gain a foothold in civilization."

"It's no longer a beast, it's a man."

"But...... Is that really the case? ”

The Midnight Ghost giggled, and his laughter continued for twenty-five seconds, until his fingers reached for his side, reaching for the reference documents Morgan had left behind.

"Domestication is mistaken for affection."

"Pity is misunderstood as loyalty."

"The beast, who doesn't understand anything, looks at the world with her own ideas, and uses her own optimism to figure out the people in those cities, thinking that if she stands up, learns to talk, and fights with those who stand on her feet, she can become her companion and family."

Twenty-sixth second.

"It doesn't know the words: it doesn't know pets, it doesn't know livestock, it doesn't know horse-drawn carriages, it doesn't know hunting dogs, it doesn't know ......."

"On the lap of those eldest ladies, there is often a big cat of the same clan as it."

Twenty-eighth second.

"Look, Johnson."

References...... Ha! ”

"She even wrote a special one: her own share is not enough, and she has to leave a second one, preferring to double the workload and make sure that your initiatives do not go beyond the scope she has delineated."

"What do you think this is?"

"Care?"

"Responsibility?"

"Or is it a habit to take for granted?"

"Wake up, Johnson."

Twenty-ninth second.

The Caliban's pupils were still as sad as ever, but it had nothing to do with Conrad's thoughts, and the Midnight Ghost knew what to do.

Under the stunned gaze of the Lord of the Dark Angels, the Nostramo slowly grabbed the reference documents left by Morgan, slowly moving his fingers, and in the blink of an eye, they formed a ball of paper.

The next moment, the ball of paper was accompanied by spicy words, and smashed into the still shocked head of the Caliban.

"Wake up, Johnson."

"These things just say that."

——————

"She doesn't trust you at all."

——————

The thirtieth hour passed slowly.

At this point, in the middle of the room.

Only silent fury.

The roar of a sword unsheathed.

And the mad laughter from Nostramo, the dream came true, and in the next second, it swept everything.

(End of chapter)