From the very beginning, Morgana did not support Lion El'Jonson's plan.
She still remembered when Lion El'Jonson officially proposed his plan on the bridge of the Gloriana-class battleship of the First Legion. In the ten years she had known this Lion, it was the first time she had seen such a foolish glint in his sparkling emerald eyes.
When the three Primarchs of the Legions gathered on the bridge of the Unbending Truth and saw off the gravely wounded Leman Russ and his remaining Sons, even the Knight-King of Caliban harbored no resentment towards his brother.
They embraced like the closest of comrades, and Lion El'Jonson lowered his voice, entrusting the Dark Angels, who had to withdraw first due to severe injuries, to Leman Russ's wisdom.
The truth of the matter sounded so absurd: in fact, as this bloody, meat-grinder-like tug-of-war drew to a close, among the three Legions, the heaviest casualties were from the Sons of Fenris, while the First Legion had no shocking loss figures.
The reason was simple: most Dark Angels indeed endured an entire brutal drawn-out battle. However, their orderly formations, heavily fortified strongholds, disciplined advances and retreats, and the exquisite command and
coordinated planning from their Primarch rarely led to collapse or sudden unforeseen circumstances on the battlefield. Under their well-ordered mutual support and cover, although the Dark Angels were the undisputed main force of this campaign, they did not suffer too many deaths; every sacrifice was largely predictable.
Standoffs and attrition were never the biggest causes of casualties; irrational offensives and frantic routs were.
But this did not mean the First Legion paid no price: Lion El'Jonson's Sons suffered over half casualties in the dust of Tacus, with over ten thousand killed in action. The vast majority of these fallen were meritorious veterans from Terra,
living legends in every company and knightly order, and many ancient chapters lost their last scions in the cold steel. They were so powerful and trustworthy that they stood at the most dangerous posts, enduring the most probable despair and sacrifice.
Compared to the Dark Angels, who dedicated their lives to duty and order in cold, complete steel, the children of Fenris were far more impetuous. Leman Russ's Sons charged furiously into the core of the Randan army,
inflicting possibly more damage than the Dark Angels and Salamanders combined, while suffering unimaginable casualties. Countless Space Wolves battle-groups stormed alien warships, only to disappear without a trace due to lack of reinforcements and being outnumbered.
Not to mention the hundreds of warships that bravely delayed the Xenos Emperor's advance in the void, and the tens of thousands of Wolf King's army who boarded the Fate Engine with their gene-father, yet only a thousand survived.
They were Leman Russ's proudest Sons, the most elite part of the Sixth Legion. No one knew how much the Space Wolves truly sacrificed in their brief, desperate assault, but when Leman Russ once again summoned his thirteen Wolf Lords, only five answered the call.
Even so, even with such sacrifices, the Imperium still could not sound the horns of victory. In fact, when the Xenos Emperor, who could not be described by any worldly words, emerged from the Fate Engine, the situation in the Tacus System could only be described as "extremely dire."
Under such circumstances, retreat seemed to be the only option.
At least, that's what Morgana thought.
——————
But she was quickly surprised to discover that her two blood kin seemed to have even crazier ideas.
In her opinion, it was unimaginably absurd: with the elite forces of the three Legions gradually withdrawing, what remained in the Tacus System were only some mortal auxiliaries used for rearguard.
Yes, they were indeed very elite and numerous, but in such an extremely dire situation, painfully abandoning these forces and letting them be slaughtered by the alien army to better preserve strength was a very normal course of action.
Sacrificing the blood of millions for the safety of a Primarch, even for a glimmer of possibility, was the most cost-effective deal, wasn't it?
This was not ruthlessness; it was merely the most basic choice of interests, a simple problem that everyone who commanded Legions and fleets would eventually face.
But Lion El'Jonson's reply was something Morgana had not expected at all.
"Traps, ambushes, decapitation strikes; at the very least, inflict as much damage as possible on that Xenos Emperor."
In the dim void, Lion El'Jonson slowly uttered these words, his pupils gleaming with excitement, a long-lost spark of challenge and hunt.
And this was quickly met with Vulkan's equally affirmative response.
——————
Vulkan's thoughts were not much different from Lion El'Jonson's.
From the Lord of the Firedrakes' perspective, it was a simple arithmetic problem:
If he stayed and held back the unbeatable Randan Emperor, even if he could hold out for one more second, it would be enough for more mortals to pass through the escape gates and preserve their valiantly fighting lives.
Conversely, if he retreated, more mortals would be needed for the rearguard and cover, causing more warriors to bleed on the battlefield.
The difference between this addition and subtraction was already a heavy number; it was heavy enough for Vulkan to fight for.
——————
And Lion El'Jonson's thoughts were even simpler.
In this war, the Knight-King of Caliban had remained in his command center until now.
His armor was pristine, his greatsword had not tasted a single drop of blood, and deep within his battleship, there was even a large stock of weapons that had not been deployed on the battlefield.
He was alive: healthy, active, possessing the strength and courage to fight.
Under these circumstances, to make him face a Xenos scum and flee in panic without even daring to fight?
...
What a joke!
——————
Through her own abilities, Morgana could clearly hear in her heart her two blood kin's decision to stay.
Hearing such a clear answer, her face couldn't help but...
...grow more perplexed.
After all, deep down, Morgana still couldn't quite understand Lion El'Jonson's and Vulkan's reasons for staying.
If Lion El'Jonson's pursuit of his theory of honor and duty was something the Spider Queen could still comprehend, then the Lord of the Firedrakes' fervent, sincere heart was something that could burn out every one of Morgana's thought conduits.
She truly couldn't understand what power this "compassion" held, that it could make Vulkan stand steadfastly in the most dangerous position for the merest possibility of countless strangers. No matter how she calculated it, in Morgana's mind, the lives of thousands of mortals, even at their purest value, were far less important than Vulkan's own life and safety.
But clearly, within the fervent heart encased by the Lord of the Firedrakes' dark skin, there was another equation he acknowledged and believed in, and this equation yielded a series of noble words concerning "courage," "selflessness," and "devotion." Each of these words, to Morgana at this moment, felt rather fantastical.
Morgana even felt a certain irony towards Vulkan's persistence: in her opinion, abandoning the entangled warships, allowing the Primarchs and the last of the Legion's main forces to retreat safely, would have been the correct action.
But this did not prevent her from remaining silent during the three Primarchs' brief conference. While listening with an almost contemptuous attitude as Lion El'Jonson and Vulkan slowly constructed this doomed plan, when Lion El'Jonson asked for her advice, she, with her most somber expression...
...nodded.
She did not refuse her blood kin's persistence.
Even though she had denied and mocked it countless times in her heart.
And so, she joined the operation.
——————
After all, with Leman Russ severely wounded, Lion El'Jonson and Vulkan's insistence forced Morgana to stay and complete this fated gamble with them. Her innumerable instincts and reason continuously advised her that allowing her two blood kin to die here would be the most unwise choice.
They could not die.
There was no reason.
But even so, this did not prevent Morgana from throwing herself into this imbalanced battle with a bewildered state of mind.
Even the Spider Queen, who would one day reign supreme over the Second Legion, had to admit that her inner self seemed to have undergone a subtle, strange change at times she hadn't even noticed. However, up to this point, these changes still couldn't shake her.
She was confident that she was still her familiar self, and in the long time after this war, she would certainly be able to smooth out these ripples and once again become the absolute master of a myriad of spiderwebs.
Thinking this, Morgana watched as Lion El'Jonson unleashed his most terrible darkness, then waited for the Xenos Emperor on a specially modified warship.
Then.
The battle began.
——————
There was no suspense.
Not even a trace.
As Morgana, dragging her exhausted body and soul, spoke the spell she had long prepared with lips as pale as her face, pulling these bastards to the coordinates she had prepared even before the Tacus Campaign began, her teeth were clenched tightly, as if she could tear Lion El'Jonson's or Vulkan's throat.
These two bastards created not even a hint of a miracle: though they were Primarchs, they were merely Primarchs, not gods.
When the Xenos Emperor, a being many times taller than even the largest Imperial Titan, stepped onto Lion El'Jonson's trap, Morgana merely glanced at its soul before beginning to mutter a teleportation spell.
All their efforts seemed utterly insignificant before the collective wailing of a hundred billion souls: whether it was Lion El'Jonson's painstakingly constructed traps, Vulkan's hammer blows imbued with furious and noble flames,
or the roar of ancient machines capable of resisting and delaying two Primarchs, or even the trap itself a killing machine inherited from the Golden Age their combined efforts, their seamless cooperation in unison, only made the Xenos Emperor pause briefly.
The battle was swift, monotonous, and without any ebb and flow: the roar of the Lord of the Firedrakes and the thunder of ancient creations made the Xenos Emperor pause slightly, followed by its earth-shattering counter-attack. Under such a rampage, Vulkan surprisingly lasted until the third round, until Lion El'Jonson and his strategy began their second offensive against the Xenos Emperor, before he finally collapsed.
And when Morgana, almost without hesitation, disgorged her precious soul, causing a stable teleportation gate and a storm to simultaneously descend upon this place, even the Knight-King of Caliban had already smashed through all the walls, on the verge of death before absolute power and fury.
Morgana looked up, sighed, and exchanged a brief glance with the terrifying creation. Then, her pale lips uttered a spell, allowing the storm to arrive in time.
This was the end of the Tacus Campaign, the conclusion of the most magnificent war between the Human Imperium and the Randan Empire.
It was neither grand nor legendary, only endless blood and suffering: like every war remembered in history.
As Morgana tumbled out of the teleportation gate she had created, leaving the unimaginable horror behind, she collapsed onto the deck of the Unbending Truth, thinking with her last vestiges of will.
Beside her, the killing machines that had not been completely destroyed let out hate-filled screeches: they had lost their targets for combat and slaughter, and were impatiently searching for their next victims.
Fortunately, Corswain and others, who had been waiting in formation nearby, rushed over without hesitation. They pressed the controllers, ending the potential disaster, and only then did Morgana collapse onto the filthy armor of her two blood kin, panting heavily.
Only at this moment did she feel temporarily safe, only temporarily.
Because she knew that the Randan fleet would not stop for even a moment. Bearing the gnawing of countless souls was, even now, an act of unimaginable foolishness to Morgana, but this did not prevent her from surmising what the Xenos Emperor would encounter: it would eventually fall into madness, distortion, and completely lose all reason and will.
So, before that happened, this madman would certainly not stop its advance, not even for an instant.
It would soon reach here.
However, Morgana was not overly troubled by this.
She allowed the Legion serfs to help them to rest, and allowed the remaining fleet to quickly withdraw following the starlight. Her gaze was fixed, twinkling, on one direction:
The direction symbolizing Holy Terra.
She knew where this was. This was another strategic chokepoint on the road to Holy Terra, adjacent to the Tacus System, a dead end that the Randan could not bypass.
It was where they were about to arrive and hold.
An anonymous corner.
Anonymous... that's good.
She thought so, even smiling softly, which bewildered the mortal nurses surrounding her. They neither knew the reason for her smile nor how to use their abilities to treat a Primarch, while the First Legion's apothecaries merely looked at the freshly developed scans, huddled together, each with furrowed brows.
But none of that mattered anymore.
On the other side, in another corner of this unnamed star system, behind a suddenly opened Warp Gate, a massive fleet was slowly pouring in.
Through her now barely opened third eye, Morgana could see that great fleet, recognizing some of its vessels.
Leading the charge was the Death Guard's Steadfast, its dark green livery truly unforgettable. And behind Mortarion's Gloriana-class battleship was an even larger behemoth: the Vengeful Spirit, the Warmaster's flagship, displaying its majesty in silent advance.
Countless powerful war engines surrounded these two Gloriana-class battleships: they were cosmic killers from the Custodian Guard and Mars, swiftly advancing with golden hulls and silver gleams. Each of them could easily turn the tide of a naval battle, but here, they were merely soldiers.
Further toward the center were those monsters called Mechanicus Arks: yes, not just one, but a multitude.
But everything else, compared to the true king of this fleet, was still overshadowed.
It slowly revealed its form in an amber glow; it was a god-like battleship, more dazzling than a thousand suns, an impossible vessel crafted from gold and marble, a king's ship existing outside the myriad laws of the real universe.
Across the entire galaxy, only one being could be worthy of this mythical ship.
The Emperor's Flagship.
The Imperator Somnium.
Now, arriving.
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