Warhammer 40K in a box

Chapter 688 Lion King Sword

The shattered remains of Caliban floated silently in the void, the surface of this asteroid fragment, tens of kilometers long, covered with deep craters from meteorite impacts and rugged rock layers formed by geological fractures.

A thin layer of frost covered the rock surface, reflecting a cold luster in the dim light of distant stars.

In the vacuum environment, all was silent, with only eternal stillness and biting cold enveloping the area.

In the center of this rubble area, on a relatively flat piece of ground, an ancient ritual site has been fully activated.

The ground was carved with intricate runes, which seemed to wriggle slightly as if they were alive.

A constantly rotating subspace rift in the center emitted an ominous purple light, distorting the surrounding spatial structure.

The air was filled with the pungent smell of ozone and a putrid stench, both of which propagated abnormally in the vacuum environment, violating known physical laws.

The young lion queen Leona stood at the very front of the procession.

She is neither a child nor an heir of Leon El-Jonson, but rather another form of existence shaped by the Emperor's power and bearing the essence of the Primarch.

She possesses the same power and will as the Primarch, but her outward appearance is completely different—a younger face and a lighter, more agile physique, as if the essence of the Lion King has been given a new interpretation.

Her dark green power armor was clearly custom-made, with each plate perfectly conforming to her body shape.

The dark angel emblem engraved on her shoulder armor was still clearly visible in the dim light, proclaiming her unquestionable allegiance. Her eyes held a resolute and weathered look that contrasted sharply with her youthful appearance.

At this moment, she was gripping the Lion King's Sword, which Cypher had just returned.

This divine weapon, personally forged by the emperor and bestowed upon Zhuang Sen, has golden energy ripples flowing naturally across its blade. The ancient gems inlaid on the hilt seem to resonate with her, together proclaiming the empire's authority and power.

Her posture holding the sword is not that of an heir, but rather a unique manifestation of this authority in the present moment.

Beside her, the think tank director, Ezekiel, remained on high alert.

He wore the iconic blue think tank power armor, and the crystal at the top of his psionic staff emitted a soft blue glow.

His face was serious, and his eyes occasionally flashed with psychic energy as he constantly monitored the unstable subspace fluctuations around him.

Accompanying them was a squad of Deathwing Terminators, a mobile fortress. These loyal warriors, clad in heavy Terminator armor and wielding Stormblaster guns and power gauntlets, had a clear and unwavering mission: to protect the Lion King and the Curator of the Think Tank and ensure the mission's success.

Cypher stood at the back of the group, maintaining a subtle distance from the disciplined Dark Angel Terminators.

He was like a forgotten wreck on the battlefield, completely out of place with his surroundings.

The power armor was no longer recognizable as its original dark green; it was covered with years of accumulated grime, indelible traces of gunpowder, and deep scars left by various weapons.

The dark angel emblem that once graced his shoulder armor is now just a deliberately worn, blurred outline, as if he was trying to erase the past but could never truly escape it.

His posture lacked the upright alertness of other Astartes, and his slightly hunched back revealed a deep-seated weariness.

His eyes held a complex mix of emotions, with contradictions and struggles churning within them.

When his gaze swept over Ezekiel and Leona, there was neither hatred for the enemy nor affection for his compatriots, but only an indescribable scrutiny, as if he were looking through them at the Caliban that had fallen apart ten thousand years ago, at the past that he had personally experienced but could not undo.

His gaze finally fell on the long, narrow object he had been carrying on his back.

The sword hilt, wrapped in old cloth, felt incredibly heavy to him.

Inside is the Lion King's Sword, a divine weapon that witnessed the glorious beginning of the chapter, as well as the bloodshed of the civil war and the destruction of the homeworld.

The fact that a "fallen angel" has long held the symbol of the Primarch is itself a constant torment and a heavy burden. At this moment, the monster's roar grows closer, and the tremors of the ground become more and more violent.

Cypher took a deep breath, and the helmet filter emitted a hoarse sound.

The struggle in his eyes was gradually replaced by a resolute acceptance.

He took a few steps forward and stood in front of Leona, his movements slow and solemn, which seemed out of place with the tense atmosphere.

He carefully removed the Lion King's Sword, as if it were not cold metal, but a living being that could feel pain.

Holding the sword up with both hands and handing it to Leona, the gesture was less like handing over a weapon and more like completing a ritual that was long overdue.

“Take it.” The voice from inside the helmet was low and hoarse, the dryness from long silence unable to mask the clarity of each word. “It doesn’t belong to me, never has. It’s time… to return it to its rightful owner.”

These words are simple, yet they carry immense weight.

He surrendered not only a weapon, but also a choice, a responsibility, and a possibility of redemption that he could not accomplish himself.

He did not explain why he possessed the sword, nor did he defend his past; he simply did what he believed was right at the crucial moment.

This action, while sharply contradicting his identity as a fallen angel, highlights the complex and unfathomable loyalty that has never been extinguished deep within him.

In the moment he handed over the sword, he relieved himself of some of his burdens, but also faced another form of emptiness and rupture.

Leona took the sword and felt the warm power emanating from its blade.

She nodded in response, asking no further questions. Cypher turned and walked towards the parked Thunderhawk transport plane, its engines still humming softly. As everyone's attention was focused on the Hydra monster, Cypher suddenly accelerated and leaped into the cockpit.

With a roar from its engines, the transport plane took off and disappeared into the depths of the void. A Deathwing Terminator raised his bomb gun, but Ezekiel stopped him.

“Let him go,” Ezekiel’s voice remained calm. “We have more important tasks ahead of us.”

Leona gazed in the direction Cypher had disappeared and whispered to Ezekiel, "He didn't completely betray us. If he's willing to turn back, we'll give him a chance."

Ezekiel paused for a moment, then nodded in agreement. Their attention returned to the threat ahead.

The terrifying entity originating from the fragment of the Ouroboros has completely broken free from the rift.

Its size far exceeded the initial estimate; it was as majestic as a mountain, easily exceeding thirty meters in height, and its shadow covered most of the team.

The monster's body was not an ordinary flesh and blood body, but was forcibly aggregated from an activated, twisted Kaliban rock core and mutated, pulsating non-human tissue, as if the fragments of an entire asteroid had been endowed with malice and life.

Its body is covered by thick, hardened rock layers. What is exposed between the cracks in the rock layers is not muscle, but a substance that shimmers with an oily luster, like a mixture of molten metal and putrid flesh. Energy pulsates and flows beneath it like diseased blood vessels.

Its nine heads danced wildly atop its thick, archway-like neck, each one like a twisted stone statue sculpted with brute force, yet possessing an unsettling vitality.

Pure subspace malice burned in its crimson eye sockets, and its gaping maw contained not teeth, but clusters of sharp, activated crystals.

The "skin" of the neck is a hard, chitinous fusion of rock, resembling charred bones.

An extremely flexible long tail, made of segmented rock bones and energy tendons, swung behind him, its barbs at the end gleaming with a light strong enough to tear adamantite apart.

Although sound waves cannot travel in a vacuum, the rumbling of the rock layers rubbing together, the hissing of the energy flowing, and its silent, hateful roar that directly affects the soul were all clearly imprinted on everyone's perception through the violent tremors of the ground and the powerful sense of psychic pressure, bringing both physical and psychological discomfort.

(End of this chapter)