"You saved my son."
The Emperor's majestic voice carried deep appreciation. He thanked the dying prayer from the bottom of his heart—for it was this very prayer that had guided his path. Golden light transformed into threads of silk, escorting the loyal soul who had willingly met death to its rest upon the planet of solace.
As the golden radiance descended upon the realm of the soul, he looked upon Russ. Although the Primarch's spiritual essence had been molded into a human form, it was now entirely obscured by hatred, instinctively altering its shape to revert to the original aspect of his demigod nature.
A golden silhouette pressed its hand against the werewolf's brow, dispelling the boundless darkness beneath its feet. Only the Emperor knew that the shadow of blackstone was the very core of Russ's demigod essence. They were one and the same, entirely inseparable, and could only be suppressed by concepts such as humanity.
The brutality faded from the werewolf's eyes, and it curled up beside the Emperor, sinking into a profound slumber. The Emperor sat cross-legged within the soul space, stroking Russ's brow. He could not reshape a demigod's soul a second time unless he were to kill his son.
He scooped up white sand from the ground. These grains were the shards of humanity that had been sheared away from Russ's core essence during his descent into madness. Cupping the noble essence in his hands, the Emperor reshaped the humanity derived from the human concept. Like molten gold fluid, it was slowly plated across the werewolf-like spiritual form.
Adhering, then sliding off—the awakened demigod essence instinctively repelled the external will. Yet the Master of Mankind remained untiring, repeating the process over and over again within the frozen expanse of space, forcing humanity to return to the demigod.
It was impossible to tell how much time had passed; it could have been a mere instant, or perhaps thousands of years. Under the Emperor's relentless efforts, humanity finally reintegrated into the demigod's soul.
"Sigh..."
Even one as powerful as the Emperor felt an endless tide of exhaustion wash over him after reshaping that humanity countless times. He stroked Russ's lupine head one final time, rose from the radiance, and issued a weary call: "Leman Russ, my son of whom I hold high expectations, awaken————"
As the call echoed out, the Emperor's radiant form shone with blinding brilliance, instantly banishing the darkness of the soul space. He gazed toward an unattainable distance, where a colossal black wolf fled resentfully into the depths of the Warp. That was the divinity driven away by humanity, the most primal instinct and wildness within the demigod's soul. It yearned to return to its core; it would never be erased, and it would never surrender.
The werewolf awoke amidst the calling, its body radiating light as the brilliance of its self-acknowledged humanity illuminated the dark space once more.
By then, the Emperor had vanished without a trace.
Russ snapped his eyes open. Agony rippled through his frame, several of his vital organs severely compromised.
I can still fight!
He retained no memory of what had transpired after he blacked out, but judging by the condition of his body, the battle was far from over.
"The Primarch is awake!"
The sudden shouts were filled with pure ecstasy. The grief of the legionaries vanished instantly, and they nearly erupted into cheers.
"What just happened?" Russ tore away the remnants of his shattered power armor, scrambling up from the deck with extreme speed as he sought verification from his bloodline scions.
"It was Ullr the Frostweaver," the Varagyr Guard pointed toward the ashes on the deck. "He burned his soul to drag you back from the brink of losing yourself."
The guard's account was immediately supported as the surrounding wolves nodded, offering their testimony. To them, it appeared as though Ullr had simply entered the Primarch's body, and the Great Wolf had immediately awakened. The entire process had taken no more than a second; with the memory capacity of an Astartes, there was absolutely no room for error.
Russ nodded slightly, gesturing for his wolf-pups to assume their combat positions. He sensed that things were not so simple. Though completely devoid of memory, he could still feel a lingering warmth; someone had pulled him back from the precipice of oblivion.
"Father," Russ murmured under his breath.
Aside from his father, the Emperor, Russ could think of no one else capable of dispelling the madness within him. Yet there was no time to ponder or delve deeper; the battle had not reached its final conclusion.
He stepped out from the circle of his sons, his upper torso completely bare. The hilt of Mjalnar was splintered beyond use, making it impossible to wield. Scanning the bridge, Russ saw that the Rangdan guards and crew were all dead, their corpses intermingling with those of the Space Wolves. The Pack had paid a heavy toll, but they had successfully purged the bridge.
Only the two Rangdan Overlords survived, their foul bodies rising once more from the deck.
"What manner of creature are you?"
A piercing shriek echoed across the chamber. The previous arrogance and insolence were entirely gone, replaced by a deep, undisguised terror and wariness.
Russ had absolutely no intention of answering. At the thought of his sons' horrific deaths, his fury surged anew, prompting a fierce interrogation of his own: "Why didn't you take the opportunity to kill me?"
Thirty seconds had passed since he lost consciousness. By a simple calculation, during such a vast stretch of time, he could have slaughtered an unresisting Rangdan Overlord tens of thousands of times over. Russ was not naive enough to believe the Rangdan Overlords were too foolish to seize such an opening. Something had prevented them from striking to end his life and the lives of his legionaries.
Hearing the human Primarch's question, Despair-Sky and Wander-Sky felt that Leman Russ was being utterly shameless. They had been paralyzed by a higher stature to the point of being unable to move, yet here he was, shamelessly demanding to know the reason?
Had the problem not originated from his own body?
Despair-Sky was enraged to the absolute limit, its form trembling so violently it could not utter a single word. It glared fixedly at the human Primarch, wishing it could strike him dead with its gaze alone.
Wander-Sky's habitually silent mouthparts suddenly snapped open, hissing in interrogation: "How dare you insult us in this manner?"
Russ fell into deep thought. Could he have actually done something? He looked toward his sons for an answer, but the Pack merely shook their heads in silence, equally unable to explain the specifics. It was as if certain fragments had been excised from their memories.
Seeing the bewildered expressions of his legionaries, Russ understood that a forbidden event had indeed occurred. For now, it seemed the Emperor had stripped the legionaries of their memories upon his departure.
"You subjected us to such profound terror, manifesting a bestial instinct that bypassed all reason, suppressing us with a single glance."
"And now," the teeth within Wander-Sky's grotesque mouthparts gnashed together, spraying spittle in its agitation, "you ask us what happened?!"
"Hmph!" Catching the mix of shame and fury in their eyes, a predatory gleam flashed within Russ's gaze, his expression twisting into something far more savage: "In that case, let us settle our accounts!"
Russ could never forget how his legionaries had been brutally murdered before his eyes. As the genetic father of the Space Wolves, he had to use the blood of his enemies to avenge his fallen sons.
"This time," he raised his hand and gripped the empty air before him, his voice resembling the freezing winter storms of Fenris, "I will face the dread and unleash that formidable power."
The Rangdan Overlords exchanged glances, entirely failing to comprehend what Leman Russ was talking about. Dread? Power? His words were far too ambiguous for them to decipher the underlying meaning.
Thud!
The clear chime of iron echoed through the desolate bridge as a beam of golden light shot out from the void, piercing through the warship to land directly in front of Russ. A golden spear embedded itself into the deck plates, golden liquid light swirling along its haft to broadcast its supreme sanctity.
It radiated a golden brilliance, its haft as textured and rough as scaled armor, perfectly suited for the grip of a powerful hand.
The spear was proud; it could not be mastered without absolute strength. Yet it possessed a fatal elegance and wildness; the spearhead resembled an elongated droplet forged onto the tip, and at the junction where the blade met the haft, the sculpture of a golden wolf ran wild.
The Spear of Dionysus. Forged by the hand of the Emperor himself and infused with his power, it was the sister weapon to the "Spear of Apollo" wielded by the Captain-General of the Adeptus Custodes, Constantin Valdor.
These two spears symbolized two distinct philosophies, entrusted to Valdor and Russ respectively. The former was the Emperor's most trusted subordinate; the latter was a son bound by blood.
No one could fathom the reasoning behind the Emperor's distribution. His wisdom was deep and far-reaching; every action he took invariably influenced some distant point in the future.
Russ's fingers trembled slightly. After a moment of hesitation, he wrapped his hand around the Spear of Dionysus, feeling a surge of raw power erupting from its icy touch. The bridge was compromised, and atmospheric pressure hissed as it vented through the hole pierced by the spearhead.
The Great Wolf stood tall, wielding the Spear of Dionysus, his golden hair whipping in the rushing wind. The rapidly dropping temperature around him made him forget the dread within his heart.
Yes, ever since Russ had received the Spear of Dionysus from the Emperor's hands, he had dreaded this legendary weapon. Every time he held the spear, he felt a profound unease and an indescribable spiritual palpitation.
Most of the time, he wore the Spear of Dionysus merely to please the Emperor, letting the Master of Mankind see that his gift was valued by his son.
In private, Russ had discarded it countless times. Yet after every abandonment, the Spear of Dionysus would invariably return by some unseen means, reappearing by his side.
Russ eventually came to realize that from the day he accepted the spear from his father, the Spear of Dionysus had become an inseparable part of him. It stood as a vital symbol: either of profound expectation or of the Emperor's supervision.
The blade of the spear was leveled directly at the Rangdan Overlords. Faced with enemies of unprecedented strength, Russ actively deployed the Spear of Dionysus for the very first time.
An invisible aura of sharp force seemed to fill the air; with the spearhead pointed at them, a sudden chill ran down the spines of Despair-Sky and Wander-Sky, their souls trembling.
The power contained within the golden spear was their natural antithesis.
"Die!" Russ growled. Bare-chested, he relied on raw physical might to drive the lower half of his power armor forward in a charge.
The moment his grip tightened around the Spear of Dionysus, an epiphany washed over him from the weapon, laying bare every single weakness of his foes. It unleashed a golden radiance that prevented psychic force from drawing near, shielding its wielder as he surged forward to slaughter the enemy.