“Vulkan is right.”
Sanguinius’s voice, like heavenly music, rang out softly, breaking the suffocating stillness.
His angelic face was filled with deep-seated worry, and his massive wings twitched unconsciously.
“What we see are two souls struggling on the edge of the abyss.
One is consumed by a crimson tide of rage, while the other tries to grasp a sliver of golden light.”
“But no matter what they grasp, they are no longer in control of themselves.
This…
is a wake-up call for all of us.
How far are we from that abyss?”
[Sigismund was quite familiar with Khârn, but after years of not seeing him, Khârn had completely changed.]
[Because by this time, Khârn had been blessed by the Blood God and was halfway to becoming a daemon.
Seeing Sigismund, he began to attack fiercely.
After the first blow, Sigismund felt something was wrong—the strength was too great.]
[Khârn was also mocking Sigismund for still being bound by his duty.]
But although Sigismund was still fighting and saying that duty was far superior to empty satisfaction,
He simply could not defeat the current Khârn, despite having the technical advantage and being familiar with his opponent.
Even when Sigismund’s sword cut through Khârn’s armor and struck his body, the unnaturally bulging muscles allowed Khârn to ignore all attacks.]
Khârn forcibly withstood all attacks and took Sigismund down.
It was only then that Sigismund understood what Keeler had said: he had to be purer to win.
Unfortunately, it was all too late.
When Dorn rescued Sigismund from Khârn’s hands, Sigismund would be changed forever.]
The duel on the screen was incredibly brutal.
Every one of Sigismund’s exquisite parries and precise counterattacks was like crashing into an immovable wall of flesh.
Khârn had abandoned all technique; every swing of his battle-axe was an embodiment of pure strength and fury.
Sigismund’s gaze was locked onto the screen, his knuckles cracking as he gripped the armrest of his throne.
That sense of powerlessness, the pain of watching a brother fall while being unable to do anything, crossed time and space to sear his soul once more.
“Why…” His voice was hoarse, as if squeezed from the depths of his throat.
“Khârn, we once shared the sand of the same dueling pits.
Your rage should have been for breaking your chains, not for putting on another, bloodier pair of shackles!”
Khârn paused noticeably and said,
“Isn’t it only natural?
I cannot give up on my father, just as you will not give up on your duty.”
“Duty…
I always thought duty was our shared faith.
We fight for the Emperor, for humanity.”
“But you chose another path, the path of Chaos’s hollow satisfaction.”
Sigismund’s voice was filled with deep disappointment and pain.
“You gave up honor, you gave up loyalty, you even gave up yourself.”
“Then I can only say I’m sorry,” Khârn said with regret.
Angron cheered as he watched Khârn on the screen.
“Crush him!
Crush that ridiculous discipline!
Crush that hypocritical honor!”
“Show him!
Where true power comes from!
From pain!
From rage!
From everything that was stripped away from us!”
Dorn snapped his head around, his cold gaze staring directly at Angron: “You cheer for the fall of your scion?”
“Fall?
No!
This is liberation!”
Angron roared:
“My son has finally broken free of your ridiculous rules and embraced his true nature!”
“He is more free than any gold-clad slave in that palace of yours!”
“Even if it means raising a rebel sword against the Emperor?!”
Lion El’Jonson’s low growl carried the lingering resonance of Caliban’s thunderous wrath, the pupils behind his dark visor contracting into slits.
“Every drop of these traitors’ blood defiles the glory of the Great Crusade.”
“The First Legion should have emptied every magazine at Ullanor!
Every potential corruption should have been strangled in its cradle!”
For the first time today, he felt that his discipline—harsh to the point of being inhuman—was still too lax.
“You have a good son, Angron.”
Vulkan’s voice was as hot as lava, carrying a hint of regret.
His gaze moved past the screen to the brother tormented by the Butcher’s Nails.
“To turn against his own brothers for your sake…
In his own way, he has expressed a ‘loyalty’ you never received.
Only, the price of this loyalty is his soul.”
“Soul?” Angron sneered.
“That kind of thing died the moment I put these nails in!”
“Now, my son is just like me, having learned how to fight without a soul!”
This conversation caused the atmosphere in the Viewing Hall to drop to freezing point.
The rifts between the Primarchs had never been so clearly or deeply displayed before everyone.
This was no longer a disagreement over strategy or ideology, but an irreconcilable opposition regarding the very nature of existence.