[What happens at the end of the path of adhering to duty and exercising self-restraint?]
[Since that battle with Khârn, Sigismund had already begun to develop toward the realm of the non-human.]
[This would be best exemplified during their second battle.]
[Khârn, as his opponent, had his mind extremely degraded due to long-term warfare; when he saw Sigismund, he had only fragmented memories left, with only his opponents in the Dueling Pits and the cheers of the audience remaining in his mind.]
[So, what was the situation with Sigismund on the opposite side?]
[Without any expression or emotional fluctuation, he just silently swung his sword; for him at the time, it no longer mattered who his opponent was, as he was in a state of neither joy nor sorrow.]
[Khârn was exceptionally angry seeing this; although he was usually angry, Sigismund’s performance made him feel disgust from the bottom of his heart.]
[What do the World Eaters fight for?]
[For slaughter; only in slaughter can they feel a moment of peace.]
[For them, every battle is putting their life on the gambling table, and the price of losing is Death.]
[Every victory is snatching their life back; life clawed back from the hands of Death is more vivid.]
[But in Sigismund’s current state, it’s hard to say he’s still alive.
In other words, who is behind Khârn?
Khorne.]
[And what is the positive manifestation of war represented by Khorne?]
[The glory, cheers, and worship after victory; there is an interval between every battle to rest before everyone rushes to the next bloodbath.]
[Whereas Sigismund is a heartless machine that dies if it loses and keeps fighting if it wins, never stopping.]
[Khârn even had hallucinations at that moment; in the ten thousand years to come, countless warriors would be like Sigismund before him, their hearts like dead ashes yet never giving up.]
[Fanatical yet cold.]
[So Khârn, the Blood God’s gore-drenched walker of the Eightfold Path—for vivid life, for the continuation of humanity, he could not fall; he had to fight.]
[And Sigismund said nothing to this.]
[No words, just the constant swinging of his sword.]
[What could be worse than this?
What Death so complete?
Could there be more disappointment, more despair?]
[Khârn was beyond furious.
He howled in rage, lunging at him again and again regardless of his injuries.]
[The Black Sword came at him again and again.
Such a way of fighting shouldn’t exist—too perfect, uncompromising, without a trace of mercy or inner remorse.]
[He didn’t even see the fatal strike; the blade swept toward him with hollow weight and eternal speed, its nothingness so magnificent that even the great god within him could only watch as it struck.]
[Khârn was cut down just like that.]
[He was killed silently, tossed to the ground with indifference and contempt, trampled in the ashes of a civilization, his throat crushed, skull cracked, and chest collapsed.]
[“Not…
so…
broken,” Khârn wheezed, the pain he felt now far exceeding the Butcher’s Nails,]
[but he realized the joke-like cruelty of the Universe more deeply than ever, “Unlike…
you.”]
The Primarchs saw Sigismund’s eyes, which once burned with the flames of anger and protection, now left with only cold, hollow calm, like two silent starry skies, without a single ripple.
He no longer questioned, no longer felt anger, and no longer felt sorrow.
He just looked into the void, as if engaged in a long, silent conversation with an invisible being.
In the image, he was discarding the emotions he deemed weak, forging himself into a purer, more lethal weapon.
This time, Angron did not laugh wildly.
He slowly rose from his throne; the pain from the Butcher’s Nails seemed suppressed by a deeper emotion at this moment.
His gaze was fixed on Khârn’s fallen figure on the screen, his voice hoarse and low, filled with an unprecedented, sorrowful solemnity.
“He…
is right.”
Angron turned to the grim-faced Rogal Dorn, his eyes holding no mockery, only a scrutiny that bordered on pity.
“My son, he burned until his Death.
Every swing, every roar, was a struggle against the nails in his head, against this entire damn thing!”
“When he died, he was a warrior, a living human being.”
“But your son,” his finger pointed to the silent, motionless, perfect champion on the screen, “he won.”
“But what did he win?
He has become a tomb colder than any fortress you’ve ever built, a tomb used to bury himself.”
“Congratulations, Dorn, you have created a perfect tool and a dead soul.”
“No…” Sanguinius’s voice was filled with pain, his angelic face full of sorrow.
“Power should not exist in this way.
We were created to transcend mortals, not to discard humanity.”
“True strength is pursuing the light while bearing the darkness.”
“And Sigismund…
he has extinguished all his own light.”
“Look…”
Lorgar’s voice rang out again, but this time, it wasn’t a jubilant proclamation, but a near-aria, a sacred whisper.
He watched Sigismund’s transformation on the screen obsessively, his eyes reflecting a fanaticism that had found the ultimate truth.
“Extinguished?
No, my angelic brother, you use the wrong word.”
Fulgrim, The Phoenician, for the first time scrutinized the screen with a gaze bordering on fear.
He sought perfection, but the sight before him made him shudder from the bottom of his heart.
“This isn’t extinguishing; this is…
an ugly kind of ‘perfection’.
Every movement is impeccable, every swing of the sword precise.”
“But it has no passion, no art, no soul!
It’s like a statue crafted by the most skilled artisan, yet devoid of any vitality.”
“It…
is the ultimate profanation of the art of ‘combat’!”
“What exactly are we fighting for?”
Guilliman whispered to himself, the eternally rational Lord of Ultramar, his eyes now filled with deep confusion.
“We promote the Imperial Truth to liberate humanity from the slavery of superstition.”
“But now, to combat the enemy, we have created a ghost completely enslaved by ‘duty’.”
“If the survival of the Imperium requires every warrior to become like Sigismund, then what have we established—a rational empire, or a most efficient slave-state hell?”
Guilliman’s question plunged all the loyalist Primarchs into silence.
“This is true power!
This is the posture one should have when serving the gods!” Lorgar’s voice broke the silence.
“Discard the small self to achieve the great self!
Sigismund is merely walking the path we all should take!
This is a holy martyrdom!”
“Martyrdom?” Jaghatai Khan let out a disdainful snort, sorrow flashing in his eternally free and unrestrained eyes.
“He has forgotten the wind on the plains, the strong liquor after battle, and the cheers of victory.”
“He won everything, yet lost everything a warrior should possess.
If this is the end, I would rather die on the path of a charge.”
All eyes eventually converged on Rogal Dorn.
The Primarch of the Imperial Fists silently watched the familiar yet strange figure on the screen.
He didn’t rage as before, nor did he argue.
After a long time, he slowly closed his eyes, his voice carrying a weariness and heaviness like a collapsing mountain.
“I was wrong.”
Two words made the entire Viewing Hall tremble.
“I always thought the strongest fortress was built from the most indestructible materials with the most rigorous logic.”
“I treated my Legion, my sons, as such materials.”
Dorn opened his eyes; no longer filled with hard ice, but a bottomless ocean of pain.
“I forged for him the strongest will and taught him the purest duty.
I thought I was protecting him, protecting the Imperium.
But only now do I understand…”
“What I built was not a fortress, but a prison.
A prison that imprisoned all his emotions, all his pain, and all his hope…
And I, with my own hands, locked him inside and threw away the key.”
“Angron…
you were right.”
Dorn’s voice admitted so frankly for the first time, “I won a champion, but lost a son.”
“Jie…
Jie-jie-jie-jie…
What an interesting argument.”
Konrad Curze’s grating laughter abruptly cut between the two.
He slowly slid out from the shadows of the throne, a twisted smile like one appreciating a play hung on his pale face.
“One cheers for the birth of a weapon, while the other mourns for the Death of a son.
But what is the point of your argument?”
His gaze swept over Lorgar, then landed on Dorn, and finally circled the room, his eyes flashing with an all-knowing, cruel madness.
“Do you think this is just the shattering of one man and the fall of another?
No, no, no…
this is only the beginning.
The prologue to a grand tragedy.”
Curze’s voice became like a sleep-talker’s, yet it reached everyone’s ears clearly:
“I see it…
I see more…
Sigismund’s shattering was only to forge a Black Sword used to sever hope.”
“And Khârn’s fall was also only to stain red a path of blood leading to the Throne Room.”
He turned to Dorn, his smile growing more hideous: “Do you suffer for Sigismund’s numbness?”