Chapter 475: The Prince of Slaanesh, Daemon Fulgrim One Sword to Shatter All Arts!
Before long, the rest of the Primarchs were each pulled into the Warp one by one for private talks with the Emperor.
He had prepared different words for each of them, and conveyed both his longing and his regrets toward his sons.
When all the Primarchs finally stepped out of the Warp, their expressions were all very different.
Horus bore guilt and conviction, eager to contribute something to this Imperium of Man. Sanguinius was in tears, grieving for the Emperor's suffering.
The ever-tormented Angron, for once, fell silent—his stabbing agony seemed almost trivial compared to the torture the Emperor endured in both flesh and soul.
Mortarion, ever defiant, was left dazed, unsure of what he could even say—was his paltry "honor" truly worth more than all the Emperor had borne?
"Gentlemen, return now to your duties. The Emperor needs to rest."
The Silent Sisters and the Custodians gave their dismissal.
…
…
Yet the proud Daemon Prince of Slaanesh did not cease his slaughter, not even with two suns burning in the Warp sky. Reclining upon a throne set in a vast open plaza, he laughed wildly as he reveled in the "spectacle" before him.
Humans trapped in his illusion embraced one another, hands greedily exploring flesh, utterly blind to how their own bodies had already warped into monstrosities.
Slender, slimy tendrils intertwined, while their souls, under the ceaseless lashings of lust, pleasure, and pain, were gradually consumed. Their filthy flesh writhed like serpents, dissolving away into base chemical matter.
Only the Emperor's devout followers within holy sanctums were spared. All others had fallen into the cruel embrace of Chaos, writhing in this hellish purgatory.
No one knew how much time passed before a new guest finally arrived on this world: a Primarch of the Emperor's own bloodline, the one who pursued elegance and perfection—Fulgrim.
With steady, deliberate steps, Fulgrim strode straight into the plaza. He had come here for one purpose: to face the Daemon Prince.
The obscene and horrific sights around him did not so much as draw his gaze. His eyes locked firmly on the throne, burning as they fixed on the daemon.
That thing could no longer be called human.
Twisted, agile four arms, a serpentine lower body, seductive yet vile—a figure more like the mythic Medusa than a Primarch. Fulgrim had never imagined that his own fallen self could become so grotesque.
"That hideous form of yours isn't worthy of the word 'perfection.' Disgusting. You've made me lose half my interest in even killing you."
Fulgrim was a perfectionist to the extreme—even when choosing opponents, they had to be worthy, pleasing to his eye, and deserving of his strike. Otherwise, he found it difficult to even bother.
But even as he spoke so dismissively, his hands did not hesitate. With a sudden burst of speed, he rushed the throne and swung a vicious strike.
Clang!
Steel screeched against steel, sparks spraying as Daemon prince raised his Sword of Slaanesh, blocking with contemptuous ease.
His serpentine eyes narrowed, a flicker of surprise crossing his face as he recognized the blade in Fulgrim's hands. The Blade of the Forgebreaker—he remembered it being destroyed along with Ferrus Manus himself.
How could it be here again?
"So, you remember this sword. I wield it now to avenge its true master!"
Fulgrim's eyes never left him. That sword, forged together with Ferrus Manus, was their bond of brotherhood—the truest friend he had among all the Primarchs.
Yet in the Warhammer 40K universe, Daemon Prince had slain Ferrus, severed his head as a trophy, and left the Forgebreaker as twisted scrap.
All those bonds, that shared struggle, had been drowned in the Infinity tides of the Warp. Only the corrupted Fulgrim remained—pursuing "perfection" at any cost.
"Heh… You're nothing but a counterfeit, a puppet the Corpse-Emperor dredged up. I don't know how that decrepit husk managed it, but it doesn't matter. In my hands, your fate is to be reforged—"
"No. Not reforged. You won't even leave a hair behind."
Mad laughter burst from the Daemon Prince. Gifted by Slaanesh, his power had long surpassed what he once was. Even the Fulgrim of old could not stand against him. And now, with the Sword of Slaanesh in his hands, slaying this impostor would be trivial.
Fulgrim said nothing more. All his focus narrowed to the battle before him. Against this corrupted self, he could not afford distraction.
Withdrawing his Forgebreaker, he feinted and then swung once more, straight at the daemon's head.
The same place daemon prince had once struck Ferrus Manus.
Blow for blow, death for death.
Clang!!
Again, the strike was caught. Though Fulgrim had held back, these two exchanges were enough to tell him: this Daemon Prince was far stronger than expected.
"You pitiful mongrel. Seduced by a god of filth into this wretched state—you're riddled with flaws, blind spots everywhere. You're so far from true perfection it's laughable."
Finding no easy opening through sheer force, Fulgrim shifted to psychological warfare.
And who knew himself better than he? Fulgrim understood all too well his own sickness—his pathological obsession with perfection. An obsession that trapped him in Infinity cycles of repetition until flawless satisfaction was achieved.
In that unending tension lay agony, but when release finally came, it brought ecstasy like none other.
daemon prince was smug in his "new form," intoxicated by his strength and the sway he held over mortal senses. In his own eyes, he was perfect.
But when Fulgrim called him a bundle of flaws, a thing of weakness and cracks—his composure shattered.
With a snarl, he lunged, the Sword of Slaanesh stabbing out in furious thrusts, driving Fulgrim back.
"You know nothing!"
Daemon prince roared, voice shaking the plaza.
"I command the power of Chaos itself! I will lead all life to perfection and freedom—into joy, into a new order!"
"I am stronger than ever. Ferrus and Guilliman together would fall before me. I wield power to bend every sense, to enslave any will."
"The Corpse-Emperor is nothing but a decrepit tyrant, chaining us with his tedious, suffocating order, condemning our pursuit of true perfection!"
"I should do the same as I did with Guilliman—stab a bloody hole right through his throat!"
The Daemon Prince words were also the very doubts Fulgrim himself had once harbored. But after everything he had experienced, his views on perfectionism had already shifted.
At the very least, he would not be as extreme as the Daemon Prince.
"You killed Ferrus. For that alone, today I will take your head to honor him in sacrifice!"
Fulgrim once again raised the flaming blade in his hand. To the daemon prince, that weapon—the Forgebreaker, which should have been shattered—was an eyesore, filling him with shame and fury.
In truth, he had never truly wanted to kill Ferrus at the start. But the Blade of Slaanesh had enslaved his mind. Without killing Ferrus, he could never achieve the "perfection" he sought.
"I once admired Ferrus's strength and discipline. But I wanted to make him just a little more perfect. He refused. So there was no other choice…"
The emotions in the Daemon Prince eyes grew ever more frenzied. The more memories surged back, the more his power swelled. The ecstasy he felt in that instant long ago—when he severed Ferrus's head—now echoed through his mind.
"Yes! That's it! Exhilarating!"
The Daemon Prince twisted his agile body with lightning speed, his serpentine form darting like a phantom. The Blade of Slaanesh in his grasp pulsed with an ominous aura.
Their clash forced Fulgrim back dozens of meters. For the first time, he felt the cold brush of steel at his throat.
Just now, his neck had nearly been taken. This corrupted daemon-Primarch truly surpassed him in power!
"A fine counterfeit… I wonder how the Corpse-Emperor managed to forge a thing like you. I'd love to split open your skull just to see what's inside."
The Daemon Prince tightened his grip on the Blade of Slaanesh. His towering frame loomed in Fulgrim's vision, the bizarre, malevolent pressure nearly suffocating.
Yet Fulgrim did not shrink back. He mirrored his foe, gripping the Forgebreaker with equal resolve.
"This sword was forged together with Ferrus Manus. You destroyed it once, yet I kept it. Because I know it is stronger than the toy in your hand."
"And with this sword, I'll show you—you're nothing but a clown, a puppet dancing on Slaanesh's strings. The 'perfection' you chase is nothing but a farce."
"Look at you. Look at that grotesque serpent-fiend body. Compared to me, you're nothing but an ugly freak!"
That last insult struck straight at the Daemon Prince heart. He was no fool; he knew well how hideous his form had become.
Once, he had been noble and confident—the most handsome, elegant of all Primarchs. Unlike Sanguinius, whose beauty shone with holy radiance, Fulgrim's was softer, more androgynous, like that of a flawless sculpture.
But his obsession with perfection had long bred a deep anxiety about his own appearance.
Those three words—"ugly freak"—were the one taboo that pierced his scales.
"I'll peel your skin from your flesh and wear it upon my face!"
The wind howled. Daemon Prince and the Blade of Slaanesh blurred into a streak of violet-black shadow, hurtling at Fulgrim once more. The two colossal blades clashed midair again and again, each strike spraying sparks like stars.
Angered, the Daemon Prince strikes grew far less disciplined, yet his strength surged severalfold.
Each clash left Fulgrim's arms numb with shock. Soon he was entirely on the defensive.
Beyond sheer power, another reason pressed him down: the daemon Prince wove sorcerous illusions into his blows. Every time Fulgrim tried to counterattack, visions invaded his mind, scattering his focus.
It left him with almost no way to strike back.
"Impostor—you are no match for me. I only humored you today because I was in a good mood. Any other time, you'd already be dead!"
The Daemon Prince pressed his blade hard against Fulgrim's, the distance between them no more than inches. The muscles of their chests strained, their blades screeched against each other.
Gazing at Fulgrim's beautiful face with covetous hunger, he muttered, half-delirious, "Such a fine skin… I want to slice it open piece by piece, and crawl inside to wear it myself. Wouldn't that be wonderful…"
Fulgrim burst out laughing. "So, you do know the truth. If I were you, I'd slit my own throat right now. Because I couldn't live with such an ugly face."
"You know what you look like? A plague-ridden toad, covered in sores. I almost fear the pus from your boils will splatter onto me."
Those words drove the daemon Prince into a frenzy. He looked into the Blade of Slaanesh and saw his twisted, wicked reflection—such a hideous contrast to Fulgrim's beauty.
Madness consumed him. If he could not possess it, then he would destroy everything.
He pulled back his blade, then lunged in from another angle with a vicious strike. "I'll fucking kill you!!"
In that instant, Fulgrim pressed a trigger on the Forgebreaker. A layer of white-glowing material spread across the blade's edge, as though imbued with enchantment.
It was a fragment of void-dragon material, left over from the Universal Megacorp's cutting experiments.
Barely 0.2 grams—but once fused into the weapon, it became indestructible, able to slice through anything short of C'tan matter, and immune to the warp's sorcery.
For the Void Dragon was pure physical substance, utterly untouched by the warp.
Now, faced with the daemon prince illusions, Fulgrim's blade cut through all of them in a single stroke. One sword—breaking ten thousand spells!
The furious daemon prince, intent on ending it swiftly, made no attempt to defend. His earlier testing had convinced him utterly that Fulgrim was beneath him.
This time, he would finish it.
But to his shock, the Forgebreaker now radiated an unfamiliar power. The Blade of Slaanesh began to shudder uncontrollably in his grip, as if seized by terror.
Like a lamb cowering before a lion.
He tried to brace it—but the weapon itself fought to recoil. The expected ring of clashing steel never came.
Instead, the Forgebreaker drove straight through daemon prince's throat.
Foul, stinking blood and a surge of corrupt warp-essence sprayed outward.
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