Ruins of the Underhive
Below, the battle raged relentlessly. Bastion's forces, deployed with surgical precision, were turning the Chaos hordes into mincemeat. But the heart of the struggle, the one that would determine the fate of this world, was taking place far above, in the foul-smelling, ash-filled air.
Two superhuman figures clashed in a ballet of death. One, Julius, a titan's silhouette in midnight blue aetech armor, wreathed in an aura of crackling blue electric lightning with every movement. The other, Be'lakor's clone, an incarnation of shadow and malice, whose very presence dimmed the light. Their fight was so fast that to the observers on the ground, it was merely a series of blue flashes striking a moving blot of darkness, accompanied by the metallic clash of their weapons and shockwaves that made the ruins tremble.
Julius did not have centuries of martial mastery. What he possessed was the perfect body of a Custodian, a biological masterpiece reacting with instinctive speed and precision. His mind, honed by the System and experience, channeled this raw physicality. He parried, dodged, counter-attacked, driven by survival instinct and a razor-sharp will to dominate.
Be'lakor's clone, however, was a living, cruel, and millennia-old lesson. He was teaching Julius, blow by blow, the difference between talent and mastery, between power and experience.
Be'lakor: "Ho ho! Young conqueror. Your journey has only just begun. But you will soon become a far more powerful servant."
The Daemon Prince's voice resonated in his skull, tempting and contemptuous. Julius gritted his teeth, his eyes glowing with an icy light.
Julius: "I am my own destiny. I make my own choices. No one commands me. And no one will make me bend."
Be'lakor (clone): "Ho, but it will come. Each time we clash, I grow stronger. In the end, I will subdue you, as I have done with so many others."
Julius: "They were weak. I am unshakable."
Julius's Black Spear whirled, twirled, seeking an opening. But Be'lakor's black sword, Dawn of Eternal Night, was everywhere. It struck with deadly economy of motion, exploiting blind spots, the micro-delays in Julius's defense. A sinister crack echoed. A fine fissure appeared along the shaft of the energy lance.
Julius parried a lateral blow, the impact vibrating up his arms to his shoulders. Under the pressure, he triggered a mechanism on the hilt. The spear retracted in a rapid mechanical clatter, its segments folding to form a broad, two-handed black sword, shorter, more manageable for close combat.
He lunged, using the surprise of the transformation to deliver a lightning-fast thrust. Be'lakor, too experienced, parried with an almost casual motion. His counter, however, was devastating. The daemonic blade came down with titanic force on the newly formed sword.
CLANG!
The retractable sword, already weakened, shattered into several pieces that fell into the void.
Julius did not flinch. No hesitation. As shards of steel were still flying, his right hand released the useless hilt and, in a fluid motion, grasped the axe Nightwing strapped to his back. He raised the rune-etched blade just in time to intercept Be'lakor's next blow, a downward strike that could have split a turret.
The impact was titanic. The runes on Nightwing blazed with blinding light, discharging their mystic energy against the corruption of the black blade. But Be'lakor's edge, borne of centuries of slaughter, scraped against the weapon with infernal precision. A shower of blue and black sparks erupted, and a fine, deep scratch appeared on the vibranium-adamantium metal of the axe.
Julius used his thrusters to push himself back, creating distance. Be'lakor, seeing the opening, exulted. His attacks redoubled in ferocity, becoming a hurricane of blows meant to overwhelm Julius's defense.
On the ground, the spectacle was demoralizing. Bastion's troops, though victorious on their fronts, saw their Lord, their invincible Commander, being pushed back, retreating through the air under the daemon's relentless assault. A shiver of uncertainty ran through their ranks. Conversely, the daemons, sensing their master's dominance, howled in triumph and threw themselves with renewed frenzy at Bastion's lines.
Be'lakor roared: "You are mine, conqueror!"
A particularly vicious blow, a feint followed by a daemonic kick reinforced with warp energy, struck Julius squarely in the chest. The impact made the beskar armor groan, and propelled Julius like a cannonball. He tore through three floors of a burning industrial building, pulverizing concrete and metal, before crashing down in a cloud of dust and incandescent debris.
Silence fell over the battlefield for an instant.
Then, from the smoking crater, Julius emerged. His armor was dented, covered in soot. He rose with a slowness that spoke of pain, one hand clenched on the haft of Nightwing, whose cracks seemed more visible. A trickle of bright red blood flowed from the corner of his mouth, streaking his chin.
He looked up at Be'lakor, who hovered, triumphant. His voice, hoarse but clear, carried through the chaos.
Julius: "I could do this all day."
Be'lakor, descending slowly, his wings spread, displayed the smile of a sated predator. "I hope so, for your sake. I have not yet sated my appetite with our little bout."