The atmosphere in the Imperial Fists' preparation area was as solemn as a cathedral. [Twin Maple] carefully adjusted his bright yellow power armor. The suit was heavy and sharply angular, with little in the way of ornate decoration. Every inch of its plating seemed designed to withstand the fiercest blows imaginable.
The Imperial Fists emblem on his chest, a tightly clenched fist, symbolized their unwavering resolve to defend and their determination to crush the enemy. He flexed his joints, feeling the precise response of the armor's servo systems.
He was a son of Rogal Dorn, the Primarch famed for his absolute loyalty, indomitable will, and almost brutally exacting pragmatism, the Imperium's most dependable rock.
Dorn's teachings had profoundly shaped every Imperial Fist: defense was not passivity, but another form of attack. Every fortress raised and every defensive position prepared existed for the sake of ultimate victory and the survival of the Imperium.
Meanwhile, in the Iron Warriors' area, [Tsundere Cutie] silently calibrated the joints and weapon systems of his gray-black power armor.
His ID might have sounded frivolous, but on the technical rankings for Battlefield: Warhammer 40k, that name held a firm place in the top ten.
He was widely recognized as a hardcore technical player, surpassed only by pioneers and monsters at the very peak of the pyramid, such as User114514, I Am Not God, and Scorchwind.
His armor bore the Iron Warriors' signature gray-black color scheme, utterly devoid of aesthetic appeal. The plating was covered in practical hooks, tool clasps, and reinforcing rivets, making him resemble a mobile siege tower. He had been chosen by Perturabo and made a son of the Lord of Iron.
Perturabo was a Primarch renowned for his unparalleled engineering genius, his obsessive pursuit of efficiency, and his eternal resentment over achievements that went unrecognized.
His Legion's creed was simple: every defense was merely a problem waiting to be dismantled, and every wall would be reduced to dust beneath precise calculation and merciless firepower.
Fate, or perhaps the author's invisible hand, appeared determined to arrange a duel steeped in destiny.
In the first-round draw, [Twin Maple] was matched against [Tsundere Cutie].
The Imperial Fists against the Iron Warriors. Stone against iron. The strongest shield against the sharpest spear. They would meet head-on in the arena of the Astartes Dueling Tournament.
As word spread, the atmosphere throughout the entire arena changed.
The rivalry and mutual hostility between these two Legions had already been an open secret even in the still-unbroken age of 30k. It could almost be called a twisted sort of tradition.
In the spectator stands, the seats of the two gene-fathers were not far apart, yet they seemed separated by an invisible trench.
Rogal Dorn wore yellow armor identical in color to that of his son. His figure was as steady and imposing as a mountain. His features were stern, their lines like rock carved by a chisel, while his short golden hair was immaculately arranged.
He did not look toward Perturabo. Instead, his gaze, so severe it bordered on cold cruelty, remained fixed on [Twin Maple] as he prepared to enter the battlefield.
His voice traveled through a private vox-link, direct, heavy, and beyond dispute, into [Twin Maple]'s auditory receptors.
"Listen, soldier. Contests against the other brother Legions are honorable exchanges. Victory and defeat may both be accepted with dignity. But this battle alone..."
Dorn's gaze seemed to pierce the intervening space and fall coldly upon the gray-black formation opposite him.
"Your opponent is an Iron Warrior. You are an Imperial Fist. Every action you take will be regarded as an expression of the Legion's will."
He paused, and the pressure in his voice suddenly intensified.
"In other battles, I permit you to learn. I permit you to fail. But in this battle, you must not lose to a son of Perturabo."
"If you are defeated," Dorn declared with absolute finality, leaving no room for compromise, "then you will no longer be worthy of calling yourself an Astartes of the Imperial Fists. From that moment onward, there will be no place for you in my Legion. Do you understand?"
[Twin Maple] felt an invisible weight descend upon him, as though the entire mass of the Imperial Palace on Terra had been placed upon his yellow pauldrons.
He drew a deep breath, straightened his body, and answered with unwavering resolve.
"Understood, Primarch. The Imperial Fists never admit defeat."
He nearly ground the final words out through clenched teeth.
At almost the same moment, another voice, utterly different yet equally oppressive, sounded within [Tsundere Cutie]'s consciousness.
Perturabo, the Lord of Iron, was even broader and more heavily built than Dorn. His gray-black power armor appeared to have been forged directly from the plating of a battleship, radiating a cold, industrial brutality.
He wore his iconic helmet, fitted with complex observation arrays and communications antennae. His expression could not be seen, yet everyone could feel the scorching intensity in his gaze, a mixture of contempt, competitiveness, and deeply rooted resentment.
"Recruit," Perturabo said, his voice rumbling like heavy machinery, edged with the grinding rasp of metal against metal. "The draw has been decided. Your opponent is an Imperial Fist."
A soundless snort seemed to pass through the channel.
"Listen carefully. Against the other Legions, you may test new tactics. You may hold something in reserve. You may even accept a temporary defeat for the sake of long-term learning. But against those 'stones' of Rogal Dorn, hiding inside their yellow turtle shells..."
Perturabo's voice rose sharply, filled with undisguised hostility and competitive fury.
"You must win! Win completely! Win beyond all dispute!"
"Use your intellect. Use your strength. Use everything you have learned from me. Dismantle them, crush them, and prove that the will and skill of iron stand far above rigid stubbornness!"
"If you lose," Perturabo continued, his tone turning glacial, "if you cannot even shatter a single 'rock,' then you are unworthy of bearing the name Iron Warrior. My workshops and my Legion have no need for defective products incapable of proving their value. Remember my words."
[Tsundere Cutie] listened in silence.
He could sense an obsession in his Primarch's words that went far beyond an ordinary contest of victory and defeat. This was not merely a PvP match between two players. It was another projection upon a virtual arena of the ten-thousand-year grudge between two Legions whose philosophies stood opposed and whose pride would never allow either to yield.
He tightened his grip on the bolter in his hands and the power axe strapped across his back. Behind the gray-black lenses of his helmet, his gaze sharpened.
"Understood, Primarch," he replied simply, his voice steady. "Iron will shatter stone."
---
Below, the gates slowly rose.
From the eastern side emerged a figure as steady as a mountain and as bright yellow as the sun.
[Twin Maple] carried a bolter and power sword. His steps were firm, each one seeming to anchor him more deeply into the earth.
His stance was a flawless defensive counterattack posture. His gaze remained locked upon the gray-black figure opposite him, while his yellow armor reflected the light with an inviolable gleam of resilience.
From the western side emerged a figure as heavy as iron and as dark as steel.
[Tsundere Cutie] carried a heavy bolter and an enormous power battleaxe. Every step carried the oppressive force of a siege ram.
His posture was far more aggressive, like a siege tower preparing to charge. His gray-black armor swallowed the surrounding light, radiating cold efficiency and a desire for destruction.
Yellow and gray-black faced one another across the center of the ancient battlefield.
The air seemed to freeze, heavier with tension than in any duel before it.
In the stands, warriors of the other Legions held their breath. They all knew the history between these two forces.
Even the Emperor, seated high upon his throne, seemed to flicker slightly within that gentle mass of white radiance, casting down a faint and unreadable trace of attention.
Across the empty space, Rogal Dorn and Perturabo silently met each other's gaze above the battlefield, sending invisible sparks flying.
The war drums sounded.
This time, even their rhythm seemed to carry the murderous clang of iron striking steel.