You Can Understand, Right?
"A… yin… yang… person?"
Eileen's voice cracked with rage, echoing through the air.
Cohl, the Custodian, was kneeling on the ground, his breastplate dented, his armor's systems blaring sharp alerts.
Through his tattered visor, Cohl stared blankly at the small figure—barely reaching his waist—blocking the way before him.
He had prided himself on his lifelong loyalty to duty. To protect the one seated on the Golden Throne, to protect his awakened son, to protect this empire that had teetered on the brink of collapse for ten millennia.
But he had never imagined.
That one day, a mortal—a little girl with no genetic modification, whose blood flowed freely—would stand before him in such a manner.
For a fleeting moment, Eileen's petite figure overlapped with the golden silhouette seated on the Throne deep within his memory.
"Your… little brother…"
Cohl murmured to himself. His heart, which had remained unshaken even when facing a Primarch, now felt the warmth and security of being protected.
On the other side of the battlefield.
Lucius the Eternal, locked in combat with Sicarius, paused mid-swing with his cursed blade.
An unexpected expression appeared on his scarred, lidless face.
Jealousy, anger, and a hint of frustration at being outshone.
"Damn it… that little girl really knows how to insult people…" Lucius ground his teeth, making a sickeningly sharp sound. "Why does no one insult me like that? I want that humiliation too… I want that attention too!"
And the one being insulted—
Fulgrim's handsome, almost otherworldly face shifted from astonishment to blankness, then to a strange twitch.
The corners of his mouth began to turn upward.
Slowly, his grin widened until two rows of sharp, white teeth were revealed.
"Heh…"
"Hehe…"
"Hahahahahahahaha!!!"
The Primarch threw his head back, unleashing a maniacal laugh loud enough to shatter eardrums.
There was no anger in this laughter.
At least, not on the surface.
Only the ecstatic joy of discovering a new continent, the exhilaration of tasting an unparalleled delicacy, and a slight tremor of masochistic thrill.
He laughed until tears streamed down his face—purple tears that sizzled and corroded the floor where they fell.
His four arms waved exaggeratedly in the air, his massive serpentine tail thrashing excitedly against the ground.
"Boring? Rotten ass?"
Fulgrim laughed as he pointed the silver Blade of the Laer at Eileen, his fingers trembling with excessive excitement.
"What… what novel words! What a chilling insult!"
"How many years has it been since I heard such words? A thousand years? Five thousand years?"
"Those mortals only scream, only beg for mercy, only look at me with that boring fear. And that dull, tedious Roboute only spouts righteous nonsense!"
Fulgrim's purple, vertical pupils contracted sharply, locking onto Eileen.
"But you are different… little thing. How dare you call me that?"
"Ah~! This… the stimulation of being so crudely offended… my heart is singing!"
Eileen gritted her teeth, her short sword still pressed firmly against the Blade of the Laer.
Although her opponent was laughing, the pressure emanating from the sword intensified.
"What are you laughing at! You pervert!" Eileen roared. "Take your claws off me!"
Fulgrim's laughter abruptly ceased.
Like a chicken whose neck had been snapped.
His face, in that instant, visibly turned cold and venomous.
The perverted excitement vanished, replaced by the Primarch's unyielding arrogance.
"While your insults are amusing…"
Fulgrim's voice deepened, carrying a metallic chill.
"But… your filthy mouth, and your attire radiating the golden light of the Corpse-Emperor, are truly disgusting."
"They defile this land blessed by noble gods."
"In that case—"
Fulgrim did not use the silver sword that had been parried.
His free arm, which held the whip, swung casually to the side, as if swatting away a fly.
"Get out of my way."
Boom—!!!
A tremendous force slammed into Eileen.
Her previous block had already exhausted her body.
Now, facing the Primarch's enraged attack, she was like a leaf in a storm.
Pfft!
Eileen spat out a mouthful of golden-tinged blood.
She was sent flying backward.
She traced a long arc through the air, flying more than ten meters before crashing heavily into a massive crystal pillar at the edge of the hall.
Bang!
The crystal pillar cracked like a spider's web.
The short sword she had been clutching tightly, still burning with embers, flew from her hand.
The short sword spun a few times in the air before embedding itself in the floor a dozen meters away from Eileen.
The orange-red flames on the blade weakened, like a candle flickering in the wind, but stubbornly refused to go out.
"Holy Bearer!!"
Sicarius roared in despair, desperately trying to rush forward, but Lucius's whip coiled around him like a venomous serpent.
"Do not go, our dance is not yet over," Lucius chuckled, holding the Second Company Commander tightly in place.
In the center of the hall.
Fulgrim did not even glance at the little girl he had sent flying.
In his view, that level of impact was enough to shatter a mortal's bones, turning them into a pile of pulped meat.
He resumed his elegant, languid posture.
He swam slowly through the center of the hall, his thick serpentine tail swaying.
Like an opera singer who had just finished his performance, basking in nonexistent applause.
"Look…"
Fulgrim spread his arms, each hand posed differently, addressing the traitors still standing there, stunned.
This was no longer a battlefield; it had become his philosophical lecture hall.
"My children, do you hear me?"
Fulgrim's operatic voice echoed through the hall.
"An ant. A lowly ant from the mud, daring to judge the aesthetics of a dragon?"
He reached out a hand, stroking the shimmering purple scales covering his body.
"She has lingered too long in the lies of that dried corpse. Her soul has withered; she no longer understands what true 'perfection' is."
"She mistook crudeness for virtue, repression for glory."
Fulgrim approached a Noise Marine, who immediately knelt in trembling fear.
The Primarch reached out and gently stroked the metal rings piercing the warrior's flesh, his eyes glazed.
"Look at these. What exquisite transformations. Even the slightest breeze brings ultimate pleasure."
"This is evolution. Perfection."
He turned to his audience, displaying his half-human, half-serpent body.
"Look at my scales, each one reflecting the scream of a soul at the peak of ecstasy."
"And look at every muscle, a divine perfection beyond the limits of mortal flesh."
Fulgrim's voice rose higher, carrying an undeniable fanaticism.
"And she… that blind little thing."
"She actually called me… rotten ass?!"
As he uttered the last word, the Primarch struggled to conceal his rage.
"Ha ha… ha ha ha ha…"
The surrounding Emperor's Children—both Phoenix Guard and Noise Marines—began to join in the laughter.
The laughter was full of mockery, full of contempt for that "vulgar aesthetic."
"Pathetic mortal! How laughable!"
"She does not understand the glory of the gods!"
"I propose we flay her! Let her see if the texture of her own skin is just as ugly!"
Although they were laughing, every Chaos Space Marine carefully lowered their heads, not daring to look the Primarch in the eye.
Because they could all hear it.
Beneath that flowery language and maniacal laughter, there was a pent-up shame and indignation waiting to erupt.
Had that girl really… hurt the Primarch's incredibly narcissistic, yet paradoxically fragile, pride?
Fulgrim was pleased with the atmosphere.
He slithered along his serpentine body, continuing his "tour" of the battlefield.
As luck would have it.
His path of movement happened to pass right at the edge of the hall.
He happened to pass by… a forgotten corner.
There stood a man who had remained silent, unnoticed by anyone.
Lars Valanta.
This noble young master had hidden behind a pile of rubble when Sergeant Varo was besieged.
He had witnessed the entire ordeal.
He saw Cohl being brutally beaten, saw Eileen being sent flying.
He was terrified, cowering in a ball, even holding his breath.
As an extremely rare psychic blank, and given how dim and inconspicuous his warp presence was,
in front of this room full of Astartes, Custodians, and a Primarch whose soul shone like a beacon,
he was no different from a wisp of air, a speck of dust.
Neither Fulgrim nor the Slaaneshi warriors instinctively registered his presence.
At this moment—
Fulgrim's enormous, purple-scaled serpent tail slowly slid past Lars.
The tail was incredibly long and massive.
The tip dragged on the ground, leaving behind a nauseating trail of slime and making a wet, scraping sound.
And less than half a meter from Lars's hand
was the short sword, still faintly burning with orange-red flames, embedded in the floor—flung from Eileen's grasp.
Lars stared at the serpent's tail.
Then he looked at the sword…
His trembling hand reached out.
He grasped the scorching hilt of the short sword.
If it were a daemon or an ordinary psyker, this sword, imbued with mortal fire, would have instantly burned their hand.
But Lars did not feel much repulsion, only a slight burning sensation. And the instant he gripped it, the flames on the sword blazed brighter, tinged with a crimson hue.
Fulgrim was still delivering his long-winded speech, his back to Lars, giving his final concluding remarks.
"Then, let this be the end…"
the daemon Primarch opened his arms, preparing to execute his enemy.
Just then—
Disgusting thing, take this!
Lars silently chanted in his mind.
He leaned halfway out from behind the rubble, his hands gripping the short sword tightly. He felt his courage suddenly surge.
Facing the writhing serpent tail before him, as thick as an adult's waist—
without any skill—
he chopped down like slicing a sausage!
Thud!!!
A dull thud of blade piercing flesh.
The short sword—a fusion of strange crimson, Eileen's mortal fire, and Old Huang's divine order—
sliced through the scales in an instant, like cutting through cake.
Without any resistance.
Snap.
The tip of the serpent tail, covered in ornate barbs and scales, was cleanly severed!
Whoosh—!!
No blood gushed from the wound.
Instead, a burst of golden-red flame erupted.
The flames surged through the wound, frantically boring into Fulgrim's body, igniting his corrupt essence.
Fulgrim, who was giving a speech, suddenly froze.
His four eyes widened to their limit, his expression instantly shifting from arrogance to extreme contortion and… utter bewilderment.
The pain—
it was not the pleasurable pain he usually savored.
It was the devastating agony of a warp-projection being crushed and burned by a higher divinity.
After a one-second delay—
"Ughhhhhhh——————!!!"
A piercing scream, more ear-splitting than a Noise Marine's weapon, erupted from the Primarch's mouth.
"Pain! Pain! My perfect body!!"
Fulgrim's massive form crashed to the ground as if electrocuted.
He writhed and twisted wildly, his four arms flailing erratically, smashing the floor to pieces.
He clutched his severed tail, tears and mucus streaming down his face—a far cry from his previous arrogant, divine demeanor.
"What happened?!"
"The Primarch is injured?!"
"Who did this?!"
Lucius and all the Phoenix Guard members were stunned. They stopped what they were doing, staring in horror at their master writhing in agony.
Then, countless murderous gazes followed the severed tail and converged on that corner.
They converged on Lars, who was still holding a flaming short sword, looking utterly bewildered.
Lars looked at the pulsating, burning tail on the ground, then at the sword in his hand, and swallowed hard.
He felt the gazes around him, threatening to tear him apart.
Especially Fulgrim.
The Primarch stopped rolling and raised his head. His handsome face was now twisted and contorted, his purple eyes burning with a rage worthy of praise from Khorne himself.
"You… you insect…"
Fulgrim gritted his teeth, his voice sounding as if it had crawled from the abyss of hell.
"You dare… break my… perfect body?!"
Faced with the glare of the enraged demigod,
Lars's brain short-circuited again.
Driven by fear and his unique thought process, he made a move that stunned everyone present.
He forced an awkward, slightly embarrassed smile.
Then, he held up a finger and pointed to the floor.
"That…"
Lars's voice trembled, but remained clear.
"Mainly… I do not like having such ugly things sliding around on the floor in my house…"
"This is imported marble…"
"After all… my father is quite strict…"
He rubbed his hands together, looking innocently at the enraged Primarch and the traitors.
"You… can understand, right?"
"…"
"ROAR——————!!!"
Understand?
I understand your *****!
Fulgrim felt himself completely unhinged.
As the Lord of the Legion, the perfect darling of the Prince of Pleasure, he had suffered his share of injuries in his life.
He had been beaten by Ferrus. Slashed by Dorn.
But he had never! Never been slashed by a mortal! A useless piece of refuse without even psychic powers!
Even more so because he was filthy—his tail had been cut off like a sausage!
It was a humiliation worse than death!
"Kill him!!!"
Fulgrim screamed, his voice shattering every pane of glass in the hall.
"Chop him into mincemeat!! Peel his skin off piece by piece!! I want his father's soul to wail for ten thousand years!!"
"Now!! Immediately!!!"
"In the name of the Primarch!!"
Lucius the Eternal was the first to move.
He let out a groan, abandoned Sicarius, and charged at Lars like a madman.
The remaining Chaos warriors, their eyes bloodshot, brandished their power weapons, like a pack of rabid dogs fighting for scraps, rushing toward that corner.
"Oh my god! Help!!"
Lars threw down the sword, covered his head, and cowered in the corner, letting out a pig-like scream.
He closed his eyes, awaiting his fate of being torn to pieces.
However.
Just as the first power sword was about to cleave Lars in two—
[Hahahaha…]
A gleeful voice suddenly rang out in the hall.
Old Huang's voice.
"Kid… you did a good job."
"Boom—!!!"
A pale, ghostly wall of flames suddenly erupted before Lars.
Lucius's longsword slashed at the wall of fire, only to be deflected by a strange broadsword that extended from it; the blade caught some white flames, and Lucius cried out in pain.
From within the pale flames
came the crisp sounds of swords being drawn and boltguns being cocked.
Click—click—
Then, several figures, burning with vengeful fury and transcending millennia, emerged from the depths of the flames:
"Traitor!!!"
"Your past has come knocking!!"
"Istvaan III sends its regards."