Chapter 70: Sword and Scar, Master and Disciple
"Ah! What the hell is that?!"
Lucius screamed and jumped back like a mortal scalded by boiling water. His daemon sword, also smoldering with white flames, crackled and hissed.
Lars huddled in a corner, clutching his head. He peered through his fingers in terror at the sudden wall of fire that had risen before him.
The flames surged, and from their pale center came a metallic clanging sound.
Tap, tap, tap.
A tall, slender figure pierced through the curtain of fire.
The newcomer wore an ancient-style purple-gold suit of power armor, exuding elegance and individuality.
Golden embellishments flowed from his left shoulder guard down to his arm. On his breastplate, the enormous Imperial Aquila spread its wings. His helmet was adorned with tassels that hung like a horsehair plume, and his crimson cloak billowed behind him without wind.
He stood there—a posture that itself was "perfect."
Two massive, two-handed broadswords hung at his waist. The one on the left was already drawn, its blade like a mirror, gleaming coldly.
The one on the right was wrapped in somewhat worn yellow silk.
"This… this is impossible…"
Lucius the Eternal, who had been frantically shouting to chop Lars to pieces, seemed to have been choked the moment this figure appeared.
The scars on his face—his lidless eyes filled only with mad glee representing countless "victories"—now twitched uncontrollably.
Fear.
A fear etched into his very bones, a fear that even ten thousand years, even after he had become the chosen champion of the Dark Gods, could not erase.
Lucius's sword-wielding hand trembled. He stared intently at the figure, the name he had dreamt of, filled with both envy and deep fear, escaping from the depths of his throat:
"Akurduana?!"
"How could you be here?! You should have died long ago in that forgotten corner of Ghadinal!"
The figure slowly raised its head.
Though in spirit form, its eyes, burning with pale soul-fire, calmly gazed at the hideous, bald monster before it.
"Akurduana?"
In the distance, Varo, who had just helped Eileen to her feet, paused. "Who is that?"
Commander Cohl, barely able to stand with the aid of his guardian spear after being severely wounded, his electronic eyes flashing red, spoke in a low, solemn voice.
"This is no nobody."
"He was the captain of the 2nd Company of the Third Legion before the Horus Heresy. Even before Primarch Fulgrim returned, he was already a recognized master swordsman, known as the 'Lord of the Two Hundred Blades.'"
Cohl looked at Lucius's horrified expression and sneered.
"What is even more interesting… if the databanks are correct, he was that traitor Lucius's swordsmanship instructor. And someone that traitor never defeated in a straight duel."
In the center of the hall.
Akurduana did not rush to attack.
He walked with precise steps toward Lucius.
His eyes, burning with white flames, were like a scalpel, meticulously dissecting Lucius's current appearance.
A face with its eyelids removed for the sake of sensory stimulation, covered in hideous scars, and a mutated armor crammed with wailing faces.
"Lucius."
Akurduana spoke.
His voice was not loud, lacking the furious roar of anger, but rather a cold, calm indifference.
"You are still so… disappointing."
He raised the longsword in his hand, the tip pointing at the crisscrossing scars on Lucius's face.
"Remember what I taught you? Swordsmanship is the art of restraint. It should be precise. Every strike should be wielded solely for glory, without any superfluous impurities."
"…Look at yourself now."
Akurduana shook his head, his tone devoid of anger, only a disdain that stung Lucius deeply.
"You have turned yourself into a walking corpse, living only for sensation."
"You have taken the scars from every time you were outmatched, every time you were defeated like a dog, as badges of honor?"
"So… what you are proud of… is your failure? My most pathetic apprentice."
"Shut up!!!"
Akurduana's words were like a cruel blow to Lucius's reputation as the "Eternal."
His greatest pride lay in his ability to be reborn from the body of his slayer—each time he was killed, deriving pleasure or satisfaction from their corpse, and transforming them into a wailing face on his armor.
He considered this invincible. A victory beyond the mundane.
But in the eyes of this rigid old man, it was nothing more than a dog-like "defeat."
"Ha, what do you know! You loser who has been dead for ten thousand years!!"
Lucius laughed maniacally, his long tongue flailing wildly, his unclosed eyes filled with malice.
"I have surpassed you! I have the blessing of the gods! I am immortal! Every death makes me stronger and happier!!"
"I am already the perfect swordsman! I understand the art of the sword better than you! How could you possibly understand that enjoyment! That divinely bestowed pleasure!!"
"Die! You old bastard! This time, I will slice you to pieces! Let me see if your sword is as tough as your preaching!!"
Boom!
Lucius suddenly erupted.
As the chosen champion of Slaanesh, his speed was astonishing. His armor shrieked, and he transformed into a dazzling whirlwind, his daemon sword, brimming with hatred, aimed straight for Akurduana's throat.
"Watch out!" Sicarius shouted instinctively.
However.
Faced with this thunderous attack, Akurduana merely shifted his body slightly.
The shift was minuscule—less than five centimeters.
Swish!
Lucius's sword grazed Akurduana's shoulder guard, barely brushing against a few tassels.
At the same time, Akurduana's sword moved.
A gentle touch. A turn.
Clang.
A pleasant, soft sound.
Akurduana's sword met Lucius's daemon sword, then his wrist flicked. A subtle force traveled along the blade.
Lucius, who had been charging at high speed, felt as if his sword was being pulled by a magnet, tilting uncontrollably to the side.
The immense inertia caused him to lose his balance, staggering several steps to the side and nearly crashing into a wall.
"Too high a center of gravity."
Akurduana stood still, not even moving his feet. He maintained his one-handed sword-wielding posture, his voice indifferent.
"Your footwork is off. The alien drugs and deformed mutations have ruined your balance, Lucius."
"Shut up! That was just your luck!"
Lucius, burning with jealousy, whirled around; his whip lashed like a venomous serpent, attempting to coil around Akurduana's neck, while simultaneously slashing upward with his daemon sword, aiming straight for his lower body.
Clang! Snap!
Akurduana's broadsword drew a perfect arc through the air.
First, he deflected the incoming whip with the flat of the blade, then pressed down, precisely embedding it into the edge of Lucius's daemon sword, suppressing the insidious attack to the ground.
"Your intent was too obvious."
Akurduana commented again, his tone like that of someone instructing a novice.
"Your eyes betray your swordsmanship. You crave blood so much that you have forgotten how to wield a sword properly."
"Is this strike meant to kill, or for the filthy circus acts in your mind? As Loken said, you have too many tricks, Lucius."
"Aaaaaahhhhhh!!"
Lucius went mad.
This feeling was all too familiar.
Ten thousand years ago, in the training cages, he was repeatedly toyed with by Akurduana, his weaknesses exposed time and again.
He once thought he had grown stronger over these millennia, blessed by the gods, that he had long since left Akurduana—who died in some forgotten corner of the galaxy—behind.
But now, even facing Akurduana in his spirit form, he was still like a rookie wielding a sword haphazardly.
"This is impossible! I am the champion of the Prince of Pleasure! I am Lucius the Eternal!!"
Lucius abandoned all defense, pouncing like a mad dog; his whip, his daemon sword, even his venomous tongue—all became weapons of attack.
A storm of attacks engulfed Akurduana.
But that purple-gold figure, at the eye of the storm, remained as calm and composed as if taking a stroll.
Clang, clang—
A dense chorus of metallic clashes filled the air.
Akurduana, wielding only his drawn sword, faced his opponent with one hand.
Parry. Deflect. Redirect.
His movements were perfectly composed, as elegant as a sword dance.
"Too slow."
"An opening."
"This is an opening."
"Your power is chaotic, completely beyond your control."
Each word was followed by a precise counterattack.
Akurduana's sword lashed out at Lucius's face, the hilt striking his wrist, the tip grazing his knee.
It was as if he were peeling away layer after layer of Lucius's madness and euphoria, revealing the inferiority, jealousy, and ugliness within.
Bang!
Finally, Akurduana seemed to tire of this farce.
He sidestepped a sweeping blow, then raised his power boot, covered in purple ceramite, and slammed it into the back of Lucius's knee.
Crack!
The sound of bone breaking rang out.
Lucius was forced to his knees.
Before he could struggle, Akurduana's sword had already struck his ugly face, shattering several of his sharp teeth.
Akurduana looked down at him.
"Lucius, your so-called 'immortality' is nothing but a vicious joke played by the Dark Gods."
Akurduana's voice held a hint of pity.
"You possess the body of the one who defeated you through sorcery. But that does not mean you won, Lucius."
"It only means you have lost countless times. You are a complete failure, clinging to life with a stolen body."
"In your laughable existence, you have never truly won a victory worthy of praise."
"No!!! That is not it!!!"
Lucius lay on the ground, blood gushing from his mouth, his eyes filled with excited madness.
"I have the grace of the gods… I have killed so many people… I am immortal…"
Suddenly, his eyes flashed, and his long tongue, covered in venomous barbs, shot toward Akurduana's face.
"Stubborn fool."
Akurduana sighed.
This time, he did not use the sword in his right hand to block.
His left hand, slowly yet impossibly fast, reached for the broadsword that had always been wrapped in yellow silk at his waist.
That was the sword he had sealed away in his pursuit of swordsmanship perfection; even during the Great Crusade, few had ever seen it drawn.
He drew both swords simultaneously.
No one saw how he swung them.
Everyone only saw a pale white cross-shaped flash before their eyes.
The light seemed to slice through space itself.
Swoosh—!!
The venomous tongue was sliced into thirteen pieces in mid-air.
Immediately afterward—
Two pillars of purple blood shot into the sky.
Lucius's arms—both the one wielding the daemon sword and the one wielding the whip—were severed cleanly at the shoulders.
The daemon sword and whip fell to the ground some distance away alongside the severed limbs.
Lucius stared blankly at his bare shoulders.
Overwhelmed by immense jealousy and a deep-seated inferiority complex, he was consumed.
His hands and his sword…
In his prized swordsmanship, he had been utterly crushed by an opponent he thought he had long surpassed. Even having his arms easily severed was a thousand times more painful for Lucius than death itself.
"Aaaaaaaahhhhhh!!!"
Lucius let out a childlike wail of despair.
Akurduana sheathed his swords, the blade once wrapped in yellow silk now hanging at his waist.
He looked at the writhing worm on the ground, coldly raising the sword in his right hand, ready to deliver the final blow—even if the Dark Gods might still resurrect him, the flames of the heroic spirits might purify that evil.
Just as the blade was about to decapitate Lucius—
Whoosh—Boom!!!
A sonic boom swept across from the other end of the hall.
"Enough!!"
It was Fulgrim, his tail severed, still seething with rage.
The Primarch could not tolerate his champion being so humiliated, nor could he bear Akurduana lecturing Lucius in front of him.
He swung his weapons simultaneously; two massive silver blades slashed viciously at Akurduana.
Akurduana's eyes narrowed, but he did not retreat.
He crossed his swords in both hands to parry.
Bang!!!
A tremendous force erupted.
After all, he was facing a Primarch.
Akurduana was blasted away by the blow, his spirit flickering violently in the air, appearing somewhat unstable.
He landed a few meters away, his feet scraping sparks as he regained his footing.
Fulgrim, slithering with his remaining serpentine form, approached Akurduana.
His handsome, otherworldly face was filled with venom and rage.
"Hmph… the soul of my poor, long-dead eldest son."
Fulgrim pointed his sword at Akurduana, his voice shrill.
"Akurduana, ten thousand years ago, you turned to dust for my incompetent brother. Now, it is merely a false Corpse-Emperor forcibly resurrecting you. Why bother wielding your sword for this?"
"Moreover, do you think your swordsmanship can withstand the radiance of a demigod?!"
Fulgrim stretched out his arms, and behind him, more daemons and Chaos Space Marines surged forth.
"I am the Primarch! Such a beautiful and moving creation! What right do you lowly beings have—"
"You are still the same, Fulgrim."
A steady, resolute voice, yet tinged with deep weariness and disappointment, suddenly emanated from the pale flames behind Akurduana.
It interrupted Fulgrim's ravings.
Fulgrim's voice abruptly stopped.
That voice… he knew it all too well.
It was a voice etched deeply in his memory, a voice he hated, yet one that kept recurring.
The pale flames parted automatically.
A figure, not particularly tall, and not even considered imposing by Astartes standards, slowly emerged.
He was not wearing any of those overly ornate, decorative armors.
Just a simple, somewhat worn suit of Mark IV power armor.
He was not wearing a helmet, revealing neatly trimmed, flowing silver hair and a face that, while not handsome, was brimming with shrewdness and loyalty.
Captain of the 10th Company.
A legend who, on Istvaan III, defied the Primarch's orders, organized those loyalists who should have been wiped out by the virus bombs, and held out in the ruins, giving the traitors a profound lesson.
Saul Tarvitz.
He looked at the arrogant yet cowardly Primarch, at the father who, years ago in the orbit of Istvaan III, dared not show himself but instead ordered the bombardment of his own offspring through deception and treachery.
Tarvitz's gaze was calm, yet sharper than Akurduana's sword.
"Ambush from behind. Revealing yourself through intrigue and lies."
Tarvitz stepped forward, standing beside Akurduana.
"Whether to Lord Ferrus, or to us."
"Your rotten body, bestowed by the Dark Gods, however magnificent…"
Tarvitz raised his bolt pistol, aiming it at Fulgrim's increasingly distorted face.
"It cannot conceal your… weak, vain, and cowardly bones."
"Am I wrong, my… gene-father?"