The massive alloy gate groaned in pain, pushed to its breaking point by blow after blow.
Outside the gate were thousands of beasts, stripped of their faith, leaving only pure panic and the desire for destruction.
Inside, only one figure stood.
Fogremia wore that set of pink-purple crystal power armor, seemingly woven from moonlight and stardust, her ornate, slender longsword held with its tip lightly pointing toward the ground.
She stood quietly in the center of the corridor, back turned to the fragile peace that had just been established within the arena, alone, facing the gate of hell that could be burst open at any moment.
On her face, which was too perfect to be mortal, there was not a trace of tension, but rather a cold, critical look, like an artist examining a shoddy imitation.
"Thud—!!!"
With another deafening crash, the thickest structural beam on the gate finally gave way, and with a harsh sound of tearing metal, a huge breach cracked open inward.
A foul stench of rage, bloodlust, sweat, and machine oil poured in frantically from the breach like a bursting flood.
"Get lost, bitch!"
A hoarse roar pierced through all the noise.
Kharn, the berserker captain of the World Eaters Legion, was the first to squeeze through the twisted breach.
His massive frame, encased in white ceramite and blue trim, charged like a bull released from its pen, his huge chainaxe, known as "Gorechild," whipping up a bloody storm as he struck directly at her.
Following close behind were dozens, then hundreds, of red-eyed World Eaters.
Like a swarm of killer bees from a poked hive, they surged out of the breach, and the narrow corridor was instantly completely filled with their blue-and-white bodies of steel.
Faced with this tide of steel capable of tearing any Mortal Legion to shreds in an instant, Fogremia didn't even bat an eyelid.
A near-cruel, cold smile curved the corners of her lips.
"Sister is watching."
"Then, this dance must be perfect."
She moved.
It was not a charge, nor was it a parry.
Her body, in a posture that defied the laws of inertia, drifted lightly to the left, like a feather, by an inch.
It was this short inch that allowed her to brush past Kharn's chainaxe, which was capable of splitting a tank, by a hair's breadth.
The violent axe blade even sliced off a few strands of her flowing silver hair.
But that was all.
In the split second that Kharn's form froze after missing his strike, Fogremia moved.
Her movement was not a hack, nor was it a thrust.
It was a... rotation, full of rhythm and beauty, that no mortal could understand.
Her figure, like the most graceful ballet top set into motion, carved a silver, lethal circle on the spot.
The longsword in her hand was an extension of her dance.
The sword light, like a cold full moon blooming in an instant, flashed and vanished within the narrow corridor.
There was no earth-shattering roar.
There were no sparks of metal colliding with metal.
Only a series of "puchi," "puchi" sounds—the soft, lethal noises of a sharp blade slicing through flesh and the gaps in ceramite armor.
The seven World Eaters at the very front, including Kharn, suddenly stiffened.
They still maintained their forward-charging posture, the expressions on their faces still ferocious and wild.
But the next second.
Seven heads wearing helmets painted with "dog teeth" rose into the air in unison from their necks.
Boiling, dark red blood, like seven fountains, gushed madly from the severed necks, but was precisely deflected by the invisible airflow generated by the spinning sword light; not a single drop could stain Fogremia's ornate power armor.
Seven massive headless bodies collapsed to the ground with a boom.
This eerie, efficient, and artistic slaughter caused a brief, almost negligible moment of chaos among the World Eaters surging up from behind.
And this was the moment Fogremia wanted.
She did not retreat; instead, she took a step forward.
She stepped onto the first fallen corpse, her figure slightly elevated.
Her gaze, for the first time, looked past these ferocious "brothers" in front of her, toward the dark, endless forest of steel behind them.
Her clear, arrogant voice, carrying a trace of faint mockery, rang out clearly across the entire battlefield through the power armor's loudspeaker.
"Do you beasts who only know how to swing lumps of iron think you can disturb my Master's holy ritual?"
This sentence was like a bucket of boiling fuel poured into the hearts of the World Eaters, which were already burning with raging fire.
"Kill her!!!"
"Tear this Emperor's Children bitch apart!!"
More World Eaters were completely enraged by this extreme provocation.
They trampled over the corpses of their companions, surging in wave after wave like a tide, attempting to use the most primitive and barbaric human-wave tactics to completely drown the woman before them who dared to desecrate their rage.
However, what they faced was not a reef.
But a... silver killing sprite, playing to her heart's content in the raging sea.
Fogremia's figure turned into an uncapturable phantom within the narrow corridor.
Her sword never clashed head-on with any weapon.
That would be a desecration of "perfection."
Her sword light could always find the most tricky and unbelievable angles.
Either passing through the gaps in the swinging chainaxes to precisely pierce the lens of a warrior's helmet.
Or brushing along the edge of a power fist to sever the most fragile energy conduction lines at the wrist.
Or slithering like a snake, sliding along the gap between a warrior's shoulder pauldron and chest plate, flashing in and out, bringing forth a spray of boiling blood.
There was no fixed footwork beneath her.
Sometimes advancing, sometimes retreating, sometimes spinning, sometimes leaping.
Every one of her movements was like dancing on the tip of a blade, full of extreme thrill, yet carrying a mesmerizing beauty.
She was not fighting.
She was using the lives of her enemies to compose a hymn called "Protection," dedicated to the Goddess behind her.
Corpses piled higher and higher at her feet.
Soon, those broken, smoking blue-and-white power armors built a disgusting "wall" of severed limbs and corpses at the entrance of the corridor.
This wall, instead, became Fogremia's strongest fortress.
She stood at the top of this wall of corpses, looking down from above at those World Eaters who were still frantically trying to climb up.
Her pink-purple power armor remained spotless in the dim light of the Colosseum, flowing with divine radiance.
Her moonlight-like silver hair danced wantonly in the strong winds stirred up by the slaughter.
She was like a perfect Valkyrie who had stepped out of myth, presiding over war and death.
"Too slow."
Her voice carried a trace of undisguised disappointment.
"Too weak."
The longsword in her hand once again traced an elegant arc, cutting a World Eater who had just climbed onto the pile of corpses in half at the waist.
"Your rage is so cheap, so... ugly."
"The likes of you don't even have the qualification to make me feel pleasure."
Every one of her sentences was the most vicious provocation, the most precise mockery.
What she wanted to do was not just to hold this place.
She wanted to lock all the hatred of the World Eaters, all their attention, firmly and tightly onto herself alone, like a magnet attracting iron filings.
She wanted to make them forget to think, forget to fear, leaving only the most primitive instinct to tear her to pieces.
Only in this way could she secure the most complete, undisturbed time for Sister.
Her strategy succeeded.
The entire World Eaters Legion fell into complete madness.
They no longer tried to find other entrances, no longer thought about tactics.
In their eyes, there was only that arrogant, silver-haired Valkyrie standing on the mountain of corpses.
She alone, with one sword, was an impassable fortress.
She alone, with one sword, was an indestructible wall.
Thousands of berserk Space Marines, enough to make a world tremble, were held outside the gate, unable to take another step forward, by her in this almost humiliating way, through her elegant and cruel sword dance.
...
Inside the Colosseum.
The clamor and vibration outside the gate seemed to be isolated by an invisible barrier.
Leticia could clearly perceive Fogremia's will to protect, burning like a raging fire.
That loyalty, that determination, caused a ripple of warmth to stir in her heart, which had long been as still as an ancient well.
"Well done, my sword."
She did not look back again.
She knew Fogremia would hold everything for her.
Leticia took a deep breath and pulled all her focus back to what was in front of her.
She turned to look at the blood-colored giant who was still standing in place, his eyes dazed and fragile.
Angron's body was still trembling slightly, and in his grey-blue pupils reflected Leticia's figure, filled with incomprehensible confusion and the helplessness of a child.
Time was running out.
What Fogremia had secured for her was the last, and most precious, window of time for salvation.
Leticia's eyes became calm and determined once again.
Looking at Angron, looking at this soul who had been tortured by pain for centuries and now finally revealed his softest underbelly, she said softly:
"Now, close your eyes."
"I'm taking you... home."
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