"You foolish Primarch, you're far too slow…"
Just as Guilliman brought his force-field shields online, a Slaaneshi masque-assassin slid out of the shadows.
He spat out a cloud of purple mist as cover and lunged. "Die. Die under the torment of my venom!"
In an instant, the masque-assassin blinked to Guilliman's back, his poisoned blade stabbing for the rear of the Primarch's skull.
A killing blow.
Yet before the blade could reach its mark, his vision was burned by a sudden explosion of force-field light and over-the-top visual effects.
He was almost literally blinded.
The next moment, the assassin felt himself crash into something strangely sticky. A deflection field twisted his thrust off course.
Then, still stunned, he was hurled away by a concussion field and smashed back-first into the stands.
"An ambush of that level will never bring down a Primarch."
As the purple fog dispersed, Guilliman emerged, wreathed in layers of dazzling effects, the golden iron cross at his back haloed in light.
He had not moved a muscle. The assassin had been beaten back purely by his shields. His tranquil stance radiated pure intimidation.
"Prince of Pleasure, how many layers of defense does he even have?!"
The crippled Keeper of Secrets stared at the swarm of force-fields layered over the Primarch's armor and swallowed hard.
The number of force-field layers was beyond anything the greater daemons had imagined.
Under normal circumstances, if Imperial warriors had two or three overlapping fields on their armor, that was already impressive.
But this Primarch had both internal and external fields stacked together, at least eight layers to start with, shoved right in the enemy's face like a glowing HP bar.
This was the massive defensive system the Savior had built specifically for his dear brother, a defensive bar rammed right into his enemies' line of sight.
Even more troublesome, the shield types varied: they could block physical strikes, warp-sorcery, and psychic damage.
There was even one to resist sonic attacks and mute the enemy's voices, reducing damage from jeering and trash-talk.
Defense down to the teeth.
If anyone wanted to knock down a Primarch under that many layers of shields, they'd have to sit there and chip away at him for a very, very long time.
The Savior's design for upgrading the Armour of Fate had one central purpose: keep Guilliman on his feet as long as possible, even when surrounded, and keep him from getting caught by cheap shots.
Otherwise, that last attack might well have wounded him.
"We have numbers on our side. Break his shields, then take our time with the torture."
A Tzeentchian Weaver spoke coldly.
So what if the Primarch had a mountain of force-fields? Shields could be drained and shattered.
They only had to exhaust his shield array. Then they could go to work on the body.
"Blood for the Blood God!"
"Torment!"
The Weaver's suggestion met with general approval. Ten greater daemons surged in together.
They launched a massed assault on the Ultramarines Primarch.
Thanks to the Chaos array, the Cursed One's sword had been massively weakened. It could no longer annihilate greater daemons as easily as before.
Especially not these ones.
That took a lot of pressure off the greater daemons. They unleashed their full power with far fewer reservations.
"In the Emperor's name, I banish you back to the pit!"
Guilliman quickly realized the change as well.
The holy sword still had bite, but not enough to reap daemons like it had before.
The Chaos Gods were exploiting every possible angle to erode his father's power.
In the future, humanity would have to rely more and more on its own strength.
Fortunately, his brother had given him another artifact: that Eldar matriarch's weapon, the Silent Scream Blade.
Guilliman flared the flaming wings of his visual effects. Twin artifacts in hand, the Sword of Sanctity in one and the Silent Scream Blade in the other, he charged into the ring of greater daemons.
Alone, he faced ten mighty greater daemons of Chaos.
He looked like a war god given flesh.
Their blows crashed against his force-fields and armor, leaving only rippling distortions and shallow scars.
But the Primarch's twin blades cut deep, drawing blood and howls from the greater daemons. Blow by blow, his ferocity only climbed.
He had never fought like this before. This was glory: surrounded on all sides, and still he battled on for twenty full minutes without falling.
In the past, he would have been knocked flat long ago, either being pummeled in a heap or dragged out for emergency treatment by his sons.
Such was the power of upgraded gear: multiple defensive fields combined with iron stamina and a monstrous healing factor.
The Ultramarines Primarch was fighting at a level he had never reached before.
"Tch. I didn't think that idiot Roboute had improved this much.
It seems the Savior lent him quite a bit of help. Otherwise he would have been beaten senseless already, unable to lift a finger."
From above, Fulgrim watched the arena with a twisted expression.
He did not envy Guilliman's actual strength. Even now, everything Roboute was doing still fell short of himself, a daemon prince of Slaanesh armed with unholy artifacts.
What he really envied was the Primarch's flashy gear and effects. They drew far too much attention and threatened to overshadow the Perfect Phoenix's own radiance.
"Unfortunately, you're about to lose it all."
Fulgrim's smile turned cold.
He would not allow Roboute even the smallest victory. He would strip that man of every last shred of glamour.
"Tear him apart! Torture him!"
The Chaos crowd, too, was getting restless.
The Primarch's defenses were simply too thick. They still hadn't broken through.
They had not come here to watch an Imperial Primarch run wild.
Soon more of the Chaos Gods' chosen and some Emperor's Children captains joined the fray. The number of daemons surrounding Guilliman rose to fifteen.
The greater daemons adjusted their tactics, spreading out as much as possible and whittling down his shield layers from range.
Yet the shields' power reserves seemed bottomless, stretching out of sight.
"Keep attacking. The gods are watching. We cannot falter!"
The Keeper of Secrets tossed aside his nicked and rolled rapier, drew a fresh weapon, and dove back into the melee.
They had to inflict torment on the Primarch. If they failed, the gods' punishment would be even worse.
Before long, half the Chaos champions were down or otherwise unable to continue.
But at least they got the result they wanted.
"Blood God, the dog of the False Emperor's shields are down!"
A horned Bloodthirster clutched an axe chipped and cracked all along its edge, panting heavily.
But his eyes shone with fierce excitement. The Primarch was on his last legs.
Guilliman was half-kneeling, his breathing ragged.
The last glimmer of force-field around him flickered out. His armor was a patchwork of scars, and he looked as if he might topple over at any moment.
The arena was vast. He had only made it halfway to the balcony before reaching the brink of defeat.
"Hahahahaha! The Cursed One's dog is going down. How pathetic is that?"
"Guardian of Ultramar, your 'glory' is worth nothing. This is the fate of loyalty to the False Emperor!"
The Chaos spectators roared in glee.
"I'll hack off your hands and feet, turn you into a wriggling maggot!"
The horned Bloodthirster, in particular, was almost trembling with anticipation, gathering what strength he had left for another attack.
Then he saw the Primarch move, and a shudder ran through him. His battle-axe clattered from suddenly nerveless claws.
Buzz…
Light flared around Guilliman once more, just as bright as before. Force-fields sprang back into being.
A second, completely independent shield system.
So many force-fields had been integrated into the Armour of Fate that they could not be safely run all at once. The magi-engineers had been forced to compromise.
They configured it as two separate systems, alternating in sequence to maintain the same level of protection.
"Fulgrim, did you really think I'd fall that easily?"
On top of that, Guilliman drew out several vials of rare universal elixir and restorative potions and injected them into his body, healing his wounds and restoring his strength.
Power flowed through him again. He pushed himself to his feet. Such was the terror of the Savior's pay-to-win super-soldier.
Not only was he heavily armed, he could keep going.
Rejuvenated, Guilliman hurled himself at the broken circle of daemons once more.
He grabbed the horned Bloodthirster, slammed him into the ground, and beat him mercilessly, while the few remaining greater daemons stumbled backward.
They simply could not fight like this.
The Primarch was wrapped in one shell after another of protection, while the Sword of Sanctity and Silent Scream Blade carved through them with relentless, holy violence.
They had already spent everything they had on wearing down his shields, only for them to come back up again.
How were they supposed to keep fighting?
Guilliman burst out of the daemon ring.
He smashed through the arena railings and charged for the Fallen Phoenix's balcony. Chaos spectators scattered in panic.
They could not block the Cursed One's sword, weakened or not.
Boom.
The balcony's balustrade exploded under his charge.
Guilliman, spattered head to toe in daemon blood, stepped up before the Fallen Phoenix.
All of it was the blood of Chaos. He radiated raw menace.
"Traitor scum, I'm here. I've come to you at last. You might want to be afraid."
Guilliman stared at his former brother, now a daemon prince of Slaanesh, eyes blazing.
"If you have even a shred of honor left, then face me in single combat and end this."
"Why should I? Why grant you honor? Why give you the chance to wash away your shame?
You ruined the stage I set for the Savior and I. You are not worthy."
Fulgrim shook his head, poison in his tone. "Even if I beat you again, it means nothing.
Give up. You can only die with your regret."
He had never once considered dueling Guilliman again. To fight a defeated foe would only drag down his status in the eyes of the daemons.
If he were to fight at all, his opponent could only be the Savior.
As for Roboute, he was fit only to be broken and toyed with, bait to lure the Savior in.
"That's not your decision to make."
Guilliman didn't waste breath. He lunged, twin blades tracing lethal arcs.
But halfway through his charge, he slammed into resistance. Tendrils lined with staring eyes shot up, blocking every line of attack.
The ground beneath him flared with the light of a Chaos array.
"Idiot. Did you really not notice you stepped into another trap?
There was only one trap left, and somehow you stepped on it."
Fulgrim watched Guilliman's blank stare and burst into peals of laughter, clutching his sides.
Then he raised one hand and gave a little farewell wave.
…?
Guilliman froze. Before he could react, the world around him twisted.
In the blink of an eye he was back at the center of the arena, surrounded by hostile eyes, as even more Chaos creatures closed in.
The daemons were more excited than ever. Fresh reinforcements poured into the fray. The Primarch would not be breaking out again.
"Bait should act like bait."
Fulgrim stepped to the edge of the balcony.
Arms crossed over his chest, he looked down on Guilliman, ready to savor his pain and despair.
Then he stopped, frowning.
The Primarch was smiling up at him. A very bad feeling crept into his chest.
The Fallen Phoenix replayed the last few moments at high speed in his mind, grasping for the thing that was wrong.
"No."
He caught a clue and snapped his gaze to the ground where Roboute had been standing earlier.
There, almost perfectly hidden, lay a tiny beacon.
Before he could move, it flared. A figure blinked into being at the beacon's location.
Right in front of him.
The figure was all too familiar. Guilliman had teleported back, and this time the distance between them was almost nothing.
The Primarch had learned his lessons. He'd eaten enough traps over the years to start laying some of his own.
He had grown. He knew how to bait a trap in return.
"Got you."
A rare cold smile touched Guilliman's normally steadfast features.
The instant he arrived, both blades thrust forward. Fulgrim had no time to react.
They stabbed straight for his heart and lungs, attacks that would grievously wound any being alive.
"No…"
The Fallen Phoenix saw only the blur of killing steel. Every hair on his body stood on end. Fear spiked through him.
Too late.
He didn't even have time to draw his rapier.
In that split second, the daemonic portion of his body, the mass of Slaaneshi tentacles at his back, jolted into motion.
They snapped out, coiling around the incoming blades.
"Ah… the Slaaneshi artifact's tendrils activated on their own and broke Roboute's boarding-leap ambush!"
But before Fulgrim could savor his narrow escape, darkness exploded across his vision.
Pain ripped through his face.
"Traitor scum, you had this coming!"
Guilliman let go of the Silent Scream Blade pinned in the tendrils and, bellowing with rage, drove a cannon-fist straight into Fulgrim's face.
Bone crunched. The daemon prince's nose shattered, blood spraying in all directions.
That single, full-force punch filled Guilliman with savage satisfaction. Now he understood why the Savior loved to get in close.
There was something special about fists landing solidly on flesh, about the echoing boom of a fist to the face.
Especially when that fist smashed into the face of a traitor.
"Roboute!"
Fulgrim reeled out of his stupor with a shriek, trying to counterattack… only to take another punch to the face.
The two of them crashed together and tumbled from the balcony, locked in a brutal grapple, bouncing and rolling across the sand of the arena floor.
"Unforgivable. You are unforgivable!"
Fulgrim staggered upright, fingers gingerly touching his collapsed nose, his whole body shaking.
He was beyond enraged.
Only the Savior had ever punched him in the face before. Now a second being had done it, and ruined his nose and his careful makeup in the bargain.
"How dare you. Do you have any idea what you've just brought down on yourself?!"
The Fallen Phoenix glared at Guilliman with hatred that words could not carry.
"Is that all the anger you've got, my fallen brother? You think that's enough to frighten me?"
Coughing, Guilliman pushed himself up, grabbed the Silent Scream Blade from the ground, and once again wielded both weapons.
Buzz…
The Armour of Fate flared with fire and light, engines roaring.
He lit every effect he had and sank into a fighting stance to meet the duel he had waited ten thousand years to finish.
That ancient battle from the Heresy, stretching down the millennia, was finally going to see its end.
Fulgrim drew his Silver Serpent rapier, murder in his heart, and sprang at Guilliman.
"Ro… bou… te!"
"Ful… grim!"
Guilliman ignited both blades and charged with a roar. Their figures smashed together.
Clang!
Warp-light and fire burst all around them. The battlefield buckled and shattered under the force of their clash.
No one knew how long they fought, locked in that storm of blows, until the cyclone of their duel finally died away.
When the storm cleared, only a single figure still stood, spine straight as a spear.
Behind him, a host of daemonic silhouettes framed him like a mocking crown.
"Damn it…"
Guilliman lay face-down in the dirt, his body covered in wounds, the only thing still proudly upturned being his rear end.
He could not move so much as a finger. He looked every inch like a defeated hound.
It was a miserable sight.
The Primarch of the Ultramarines had fallen yet again, and again, and again, with no strength left to rise, left to be dragged away by the daemons.
"Hang that pitiable wretch in the center of the arena. Torture and interrogate him."
Fulgrim gave his orders, then wrapped both hands in the tendrils of his unholy artifact and carefully picked up the Sword of Sanctity and the Silent Scream Blade, smiling in satisfaction.
Guilliman's heart seethed with unwillingness. This had not been an honorable duel. Fulgrim had rallied every greater daemon of Chaos to beat him down.
He had been battered for days, never given a moment's rest. He had no idea how many brutal beatings he had endured before, finally, his strength ran out and he collapsed.
In truth, this had never been a fair contest. The arena and its traps had been built for the Savior. The forces gathered here were far beyond what was needed for any lesser prey.
Even the Savior himself, if he came, would face mortal peril.
Guilliman drew a long, ragged breath. Perhaps this was the end of his life. Perhaps his soul would return to the Golden Throne.
But a tiny spark of hope still burned in his chest: the Savior, his brother.
Perhaps his brother could yet turn this all around.
(End of Chapter)
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