On the ruins of the underhive, a cathedral-like silence had fallen. The daemons faltered, their roars dying in their throats. The soldiers of Bastion, breathless, looked up with eyes filled with a mixture of awe and boundless hope.
The transformation was unimaginable. Where a broken, bleeding, kneeling man had stood moments before, now towered a figure of terrible grace, radiating a light that seemed to push back the very darkness of the hive.
Be'lakor's clone took a step back, a black fury mixed with primal incredulity twisting his shadowed face. The aura of power emanating from this new form was not merely physical or psychic. It was... antithetical. It was the living, vibrant opposite of everything he represented. The silver metal of the armor burned his eyes, the purity of the light grated against his mind.
His eyes, coals of hatred, locked onto the pools of liquid silver staring back unblinkingly. The voice that had thundered was already a challenge, a declaration of total war.
But before launching himself back into the fray, a question gnawed at him, an interrogation that burst from his rage, tinged with a sliver of an unease he would never admit.
His voice, usually an arrogant rumble or a mocking sneer, came out as a hoarse hiss, laden with hateful confusion.
"WHO ARE YOU?" he screamed, his fist clenched around his black sword. "Julius... WHO ARE YOU TRULY?"
The question echoed in the purified air, carried by the sounds of flames and the Warp's moans. It was not a request for identity. It was a demand for categorization. What is this thing? A human? A mutant? A rival daemon? An avatar of an unknown power?
The silver being did not smile. His face, of androgynous, cold beauty beneath the silver mane, remained as impassive as a statue. When he spoke, his voice was a melody of power, clear and sharp as a crystal.
"I am the one your actions forced into being, Fallen Shadow," he declared, each word falling like a verdict. "I am the price of your arrogance. The answer to your corruption. I am the guardian this world was forced to invoke."
He raised Demonbreaker slightly, the silver mace capturing the light and reflecting it in blinding shards.
"You sought a conqueror to bend. You awakened a sovereign to slay. You thought you challenged a man. You now face a will."
His silver gaze grew sharper, seeming to weigh the daemon's very soul.
"You may call me Julius. For that is the name of the will that will destroy you. But for you, I shall be the last sound your essence hears before oblivion. The silver echo of your end."
There was no more room for negotiation, for offers of vassalage. The silver archangel had just defined the terms of the final act: annihilation. The battle for Julius's soul was over. He had transcended it. Now, it was merely a question of survival. And for Be'lakor, facing this light, survival suddenly seemed a very, very distant notion.