On the ruins of the underhive, Julius took a moment to contemplate his new form. The sensation was incredible. A fluid and absolute power coursed through his limbs. He gently beat his silver wings, a breath of pure air chasing away the ashes around him. Damn, I have wings. I didn't expect that. Wow.
He connected to his new augmented nervous system. "JARVIS, are you there?"
The calm, familiar voice resonated in his mind, now perfectly integrated. "I am present and fully operational, Sir."
"Good. Send an order to all dispersed troops: immediate convergence on my position."
"It will be done, Sir."
Meanwhile, Be'lakor's clone watched, rage and frustration boiling within him. His plans were collapsing. Everything was going so well... What went wrong? Fear, an emotion he despised, began to lick at his mind.
---
In the Warp, Be'lakor's Realm
On a throne of bone and shadow, the true Be'lakor, the First-Damned, observed the scene in a basin of fresh blood. His eyes narrowed, a glint of calculating interest replacing the initial anger. This human's transformation... unexpected. Powerful. Dangerous.
His first instinct was to descend himself, to crush this glowing fly and reclaim what was his. But a millennia-old caution held him back. If this "Julius" could conceal such power, what other surprises might he have? The urge to intervene was quickly suppressed by cold logic.
"Let the clone fight," he murmured to the shadow surrounding him, a cruel smile on his lips. "Let us see how powerful he has become. And at what cost."
---
On the Underhive
Bastion's troops converged, quickly forming impeccable lines. The Irons Skulls in the front line, the heavy units behind, the rest of the soldiers in support. Julius, wings spread, rose effortlessly, floating above the battlefield as if gravity were a mere suggestion. His mere presence seemed to purify the foul air.
Be'lakor's clone, realizing the danger, tried to conceal himself. He slipped among the last hesitant daemons and projected a thick, black mist, a veil of shadow to mask his presence and potential flight.
Julius didn't even look at the mist. He raised a hand clad in silver metal. A simple gesture.
A wave of silver light, soft yet implacable, spread from him like a silent tidal wave. It swept through the black mist, dissipating it like smoke under a fan. The daemons were brutally exposed, and worse, the light burned them. They screamed, raising clawed arms to protect eyes not made for such purity.
"Forward," Julius said, his voice calmly carrying to all his troops.
The deluge began again. Laser fire, explosions, missile salvos. But this time, the daemons were disorganized, blinded, and Bastion's morale was at its zenith. They advanced like a steamroller.
Julius, from the air, watched the battle with an analytical eye. He easily spotted the clone's attempted flight, blending awkwardly into the rout.
No. You will not flee.
He dove. His body, wreathed in silver lightning, cut through the air like a comet. He landed in the heart of the retreating daemonic lines. The impact shook the ground. The nearest daemons recoiled, terrified by this luminous figure.
Julius looked at them, calm. Then, with a fluid and terribly fast motion, he pivoted. His wings, blades of Nth Metal sheathed in silver feathers, swept out in a perfect arc. They cleanly sliced through a dozen daemons around him, the upper halves of their bodies sliding and collapsing before pain could register.
He raised Demonbreaker. The massacre became a choreography. His body moved with superhuman speed and precision, anticipating every attack, striking in all directions. He grabbed a barbed spear brandished by a screaming cultist and flung it backhanded. The projectile shot straight towards the shadow where the clone was trying to hide.
CLANG! Be'lakor's black sword intercepted the spear at the last moment, shattering it.
Julius was already airborne. He soared straight up then plummeted down, Demonbreaker held high. He struck the ground exactly where the clone stood.
BOOOOM!
A silver shockwave, pure and devastating, erupted from the point of impact. It spread in a perfect circle, disintegrating the daemons and mutants in its path, reducing corruption to sparkling dust. The ground was purified, leaving a smooth, smoking crater.
At the center, Be'lakor's clone, his black sword trembling, had just parried the direct blow, but the shockwave had shaken him. He took a step back, then two, his rear foot slipping in the ashes.
Julius attacked without respite. Demonbreaker came down again and again, each blow ringing like a celestial gong against the black sword. The clone parried, but each block was more difficult, each impact made his shadowy arm crack. He realized with horror that the silver lightning surrounding Julius and his weapon was eating away at his dark aura, weakening him with each contact.
I must flee! he thought desperately. He tried to send a psychic call to Mother, to anyone. No response. She had vanished, cowardly, or worse, treacherous.
The distraction, minuscule, was fatal.
Julius saw the opening. In a fraction of a second, Demonbreaker changed its angle. Instead of striking the sword, it slid along the black blade with an unbearable metallic screech and slammed into the clone's shoulder.
The sound was horrific. A cracking of daemonic bone, a sizzling of corrupted flesh burned by the sacred metal. The clone of Be'lakor screamed, a sound of pure rage and agony.
He stared, incredulous, at the smoking crater in his shoulder, where the silver metal bubbled against his substance.
Julius looked at him, his silver eyes impassive. "That's one point each, wouldn't you say?"
The clone spat a jet of black, corrosive blood. "You... you know I am just a copy. My true self is in the Warp."
"I know," Julius replied calmly. "If he had come, it would have made the fight more difficult. But I still would have won."
The clone stared at him, astonished by this absolute arrogance. "It is that arrogance which will cause your fall."
"We shall see. In the meantime..."
Julius raised Demonbreaker one last time. The weapon blazed with blinding light.
BOOM.
The head of Be'lakor's clone exploded in a spray of dissipating shadow and black sparks that died in the ambient light. The headless body swayed, then collapsed, beginning to disintegrate into immaterial dust.
Julius turned his back on the dissolving daemon, rising a few meters. He amplified his voice, which echoed throughout the underhive, clear and victorious.
"WE ARE VICTORIOUS."
The cry was taken up by thousands of voices, a roar of triumph that seemed to shake the foundations of hell itself. The last daemons, deprived of the clone's directing will, shrieked in terror and broke apart, fleeing in all directions, desperately seeking the Warp rift that was already closing. Bastion's army, galvanized, launched the final assault. Dakora-7 would be cleansed. The taint of Chaos was defeated.