Warhammer: Start with a dog.

Chapter 363: I can’t fight, I can’t fight at all

The first streak of superhuman blood flew out from under the sharp blade.

It was unexpected and not unexpected.

This is not Sigismund's blood.

A lock of silver hair fell from Fulgrim's temple as if in a sigh, and a hint of bright red appeared at the corner of the fallen primarch's mouth.

Fenghuang turned pale and screamed in anger, but even so, he covered his injured face and turned sideways to avoid the next seven or eight consecutive sword swings.

"How dare you!"

The chief Templar, who didn't even utter a battle cry, had a slight flash of disappointment in his eyes, and then he immediately changed the direction of his next jump and block.

But among all the people present, apart from Zi Feng, perhaps only Magnar Dorn saw clearly Sigismund's attack and Fulgrim's dodge.

There is no other reason, it’s just that Sigismund’s attacking moves are really...

too fast.

After the Templar leader's two-handed power sword failed to hit the neck, the tip of the sword immediately and firmly slashed across Fulgrim's thigh. Those gorgeous and exquisite armor plates shattered and flew around under the force field like snake scales. Fulgrim screamed and kicked Sigismund in the heart angrily.

The latter rolled three times on the spot, narrowly avoiding Fulgrim's long-legged kick and the subsequent trampling.

"Dang! Dang! Dang!"

The sound of the power sword clashing with the single-edged sword was like another harsh noise, a randomly tuned tuning fork introduced into the harmonious music.

"Dang! Dang! Dang!"

By the time the sixth blow of the two swords ended, the spine of Sigismund's greatsword had "stuck" to Fulgrim's like soft spider silk.

Even their huge size difference could not prevent Sigismund from using the clever strength of his wrist to "twist" the latter's single-edged sword until it almost slipped out of his hand - the hilt of the Templar Lord's own sword was always firmly tied to his arm with an iron chain, which made it much easier for him in this unfair wrestling match.

The sword style, piercing, slashing and hacking of this Imperial Fist wearing black and yellow armor are so precise, steady and powerful. Not a single bit of extra energy is used for purposes other than attack. He goes all out to achieve the ultimate in attack and defense.

But his steps and body shape were so incredible - not as nimble and light as those of the Eldar or the Emperor's Children, but extremely efficient and smooth. Every step and every sideways angle was just enough to avoid the sharp blade that could cut him in two or pierce his throat and lower abdomen.

Magna Dorn used his extraordinary dynamic vision ability to watch and capture almost obsessively every time Sigismund ignored his own injuries and focused on the subtle self-sustaining of his joints and muscles, every torque generated by the twisting of his body to generate the attack angle, every continuous slash achieved with the help of inertia and coordination. It was so beautiful, this... This was a perfect combination of violence and cruelty, an elegant balance created by calmness and patience, aggressive art and rebellious spirit, and an eternal moment that could never be reproduced.

Although not as complex and gorgeous as the swordsmanship of Fulgrim or other Emperor's Children officers, with its Dionysian charm, Sigismund's extremely practical moves carved out another kind of simple and perfect beauty in the air. This aesthetic, which was very different from the current aesthetics of the Empire and the Galaxy, reminded Magna of Ramezane and Perturabo's beautiful new office on the Iron Blood.

Just like when he casually swings his weapon, the arc drawn by the blade or the angle at which he swings the weapon can reflect the universe...

Mystery?

No, not a mystery.

Nature.

Some kind of essence.

The nature of weapons.

The essence of wielding a weapon.

The essence of why he wielded his weapon. Magna suddenly realized that Sigismund was revealing to him the essence of why he could now wield his weapon so freely and wantonly in front of a blessed Primarch.

Something rich and warm and full and hopeful, which now sustained the Lord of the Templars, endowing his wonderful gifts with extraordinary power.

Magnar Dorn tightened his grip on the greatsword.

I think I understand a little bit!
Thank you, good Siji!
You must be trying to teach me this! You are such a good person!
Don't become like the Black Templar ten thousand years from now!

Well now! Here I come!

He held the sword high in his hand and rushed into the battle between the two.

----------

In the distance, the Emperor's Children and the Imperial Fists defenders battled in bombs and fire.

Under the gaze of the blood-stained Mathius and Sigismund, Magnar Dorn - "Rogal Dorn" - raised his sword to block Fulgrim's wildly swung blade. The two men confronted each other with steps like a spinning court dance, and every step of this death duet was trying to find the other's fatal flaw.

Finally, Magnar swung his sword several times in succession, and Fulgrim blocked them. Magnar took the opportunity to move closer, using the hilt of his sword to block the long blade that was madly stabbing at his armor. He ignored the long bleeding gash on his ribs and took another step closer -

The giant sword drew an arc in the air that was a combination of strength and beauty. One of Fulgrim's hands left his body amidst the sight of blood-red petals falling, and the gate opened wide -

Magna stepped forward -

Dorn's greatsword sank deep into Fulgrim's body, until the hilt was gone.

The end of the sword glowed bright red on the spine of the Fallen Primarch's back.

They hugged each other tightly for a moment.

Fulgrim lowered his head, leaned his disheveled and bleeding broken face on Rogal Dorn's shoulder, and sighed softly.

Then Magnar pulled back, his blade pulled out of Fulgrim's body cavity with heat. The Terran Guards cleared his throat and was about to say something.

Then they saw the broken and almost cut in half demon lord opposite them smiling beautifully and maliciously at his brother, blood staining his teeth and lips crimson purple.

An ominous feeling came over Magna.

"you……"

Before he finished speaking, Fulgrim's wounds and armor began to silently heal themselves. The brilliant blood he shed quickly turned to dust and was blown away by the wind. His limbs began to reshape, smooth as new. His legs began to come together, his skull began to lengthen, and his glittering jewel scales and his huge, brightly colored snake tail finally stood before Magnar Dorn, who was holding a sword.

"Did I tell you, Roger?"

He opened his mouth and his tongue stuck out like a snake's tongue.

"I will not die, but you are the one who will die here today."

Then, in a gaze that was stretched out again and again due to its absurdity, the snake shadow, which was even larger than the original Fulgrim, gradually rose higher and higher.

"… You even have a way to revive on the spot?! How the hell are we going to fight this?!"

Before the darkness that finally ended this battle engulfed his consciousness, Magna Dorn finally couldn't help but curse again at Ramizarn for accidentally saying a few swear words.

(End of this chapter)