40K: When evil spirits appear

At the edge of the blood pool, the warrior rose again.

He is still healing slowly, but at a much slower pace than at the beginning.

He has his limits, just like any divine weapon. The fate of a weapon is either rust or breakage. What more could he want? He was already prepared.

On the other side of the blood pool, Angron is being reborn.

In the previous battle, it had once again paid a heavy price for its relentless fighting style, which involved not dodging attacks; the warriors had nearly dismembered it. But it meant little, for it had risen again. Beneath its curved hooves, a pool of blood was boiling, then it rose upside down, covering its body and restoring its wings to their original shape.

The warrior had tried to kill it completely, just as he had done with the evil spirit born from his dream, but that would take time...

Moreover, Angron's master did not allow him to do so.

In fact, He was mocking Him with His eyes, which pulsed with a bloody light.

Staring into those empty yet crazed eyes, the warrior slowly clenched his fists, his tightly clenched fangs slightly parted, and he spat out his anger with a sharp, metallic scraping sound.

"What's the point?" he said in a low voice. "He doesn't want to fight, otherwise you wouldn't have forced him."

The Blood God laughed loudly and did not answer until the warrior uttered his next words.

"Your followers regard you as a god of war, but as I see it, you are nothing more than manipulating a dying soul and these clay figures who submit to your will to slaughter beings far weaker than themselves. What kind of battle is this, what kind of war is this? I see no honor in you, only a cowardly wretch. You have never truly fought, yet you presume to call yourself a god of war?"

The laughter stopped, and the blood pool ceased to boil. The demons at its edge stood motionless, as if they had been suddenly stripped of their lives, utterly devoid of vitality.

The soldier chuckled softly.

"And you actually offered me the salute of warriors greeting each other, how laughable. I stand right here, and what have you done? You don't even dare to truly fight me. Admit it, Khorne, no matter how you try to embellish yourself, you are just—"

His words were interrupted by Anglong's change.

The demonic prototype's body was contorting, genuinely contorting, but not in a more horrifying direction; instead, it was shrinking, becoming humanoid. Its hooves were gone, its wings vanished—everything that had once represented corruption and evil was erased. The pool of blood beneath its feet began to boil with unprecedented force, instantly burning away all the blood in the vast pit of corpses, turning it into rising blood mist…

In the fog, a giant clad in brass armor took his place, wielding a black sword.

His face was noble, but it was not truly his own, for those eyes were not something any living being could possess.

Those two deep red spots, like molten iron, are the eyes of the god of war.

The jet-black blade was calmly raised.

In an instant, all the demons at the edge of the blood pool came back to life. The vampires knelt on the ground, the bronze bulls stomped their feet and struck the ground, and the bloodthirsty berserkers raised their weapons, folded their wings, and roared and shouted incessantly for the battle that was about to begin.

A new battle song slowly began to play.

The Blood God chuckled deeply, a mixture of rage and ecstasy. Once again, He raised His sword to His face.

Without a word, the warrior transformed into a streak of crimson light and vanished from his spot, while the Blood God's first sword strike forced him back. That was not Angron's chaotic slash, but the result of pure swordsmanship and patience—one sword, just one sword, in the very first second of the battle, He left a deep wound on the warrior's left shoulder armor.

The second sword followed immediately.

This sword technique is simple and unadorned; even a beginner can use it well. It simply involves rotating the wrist, moving the arm, and simultaneously stepping forward to execute a frontal slash. In all schools of swordsmanship, this move is the most basic of the basics.

But it is now being used by the God of War.

"Bang--!"

Like a mountain collapsing and the earth shaking, the warrior was thrown back with a thud, his arms crossed, and embedded in the stone wall at the end of the blood pool.

His right arm guard, the one directly facing the blade, was already cracked, but he didn't even glance at it. He simply moved away from the stone wall and assessed the situation. Contrary to his initial expectations, the enemy's strength and speed hadn't actually been enhanced; in fact, they had been somewhat weakened due to being forcibly reshaped into this false human form...

Angron's frenzied fighting style allowed it to maximize the power of its physical body, but it had nothing else, which is why warriors were able to defeat it time and time again.

But now, the situation is different.

A low laugh rang out again, the blade crashed to the ground, and He began to pace back and forth, dragging the longsword. He did not pursue, but stared expectantly at the warrior, waiting for his counterattack.

The soldiers did not disappoint him.

He stood still, raised his right hand, and spread out five sharp claws.

With great interest, the Blood God raised his left hand and waved it gently. Hundreds of evil weapons flew out of their original owners' hands and landed in the center of the blood pool. The warrior did not choose any of them but picked up the greatsword closest to him.

It didn't want to be used by him; the moment it was grasped, it let out a terrifying shriek and even prepared to cast a curse, only to be interrupted by the crimson light igniting from the center of the warrior's palm...

In mere seconds, it completely enveloped the weapon. Pure willpower surged within it, forcing the sword to emit a pitiful wail, and countless souls bound by it seized this opportunity. They responded to the warrior's silent call, adding fuel to his will—and then, in the next moment, the weapon transformed in the light.

The soldier gently gripped it.

Now, it looks like nothing more than a sword, an ordinary, broad, and huge sword.

He raised his sword and pressed it against his face.

The Blood God laughed loudly and then launched a charge.

At this moment, the sound of swords clashing no longer resembled the collision of steel, but rather the confrontation between a hammer and an anvil, with the smells of gunpowder, hot iron, and blood filling the air.

The embodiment of war launched a swift, flowing attack, which was parried by the warrior. Seemingly at a disadvantage, it changed tactics in an instant, stepping forward to cut off the space for the blade to strike freely. Then, it flipped its wrist, flicking the blade so that the tip was aimed straight at the warrior's throat.

The warrior calmly leaned back, dodging the fatal blow, then sheathed his sword and struck the hilt, sending it hurtling towards the face like a dull dagger. The opponent immediately retreated to avoid it, and simultaneously launched a horizontal slash, striking the warrior's sword precisely and disrupting his balance.

Having succeeded in his first strike, He showed no mercy whatsoever and immediately swung his sword again. This time, the sword struck the warrior's left shoulder armor squarely, severing it completely. The armor, the black shell, and the flesh flew off together, revealing the white, hard bones beneath.

Amidst the splattering blood, the warrior, seemingly oblivious, reversed his blade and retaliated with an astonishingly fast slash. The brass-colored left arm guard shattered, and the muscles of his forearm were completely severed, blood flowing freely.

The Blood God let out a strange sigh, the emotion in which was more astonishment than pain or anger.

He took a few steps back, looked down at his left hand, then gently clenched his fist, feeling the weakness...

A moment later, He revealed an extremely joyful, sinister grin on the face He had stolen.

He charged forward again, sword raised.

They began to swing their swords relentlessly, each strike precise and deliberate, leaving no room for waste or wasted strength. The battle was evenly matched, and thus began a phase of exchanging blows. Chests were pierced, muscles were cleaved, and bones gradually succumbed to the strain of each powerful and swift clash of blades...

The crimson molten iron and the scarlet eyes stared at each other, their fighting spirit boiling and filled with killing intent.

The black sword and the greatsword, wielded by their respective masters, transformed into two seemingly endless storms of steel. Each clash caused the earth to tremble, and the occasional bursts of fire were even more dazzling than the sunlight of Amegadoton. The demons watched this scene intently, none of them even considering satisfying their original, insatiable thirst for slaughter.

But precisely because of this, they did not detect the shadows in the sky.

The warrior trampled the scorched earth, the sword he had forcibly destroyed and then rebuilt with his will was slashing toward the Blood God's torso, while the other sword—the black sword—was falling toward his shoulder.

In that indescribable, slowed-down, insignificant moment, they glanced at each other, neither choosing to look away.

The Blood God's waist and abdomen were ripped open by the giant sword, leaving a horrifying hole from which hot entrails and bits of flesh rolled out; while the warrior had been almost completely cleaved in two from his left shoulder. If he hadn't raised his left hand to block at the last moment, he would probably have been split in two by now.

At the same instant, the two drew their swords simultaneously, tearing apart flesh and bones, and then raised their swords again in the next moment.

Words cannot describe what happened in that one second. If time could be slowed down a hundred times, perhaps we could see it clearly: how the warriors unleashed their swords in a frenzied attack, how the Blood God defended himself, and their dance-like footsteps...

But a second is a second, and it ended precisely, without a second more or less. All the sounds of clashing blades that had rang out at that moment were condensed into a single, heavy, muffled thud that resounded for hundreds of miles around.

"boom--!"

As the smoke and dust dissipated, the results of that one second began to emerge.

First was the warrior; his sword was shattered, his horns had been severed, and his right arm had completely disappeared from his shoulder, the cut as clean as a mirror. But these were nothing compared to the slash on his torso that had almost split him in two.

Then came the Blood God. His complete set of brass armor was shattered beyond recognition, with only a few fragments remaining. His arms were covered with sword wounds of varying sizes, causing the flesh to twist and bloom like flowers, from which no blood could flow, and the muscles even turned a deathly pale color... and on the most serious wound on his body, a hideous left arm had appeared.

Those are the hands of a soldier.

He grasped the spine of the body He had forcibly shaped and had already crushed it.

Khorne laughed, his eyes still bright, but he chose to give up, no longer allowing the omnipresent evil power around him to heal the puppet's body. He even chose to distance himself amidst the demons' roars, a fact the warrior could clearly sense—his will was gradually fading.

But this is not the end.

"You understand, don't you?" Khorne asked with a smile. "You know it will return, and even if it doesn't want to fight, I will force it. I will send it to my battlefield, warrior. Countless honors will be bestowed upon you for your victory against me. I will give you armor, I will give you weapons, and I will cheer you on as you go into battle..."

You have countless battles to fight, and they are all my battles.

After saying this, He departed completely, only calling out that name at the very last moment.

"Angron".

The warrior withdrew his arm, stepped back, and stared at the decaying, degenerating body, watching the demon be reborn from that false human form.

He calmly shook his head, his left hand hanging down, as if he had resigned himself to his fate... or perhaps, he was simply waiting.

Waiting for what?

The answer was revealed in the air—it was a formation of twenty-five Storm Wolf assault boats.

They fully emerged from the clouds and immediately began bombarding the area around the blood pool. Skyhammer missiles exploded continuously, and the demons roared incessantly. Sparks flew everywhere, but the warrior remained motionless, simply staring at the demon standing before him, unarmed.

His face was contorting.

"Why...why didn't you kill me?" Angron asked softly.

"I tried," the soldier said. "I can't. I'm sorry."

"Then you're going to die," Angron said. "Run!"

He raised his head, his eyes turning bloodshot again, and roared once more, transforming back into that mindless puppet—but this time, it failed to charge at the warrior.

A pack of wolves descended from the sky.

Who was in charge? The answer is obvious. Besides Logan Grimner, who else deserved such an honor and fallen into such peril? The warrior, however, no longer watched the battle. He simply lowered his head slowly, letting out a long, slow, blood-stained sigh...

I have done my best. He thought.

"Old!" Suddenly, someone called him, by another name. "We're here!"

Ald glanced up and saw Draco Steelborn's face charging towards him. Behind him were the fighting wolves and the enraged Angron. But the warrior wondered if he was hallucinating; he saw a mortal in brand-new military uniform beside the Grey Hunter.

The man's eyes shone like gold.

Ah, it's you. Olde suddenly realized.

"You won't die," the man said to him.