How can a retired savior be considered retired if he drops to 40,000?

But he still moved his legs mechanically, and at the same time asked himself: Am I really ready?

The voice of the dead rang out again: You can see many things happening around you, but you can't see your own heart. This is normal, because your heart and soul do not belong to you, so how can you understand the subtle and mysterious thoughts and ideas in them?

The clone finally couldn't stand it anymore, and he roared to the wilderness: "My heart and soul belong to me! Everything I think and feel originates from my mind!"

Then he heard the dead man's soft and slightly dull laughter, like a silver bell, wrapped in gauze: So where do you think I was talking to you?

"You are dead." The clone announced to the empty surroundings, "You are an echo, a remnant of evil left in the warp, a resentment and unwillingness projected onto me for some reason, the last struggle and curse of an imperfect loser. You are nothing more than this, nothing more."

No. Retorted the voice of the dead. I am you, just as you will become me.

"I will never stoop to this!" the clone said - more like to himself, "I will do what you have failed to do. I will polish everything to perfection. I will wash away the bad reputation of the Legion after it went astray. I will -"

You will return to the Silver Palace. The dead man's vicious voice is like a snake hissing in the clone's ear. I am glad to see that you think so, because - you know, I used to think so too. Fabius is right. He knows that you and I are too much alike, your fate is linked to mine: you are a near-perfect replica of me, and therefore you can only tread the path I once walked. Admit it, you are me.

The clone said: "I will never follow your old path. I will be more worthy of the name 'Fulgrim' than you!"

But Fulgrim is me.

The dead man's voice was filled with suppressed laughter, and the clone, annoyed by this, said: "I will be Fulgrim, but I will never be you!"

The dead man did not respond. His last voice faded away in a burst of laughter, dissolving into the clone's mind. It was as if such a voice had never appeared.

The clone ignored the other and once again embarked on this seemingly endless journey. Perhaps something was wrong, but he didn't realize it. He followed the ruts in the barren Gobi Desert, forward, forward, and forward. The only man-made mark on the sandy plain was endless, even if he walked for days, weeks, months, and years, it would still be the same, as if he would never see the end.

The clone's unstoppable thoughts gradually became exhausted over a long period of time. There was no new information around him that could provide him with new answers. In the unchanging scenery and monotonous walking, the clone even began to miss the voice of the dead. But that voice did not appear again, just as it did not care about the clone's will when it appeared.

The huge thought could not be placed, forcing him to start exploring the barren heart that he was created to be. Finally, the clone had to start facing the question he had to face: Who am I?

This question had a clear answer before the long journey began: Fulgrim. The clone would answer himself. He was Fulgrim, a Fulgrim who was more perfect than the corrupted Fulgrim. And now? He didn't know.

Akuldona's voice echoed in his memory: The real Fulgrim never had to prove that he was called that name! Didn't you realize that from the moment you said this, you already realized that you are not "Fulgrim" at all!

The original Fulgrim was corrupted, but he was still on the path to perfection. The clone thought. He had heard and remembered Akultuna's statement that there was no such thing as perfect perfection, but he refused to admit it. He believed that he was determined enough to prove that he was perfect beyond the original Fulgrim - starting with this trial that seemed to never begin.

The clone didn't know how long he had been walking in the wilderness. He only realized that the color of his once gorgeous armor had been eroded by the occasional wind and sand. For a while, he doubted whether the view of the dead man whispering to him that "the subspace is idealistic" was a lie. For another time, he doubted that this endless and boring progress was the test he needed to face. Walking in the wilderness did not bring him any sudden enlightenment or philosophy of life, but only boredom, fatigue, hunger, and repeated doubts about himself.

But the clone still gritted his teeth and walked forward, one hand always resting on the slender and ornate ceremonial sword at his waist. The person who decorated him with this outfit may have regarded him as a gorgeous ornament with only appearance, but in this seemingly meaningless action, the viewer can finally glimpse a bit of the essence of a warrior - that is part of the essence of Fulgrim forged by the Emperor through biological alchemy, and Fabius has restored this point in the clone with his own skills.

He didn't know how long he had been moving forward in this posture amidst the intermittent sandstorms in the Gobi Desert. He did feel tired and thirsty, but perhaps it was because his body, which was similar to that of his original body, had unparalleled performance, or perhaps it was because of some special feature of the warp. In short, these negative states that had accumulated to the point where they could kill a mortal hundreds or thousands of times did not affect his ability to move too much. Finally, after a certain dust storm, another shadow finally appeared on the other side of the horizon.

The clone was encouraged by this discovery, but the necessary caution did not disappear from his mind. He did not quickly run towards the only different thing in the wilderness, even though he wanted to do so very much. He stood still and assessed the other person's and his own conditions as detailed as possible: he had not eaten or drunk for a long time, but this did not seem to have any effect on his athletic ability; his reaction ability might have been worn down by long-term boring mechanical work, but he thought he could adjust it quickly; the shadow on the other side of the horizon was roughly a human figure, he did not know what it was, but anyway, he really needed to take a look.

After confirming all of the above, the clone turned again, left the edge of the rut, and slowly walked towards the black shadow on the horizon.

He walked like this for a while, and then realized that the other party was also coming towards him. After a while, the distance between them was obviously getting closer. The clone was not sure how the other party would react when they really met, but these doubts did not stop him from moving forward. After a while, he could already see that the other party was wrapped in a tattered dusty cloak whose original color could not be distinguished. He could roughly judge that it was a man based on the outline. When the distance between them was probably only a few hundred meters, the clone finally found that he and the other party were somewhat similar in shape in this desert with a lack of reference points.

This made the clone stop in doubt, staring at the giant opposite who also looked over three meters tall in confusion, and put his hand on the hilt of the sword, asking loudly: "Who are you?"

He could have said more, been more polite, and behaved more appropriately, but the clone hadn't had water for a long time. His voice was cracked by a dry cough, and the vibration of his vocal cords made his throat taste bloody because of this question. The current situation forced him to convey his information as efficiently as possible, and made his torn voice unrecognizable even to acquaintances.

But the man in the cloak stopped as if struck by lightning the moment the sound arrived. He obviously recognized something.

This unexpected development increased the suspicion in the clone's heart. He realized that something bad was about to happen, so he drew out the decorative sword at his waist - it was just a thin piece of ordinary iron, only plated with a layer of refined gold, and the structure was obviously not suitable for chopping and slashing. In terms of practicality, it would even be crushed by training equipment - and at this moment, the person opposite had already crossed the last few hundred meters between the two of them in a very short time, and crushed towards the clone like some kind of angry siege weapon.

As expected by no one, at the same time as the first sound of metal clashing, the rapier in the clone's hand broke in the middle. The murder weapon was a piece of hard stone tied to the arm by a simple and crude structure that could not even be called "mechanical", which was essentially no different from the countless stones scattered in the Gobi Desert. This murderous stone was originally smashed down on the clone's head without hesitation, and under the latter's instinctive and rapid counterattack, the ceremonial rapier broke and the fragile "rope" that fixed it was also cut in half.

When the clone realized that the stone was shaky, he also realized that it was not a "stone tied to the arm" but a "stone replacing the missing forearm". He did not give up the broken sword in his hand, but tried to cut the other half of the "rope" that fixed the stone with the remaining sharp edge. While maneuvering between retreating and stepping forward, he asked again: "Who are you?"

Then, he saw an old and haggard face hidden under the gray cloak:

"I am Rogal Dorn!"

The face replied with a fury that did not match its aged appearance.

(End of this chapter)

Chapter 305 Who are you?

The dead whispered to him: You are but a poor imitation of me, made by Fabius.

The clones turned a deaf ear to this.

This voice might have come from his own imagination, or it might have been implanted in his mind by some strange force. The clone could not accurately distinguish between the two, and even if he could find out, the answer would not help him in the current situation. So he simply ignored it and just followed the wheel tracks, step by step, back to the way he came.

This voice that had been following him since he broke free from the stasis field was not only negative. At least, when "Prototype No. 1" was moving aimlessly and endlessly in the Gobi Desert, it was this voice that told him why:

Unlike the material world, the High Heaven is idealistic. Time, distance and direction have no meaning here. Only firm determination can lead travelers to their final goal - that is to say, as long as anyone on this car has doubts about your so-called "trial", you will always have to waste time on this infinitely extending plain.

Perhaps in the warp, time is indeed meaningless. The clone did not take action immediately after hearing this argument. In his subjective experience, he had spent several days trying to determine this through calculations. He sat in the two seats at the end of the cabin, which did not prevent him from looking across the entire cabin and reading the readings on the instrument panel without any obstacles. The complex and unfamiliar units and symbols did confuse him for a while, but as the Primarch, he quickly understood their meaning through some clues in the operation of the vehicle, and after a few hours, he was convinced that the physical parameters on the plain where they were were changing all the time.

After realizing this, he immediately discovered that Gabriel Santo was trying to find a pattern from these changes, but he was not optimistic about this because he had tried to do the same thing and failed. Regardless of whether Fabius's cloning technology could match the Emperor's greatest and most sophisticated creations, his brain was still more sophisticated and faster than the Cogitator array installed on "Prototype No. 1". For a few minutes, he even tried to predict what readings would appear on the dashboard next based on the vibration of the cabin. After discovering that his predictions were all accurate, he quickly lost interest in it.

The clone repeatedly checked the calculations under the stare of the empty eye sockets of the Thinker Array, and finally convinced himself that there was no point in continuing to move forward. In essence, it was just a way of creating an illusion that "we are still trying to solve the problem". Therefore, after a few days, he stopped the wheel track of the vehicle and left the two Astartes who followed him for different reasons, and embarked on this journey that belonged only to him alone.

And in this journey that should have belonged to him alone, he still had an annoying travel companion.

You should at least bring Akuldona. The voice of the dead man haunted his mind through some medium other than air. Thinking back to the past, I liked him so much. This was a major event in life, and he was certainly qualified to participate.

The clone still said nothing, but his mind was indeed disturbed by these words that appeared out of thin air, just like he finally decided after he had no other choice that he could follow the suggestion that appeared in his mind and leave the vehicle. Time, distance and direction are not important, and there is no essential difference whether he moves forward by vehicle or by legs. According to this theory of "the Supreme God is idealistic", as long as his will is strong enough and he is sure that he wants to face this trial, then he will find his goal.

He could see that the two Astartes traveling with him did not want this so-called "trial" to come true - Gabriel Santo did not trust the outsider who suddenly appeared and proposed this inexplicably, and he did not care about "what will happen to the clone in the future", and even hoped that he would die in a place where no one knew; while Akurdona, Akurdona was seriously worried about him, and did not want him to get hurt or encounter an accident, and even more did not want him to fall into some disturbing conspiracy of some subspace entity.

This is where things become absurd: the Iron Hands, who were indifferent to him, were essentially indifferent to their own future, and Akurdona's sincere concern blocked the only way out of this invisible infinite loop. The voices of the dead laughed and praised this farce in the clone's mind, but the clone still said nothing.

He didn't say anything, but he was thinking. Not only was he thinking about every word the dead man said to him, but he was also thinking about every word Akuldona said and every word Gabriel Santo said. He didn't want to think like this, but he couldn't stop - it seemed to be an instinct for him, at least after he got out of the stasis field, he soon found that he couldn't stop thinking like this.

I cannot stop trying to unravel the deep causes and theoretical thinking from the surface of reality, I cannot stop discovering the irrationality and absurdity from the most common scenes, and extending meaningless thinking from the absurdity, I cannot stop transcending the tangible things to metaphysical thinking, I cannot stop looking down from the metaphysical dimension and explaining everything that happens in the tangible world.

He gained a lot of insight, both helpful and harmful. The clone wanted to stop, his consciousness was clamoring for rest due to the excessive information, but he couldn't stop - even at this moment, the voice of the dead still echoed in his mind: Do you really think you are ready?

The clone still didn't reply, but he couldn't help but think along with the other party's question: Am I really ready?

He thought so, but now he was not sure. Time in the subspace might be different for everyone, just like Akurdona thought they had only traveled a few hours on the vehicle, but in the clone's perception, they had been moving day and night for several days. At this moment, he also felt that he had been walking along the track left by "Prototype No. 1" for several days in extreme boredom, but this only road with a landmark still stubbornly stretched forward.

Sometimes he wondered if it had really been that long. Sometimes he felt like he had been walking on the same road for a hundred years. The scenery around him was unchanged, with similar stones scattered all over the sand, which even made the clone doubt whether he was really moving forward.

But he still moved his legs mechanically, and at the same time asked himself: Am I really ready?

The voice of the dead rang out again: You can see many things happening around you, but you can't see your own heart. This is normal, because your heart and soul do not belong to you, so how can you understand the subtle and mysterious thoughts and ideas in them?

The clone finally couldn't stand it anymore, and he roared to the wilderness: "My heart and soul belong to me! Everything I think and feel originates from my mind!"

Then he heard the dead man's soft and slightly dull laughter, like a silver bell, wrapped in gauze: So where do you think I was talking to you?

"You are dead." The clone announced to the empty surroundings, "You are an echo, a remnant of evil left in the warp, a resentment and unwillingness projected onto me for some reason, the last struggle and curse of an imperfect loser. You are nothing more than this, nothing more."

No. Retorted the voice of the dead. I am you, just as you will become me.

"I will never stoop to this!" the clone said - more like to himself, "I will do what you have failed to do. I will polish everything to perfection. I will wash away the bad reputation of the Legion after it went astray. I will -"

You will return to the Silver Palace. The dead man's vicious voice is like a snake hissing in the clone's ear. I am glad to see that you think so, because - you know, I used to think so too. Fabius is right. He knows that you and I are too much alike, your fate is linked to mine: you are a near-perfect replica of me, and therefore you can only tread the path I once walked. Admit it, you are me.

The clone said: "I will never follow your old path. I will be more worthy of the name 'Fulgrim' than you!"

But Fulgrim is me.

The dead man's voice was filled with suppressed laughter, and the clone, annoyed by this, said: "I will be Fulgrim, but I will never be you!"

The dead man did not respond. His last voice faded away in a burst of laughter, dissolving into the clone's mind. It was as if such a voice had never appeared.

The clone ignored the other and once again embarked on this seemingly endless journey. Perhaps something was wrong, but he didn't realize it. He followed the ruts in the barren Gobi Desert, forward, forward, and forward. The only man-made mark on the sandy plain was endless, even if he walked for days, weeks, months, and years, it would still be the same, as if he would never see the end.

The clone's unstoppable thoughts gradually became exhausted over a long period of time. There was no new information around him that could provide him with new answers. In the unchanging scenery and monotonous walking, the clone even began to miss the voice of the dead. But that voice did not appear again, just as it did not care about the clone's will when it appeared.

The huge thought could not be placed, forcing him to start exploring the barren heart that he was created to be. Finally, the clone had to start facing the question he had to face: Who am I?

This question had a clear answer before the long journey began: Fulgrim. The clone would answer himself. He was Fulgrim, a Fulgrim who was more perfect than the corrupted Fulgrim. And now? He didn't know.

Akuldona's voice echoed in his memory: The real Fulgrim never had to prove that he was called that name! Didn't you realize that from the moment you said this, you already realized that you are not "Fulgrim" at all!

The original Fulgrim was corrupted, but he was still on the path to perfection. The clone thought. He had heard and remembered Akultuna's statement that there was no such thing as perfect perfection, but he refused to admit it. He believed that he was determined enough to prove that he was perfect beyond the original Fulgrim - starting with this trial that seemed to never begin.

The clone didn't know how long he had been walking in the wilderness. He only realized that the color of his once gorgeous armor had been eroded by the occasional wind and sand. For a while, he doubted whether the view of the dead man whispering to him that "the subspace is idealistic" was a lie. For another time, he doubted that this endless and boring progress was the test he needed to face. Walking in the wilderness did not bring him any sudden enlightenment or philosophy of life, but only boredom, fatigue, hunger, and repeated doubts about himself.

But the clone still gritted his teeth and walked forward, one hand always resting on the slender and ornate ceremonial sword at his waist. The person who decorated him with this outfit may have regarded him as a gorgeous ornament with only appearance, but in this seemingly meaningless action, the viewer can finally glimpse a bit of the essence of a warrior - that is part of the essence of Fulgrim forged by the Emperor through biological alchemy, and Fabius has restored this point in the clone with his own skills.

He didn't know how long he had been moving forward in this posture amidst the intermittent sandstorms in the Gobi Desert. He did feel tired and thirsty, but perhaps it was because his body, which was similar to that of his original body, had unparalleled performance, or perhaps it was because of some special feature of the warp. In short, these negative states that had accumulated to the point where they could kill a mortal hundreds or thousands of times did not affect his ability to move too much. Finally, after a certain dust storm, another shadow finally appeared on the other side of the horizon.

The clone was encouraged by this discovery, but the necessary caution did not disappear from his mind. He did not quickly run towards the only different thing in the wilderness, even though he wanted to do so very much. He stood still and assessed the other person's and his own conditions as detailed as possible: he had not eaten or drunk for a long time, but this did not seem to have any effect on his athletic ability; his reaction ability might have been worn down by long-term boring mechanical work, but he thought he could adjust it quickly; the shadow on the other side of the horizon was roughly a human figure, he did not know what it was, but anyway, he really needed to take a look.

After confirming all of the above, the clone turned again, left the edge of the rut, and slowly walked towards the black shadow on the horizon.

He walked like this for a while, and then realized that the other party was also coming towards him. After a while, the distance between them was obviously getting closer. The clone was not sure how the other party would react when they really met, but these doubts did not stop him from moving forward. After a while, he could already see that the other party was wrapped in a tattered dusty cloak whose original color could not be distinguished. He could roughly judge that it was a man based on the outline. When the distance between them was probably only a few hundred meters, the clone finally found that he and the other party were somewhat similar in shape in this desert with a lack of reference points.

This made the clone stop in doubt, staring at the giant opposite who also looked over three meters tall in confusion, and put his hand on the hilt of the sword, asking loudly: "Who are you?"

He could have said more, been more polite, and behaved more appropriately, but the clone hadn't had water for a long time. His voice was cracked by a dry cough, and the vibration of his vocal cords made his throat taste bloody because of this question. The current situation forced him to convey his information as efficiently as possible, and made his torn voice unrecognizable even to acquaintances.

But the man in the cloak stopped as if struck by lightning the moment the sound arrived. He obviously recognized something.

This unexpected development increased the suspicion in the clone's heart. He realized that something bad was about to happen, so he drew out the decorative sword at his waist - it was just a thin piece of ordinary iron, only plated with a layer of refined gold, and the structure was obviously not suitable for chopping and slashing. In terms of practicality, it would even be crushed by training equipment - and at this moment, the person opposite had already crossed the last few hundred meters between the two of them in a very short time, and crushed towards the clone like some kind of angry siege weapon.

As expected by no one, at the same time as the first sound of metal clashing, the rapier in the clone's hand broke in the middle. The murder weapon was a piece of hard stone tied to the arm by a simple and crude structure that could not even be called "mechanical", which was essentially no different from the countless stones scattered in the Gobi Desert. This murderous stone was originally smashed down on the clone's head without hesitation, and under the latter's instinctive and rapid counterattack, the ceremonial rapier broke and the fragile "rope" that fixed it was also cut in half.

When the clone realized that the stone was shaky, he also realized that it was not a "stone tied to the arm" but a "stone replacing the missing forearm". He did not give up the broken sword in his hand, but tried to cut the other half of the "rope" that fixed the stone with the remaining sharp edge. While maneuvering between retreating and stepping forward, he asked again: "Who are you?"

Then, he saw an old and haggard face hidden under the gray cloak:

"I am Rogal Dorn!"

The face replied with a fury that did not match its aged appearance.

(End of this chapter)

Chapter 306: The Name is "Frame" (Part )

Techniques were of little use at this point. The clone realized this almost immediately.

He was a near-perfect copy of Fulgrim, possessing the same precise skills and graceful and deadly swordsmanship as the Purple Phoenix, but he still made such a judgment after two moments of close combat with the opponent. Skills are indeed useful. The right skills can help a person easily defeat another mindless brute who is far stronger than himself. Perhaps when facing a furious Rogal Dorn, the skills mastered by the clone should at least not cause him to be defeated so quickly - this is by no means "useless", but he still made such a judgment.

The clone stepped back to get out of the opponent's attack range, and took advantage of this short gap of less than half a second to think quickly:

The conclusion was that he could not achieve victory gracefully from Dorn in his current state without causing any harm.

Admittedly, he was in a relatively advantageous position in the current situation of both parties: the clone did not have anything except the broken sword in his hand and the determination to win, but in comparison, Dorn lacked more. With just one encounter, he clearly realized that the Dorn in front of him was not only withered and old, with one hand missing, but also far inferior to the "Rogal Dorn" who did not belong to his memory in terms of reaction and strength. Although the power armor on the other party looked real, and was different from the ceremonial armor on his body, it was already in tatters, leaving no doubt that its function had almost completely stopped.

Even so, Dorn still had something that the clone didn't have: a rage that came from nowhere. It was this rage that prevented them from resolving the issue peacefully.

"Traitor!" he accused as he pursued him. "Fallen! A disgrace to the Emperor's children!"

Apart from that, he had no more words. He threw a jab straight at the clone's face, but the latter dodged it swiftly. The terrifying punch was like a high-pressure air knife cutting the clone's face, but he didn't care about it at all. He seized the opportunity in an instant and clamped Dorn's punching hand, trying to break the opponent's center of gravity while wrestling carefully, so that he could fall to the ground.

"I'm not--" At the same time, the clone wanted to refute, but he didn't succeed in finishing the sentence. The moment he successfully clamped Dorn's arm with his left hand, he realized that he had made a mistake. He might have had experience fighting similar opponents in those memories that belonged to him or not, but to be honest, this was indeed the first time in his life that he had fought against an opponent of the same level like this.

Dorne now only had one hand, and the "simple weapon" on his other hand, which was tied with a piece of rag from nowhere, was easily cut off by the broken sword and lost control. His reaction speed also decreased slightly, but he was still a Primarch. At the moment when his only intact hand was controlled, Dorne did not need to think about what he should do next - all Primarchs were created for the purpose of war machines, and when dealing with this level of temptation, they only needed to rely on instinct.

At that moment, Dorn took a step forward in the direction of the clone's lead. He did lose a hand somehow, but the distance was close enough to make his opponent feel threatened. The clone had enough combat intelligence to predict the opponent's next move, so he intended to retreat, but his retreat only gave his opponent more opportunities.

Dorn's attack was like a violent storm, with no rules but hard to find flaws. In the next twenty seconds of attack and defense, although the clone was not successfully hit, he did not gain any advantage. Instead, he retreated step by step, and gradually accumulated a small disadvantage for himself without knowing it. Logically speaking, he should have had the advantage - maybe he was just a copy made according to Fulgrim, maybe he could not compare with the Emperor's real creation in some aspects, but he was still the younger, more complete person, and even had a weapon that was better than nothing.

He just didn't want to use his full strength, as that would make him look bad. Besides, this matter didn't need to be resolved by force, and a proper conversation should have allowed both sides to call it a day. He was Fulgrim, and he should be able to do this easily and gracefully - he had to do this easily and gracefully, because that was what "Fulgrim" should do.

The Primarch of the Imperial Fists had very simple thoughts. He was unscrupulously venting his anger in the wilderness. Dorn ignored the "Fulgrim" who tried to defend himself several times. His shabby power armor roared heavily as he moved, making incoherent wails. If the clone was to make a comment, with the knowledge that a master forger should have, he did not think that thing could provide any assistance to the other party. Dorn might have been forced to drag the huge weight of his ineffective dusty golden armor to fight against him, and the reason why he refused to give up these burdens was undoubtedly the eagle emblem carved on his chest, which was still shining under the earth-gray cloak.

This moved the clone for a moment, but the oncoming fist did not allow him to divide his attention on these things. He had to admit that even the power armor that could only be a burden in action was still useful to Dorn: his broken sword successfully cut the inside of the opponent's arm three times in these twenty seconds, and unfortunately found that the protective power of the adamantium was still there, and in the last failed attempt to attack the elbow, the broken sword was broken again to the point of being useless.

The clone dropped the scrap metal in his hand and had to try to fight a Primarch with his bare hands. He knew what to do. He had a lot of knowledge and experience in hand-to-hand combat, ranging from the relatively gentle to the insidious. The memories that lingered in his mind told him that Fulgrim had fought similar battles with his brother more than once during the years of the Great Crusade, most often with Ferrus Manus, but also with others. Due to other distractions, he was unable to immediately successfully find out from his memory whether Fulgrim had "practiced" in this way with Dorn in the past, nor could he recall any previous examples that could be used as reference. The combat instinct engraved in his genes told him to fight back immediately and not "give in" like this, but he still had doubts - could he really not end this unnecessary fight gracefully and decently?

"Listen to me, Dorn - you have to -" Another swinging punch interrupted the clone's attempt to communicate. This made him a little angry: why didn't he have the impression that the Primarch of the Imperial Fists was a boxing expert in his memory? He finally couldn't help but hold the opponent's arm and forcefully pinned the only remaining good elbow outward to control the opponent's actions: "Listen to me! I'm not who you think I am!"

He was sure that the other party heard him, but Dorn just ignored him. The only reaction of the Primarch of the Imperial Fists to this declaration was no reaction - he moved closer to the opponent, trying to absorb the force, and at the same time tried to "punch" the opponent's face with the remaining stump of his broken hand. The clone was not sure for a moment whether he had forgotten that his hand was broken or he really intended to do so, but in any case, he still followed his instinct to make an evasive move.

In that fast and slow moment, he clearly saw the ugly wound on Rogal Dorn's missing limb. This made him realize instinctively that the wound had not received proper medical care after it was inflicted. The reason why this old giant could still live until now was all due to the strong recovery ability naturally possessed by the original body. And obviously, at this moment, he still held the same view on his own wound: no need to care.

The clone was sure that he had turned his body to a dangerous angle, and Rogal Dorn could not have failed to realize that this angle was dangerous - but he still had no intention of retreating. The limb that was originally rushing towards the opponent's face turned into a winged accessory on the opponent's shoulder armor after this dangerous sideways movement. Although the thin layer of metal on the surface could not be compared with the original body that had been tempered by thousands of hammers, it was only possible under the correct method of force application and operation. The clone was very sure that if Dorn just hit the half of his arm without armor protection like this, he would definitely be injured. The clone had predicted that his opponent would change his tactics, giving him a slight chance to dodge. But in reality, Dorn's severed limb fearlessly collided with the decoration on his shoulder armor. The metal piece with the wing-embossed carving cut through his skin that had healed the hyperplastic tissue, got stuck in the bone with a clang, and was violently torn off the clone's armor with a teeth-grinding sound - still rushing towards his head and face.

This shocked the clone. He had to let go of the opponent's arm to dodge because of this unexpected move, but then he found that it was his turn to be controlled by the opponent. Dorn's good hand was tightly clamped on the clone's arm like a hydraulic clamp. The latter could even feel the decorative armor deforming and cracking on his skin inch by inch. But this was not the point - he barely managed to lower himself while being caught, and at the cost of losing a more advantageous posture, he avoided the "elbow attack" with a broken blade, and then gave up the attack, and reluctantly grabbed Dorn's broken arm with his temporarily free other hand:

"You have to listen to me! Dorn! We don't need to fight to the death like this!" The clone was holding back his anger and yelled at his angry opponent, "You have the wrong person - I am not the 'Fulgrim' you think! I am sure that I am loyal to the Empire and hate Chaos. I will never go along with the Warp -"

"You're lying!" Dorn's ferocious roar seemed to be able to collapse mountains and destroy peaks. The thunderous roar resounded in the clone's ears, making him almost deaf for a moment. "You have betrayed me long ago, Fulgrim! Don't think you can deceive me with the illusions you create with evil magic!"

The clone interpreted the second half of his sentence through lip reading. But in fact, this was also difficult, because Dorn's expression at the moment looked particularly ferocious, as if he wanted to eat him alive. The clone felt a considerable pressure on the arm that Dorn had grabbed. He had no doubt that in a few seconds, the hand would be torn off his body along with the arm armor that was completely useless. The instinctive desire to survive and the anger caused by the opponent's intransigence made the clone give up his original principles a little. While bullying, he misplaced his steps and pinned the opponent's legs and feet at an angle that was inconvenient to apply force.

——Then he leaned down slightly, and the shoulder armor, whose decoration had just been broken off and whose broken edge was still fresh and sharp, hit the opponent's chest armor. After a sharp and piercing sound, the clone successfully used an inefficient variation of wrestling techniques in a rather awkward posture and in a desperate situation to successfully throw Rog Dorn to the ground.

The heavy body of the original body fell sideways on the wilderness with a loud noise. The smoke and dust floating on the ground choked the clone's eyes, ears, mouth and nose, but he did not make any defensive reflex movements. Dorn's power armor made a sharper and more ominous cry after changing its posture. It tried its best to help its master stand up again, but the power it could provide could not even completely offset its own weight. The clone was still the first to regain its posture. The latter tried to quickly clip Dorn's good hand back, which was almost impossible under the influence of the opponent's still huge shoulder armor, but the clone knew what to do.

He reached out, trying to get the decorative metal piece stuck in Dorn's broken arm bone. His knowledge told him that with a decent tool, he could free Dorn's hand from the rubbish that bound him. But before he could do that, Dorn's good hand had already escaped from his grip, and with a roar, he was hit by a real elbow in the chest.

The violent vibration of the rib plate was transmitted to his internal organs, and the clone fell backwards uncontrollably due to the impact. There was pain, and the clone could tell that he had suffered some internal injuries. A bloody smell rushed up his throat and into his mouth, and almost instantly solidified into a sticky blood scab in his mouth. He was caught off guard and failed to recover, but he still rolled on the ground in a dusty state before getting up again - fortunately, because of the weight of the power armor, Dorn got up much slower than him, so he didn't have time to pursue the victory.

The confrontation between the two returned to the starting point.