This is the bonus chapter for reaching 1650 Powerstones.
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The four Primarchs were fully armed. They exchanged a glance and, with an unspoken understanding, blocked Abaddon from all four directions, leaving him absolutely no route of escape.
Abaddon's gaze swept over the four Primarchs, finally settling directly in front of him.
Sanguinius held the Spear of Telesto. The spear's tip was shaped like a teardrop; legend said it was formed from a drop of blood shed when Sanguinius swore his allegiance to the Emperor.
The shaft was engraved with the image of an angel—hooded and compassionate—silently watching the doomed man before him.
Abaddon's mouth twitched into a cold sneer, carrying a certain near-hysterical madness.
"My father once tore you to pieces," Abaddon spat viciously. "Now you make a comeback, yet you don't even dare to fight me one-on-one. You brought along your pathetic brothers simply because you fear me. You are nothing but a defeated loser."
Abaddon had no other choice; he was desperately trying to use words to stall for time.
Vashtorr was searching for the fragments somewhere. That was his only hope—to hold out until the Lord of the Soul Forges came to his rescue.
Though even Abaddon himself didn't know if Vashtorr could actually pull him out from under the siege of four Primarchs.
These words caused little ripple in the Great Angel's eyes, but instead made the blood rush to the Lion's head.
"Arrogant fool," the Lion said with anger. "If your abilities matched even half of your words, you wouldn't have ended up in this situation."
"End this quickly. Don't give this babbling madman any chances."
Before the words even faded, Abaddon once again smelled the scent of green grass. He whipped his head around.
Sure enough, behind him, a forest path was taking shape, and the Lion was pouncing at him from the end of that trail.
"Did you think I would fall for the same trick twice?!"
Abaddon roared as he spun around, the Talon of Horus moving to meet the Lion's attack.
But he forgot that the moment he turned to face the enemy, his back was left completely exposed to another.
"Showing mercy to the enemy is the greatest harm to your allies."
Sanguinius cried out, beating his wings and soaring high, tracing an arc of light through the air as the Spear of Telesto thrust toward Abaddon's back.
Feeling the fatal pressure of a pincer attack from the front and back, Abaddon didn't know which side to defend against.
Angron made the decision for him.
The former Lord of the World Eaters gripped the daemon sword he had used after ascending to a Daemon Prince with both hands. The blade still radiated the scorching residual heat of Chaos fire that had been purified.
Angron adopted the fighting style that had characterized his entire life: wide, sweeping, and entirely devoid of flashy tricks.
He forcefully swung the daemon sword as if it were a warhammer, howling as it struck from the flank.
"Angron, why did you betray Chaos?!" Abaddon stared at the Angron before him, who was completely different from the one in his memory.
Where was the Angron consumed by hellish rage and fury? Why, in this Angron's eyes, could he even see a trace of sorrow?
Abaddon's words were like sharp blades, piercing into Angron's finally calmed heart.
"I was never loyal to Chaos, so how can there be a betrayal?" Angron charged in front of Abaddon with even faster and fiercer momentum.
Abaddon crossed the Talon of Horus and the sword Drach'nyen, attempting to block the blow.
A massive force erupted. When their weapons clashed, it was as if they were performing a deadly embrace, sending sparks flying everywhere—so beautiful it was almost mesmerizing.
In that instant, for just a fleeting second, Angron watched the falling sparks and was touched by the scene, as if he had returned to the plains of Deshea:
Under the pale moon, he sat amidst the camp built by newly freed slaves, watching fireflies dance among the campfires.
What a peaceful night that was, even though the Butcher's Nails were already embedded in the back of his head.
What a peaceful night it was, back when the Emperor hadn't yet forcibly torn him away from his true brothers and sisters.
Those were the siblings he truly identified with, not ones who merely shared some artificial bloodline.
Leaving them behind to fight alone, leaving them to wait for death, and then forcing him to accept a life he didn't want at all, and...
"Why is it always me who gets hurt?! Why must it be me?!" Angron roared. He raised the daemon sword and smashed it down at Abaddon.
Once, twice, three times. The metal deck beneath Abaddon's feet caved in, and he felt every bone in his body groaning under the impact.
Then came the fourth time, the fifth time.
Finally, as Lion El'Jonson behind him drove his sword deep into Abaddon's back, Abaddon could no longer block Angron's attacks.
His hands dropped powerlessly, the Talon of Horus and Drach'nyen clattering to the floor.
Losing one's weapons on the battlefield was fatal.
Angron's black blade met no further resistance, cleaving toward Abaddon like a bolt of black lightning.
The Warmaster used all his remaining strength to violently tilt his head to the side. The blade sank into his shoulder, forcefully splitting the bone joint and cleaving a horrifying gash where his arm connected to his torso.
Abaddon's miserable scream echoed across the bridge. Tears actually flowed from his eyes—whether from the physical agony, or out of sheer exasperation provoked by Angron, it was unknown.
Angron, you actually have the nerve to say you're the one who is hurt the most?!
It's clearly me, Abaddon! Being besieged by four Primarchs... what did I do to deserve being treated like this?!
"Calm down, my brother." Sanguinius flew over Angron, delivering a 'gift' with a gentle tone.
Drawing upon his memories of Sanguinius, Angron's lips curled slightly. "I know."
With an elegance Angron could never hope to match, the Angel spread his wings, accelerated his dive, and thrust his spear. A streak of silver light sliced straight across the Warmaster's face.
More than half of Abaddon's face was sheared right off his skull.
But he felt no pain. Because at this very moment, his heart was entirely filled with fear. That bone-deep terror had surpassed all physical agony.
He finally realized clearly just how absurdly naive his previous thoughts had been.
Hold out until Vashtorr arrives?
Absolute bullshit.
Stalling for time in front of four Primarchs was simply impossible. Am I, Abaddon, truly going to die here today?
"No, you will not."
Four voices echoed simultaneously from the bottom of his heart. They intertwined, like four harp strings of different pitches being plucked at the exact same time.
"Accept our power. Throw yourself completely into the embrace of Chaos."
Abaddon's body convulsed.
A thrum of vitality surged from the depths of his heart, and his wounds began to rapidly heal. (Nurgle)
The flames of wrath rose, his muscles bulging. He felt like he could kill a Primarch with a single punch—no, he could kill two with a single punch. (Khorne)
The light of wisdom flooded his mind, ideas surfacing one after another. He instantly knew how to counter Sanguinius's next attack, and knew exactly from which angle the Lion would launch a sneak attack. (Tzeentch)
The tides of desire soothed his skin, making him incredibly sensitive and euphoric. (Slaanesh)
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Next Goal = 1800 Powerstones.