"And I... am the treasury itself."
These words were not a sound.
It was an irresistible brand, a mark of "Truth," fiercely and permanently seared onto Fulgrim's soul, which was prouder than the stars.
A counterfeit.
A thief.
Everything he had pursued his entire life, everything he had traded for with betrayal and destruction, was defined as a ridiculous, derivative imitation in the face of this supreme, creation-level "True Item."
Boom—
The last trace of color belonging to a Primarch faded completely from Fulgrim's impeccably handsome face, turning it into a deathly pallor.
His heart, which was proud to the extreme, shattered.
Not shattered by power.
But ground into dust by a higher-dimensional, irrefutable truth.
[No... No!!!]
A psychic roar, not belonging to Fulgrim, sharp enough to tear reality apart, filled with extreme fear and impotent rage, exploded deep within his soul!
It was the sword of laer.
It was the ancient and powerful Slaanesh daemon parasitic within the sword.
It sensed it.
It clearly felt that its perfect, arrogant, and about-to-be-fully-corrupted host—his faith, the cornerstone of his existence—was collapsing at an irreversible speed.
If this continued, it would lose this perfect breeding ground forever.
If this continued, it would even be completely purified by the divine power radiating from the mysterious girl before it, a purity that made it tremble!
This was a crisis of survival!
This was the deadliest threat!
[Kill—her!!!]
The intent, filled with malice and greed, was no longer a seductive whisper but transformed into the most direct, brutal command, forcibly piercing every nerve in Fulgrim's body.
Hum—!!!
The pitch-black magic sword erupted with unprecedented, ink-thick black light.
Countless distorted, wailing, suffering soul phantoms surged madly from the sword's body, like a group of evil ghosts breaking free from the shackles of hell, wrapping around Fulgrim's body.
The next instant.
Fulgrim's body moved, uncontrolled.
His tall figure lunged forward, his elegant posture vanished, replaced by a frenzied, violent urge filled with pure desire for slaughter.
The sword of laer in his hand carved a shrill, space-tearing purple arc, slashing straight toward the calm, black-clad figure standing in front.
This strike was fast to the extreme.
This strike was ruthless to the extreme.
This strike gathered all the fear and anger of the daemon.
On the loyalist position, a chorus of desperate exclamations rang out instantly.
"My Lady!!"
Saul Taviz's pupils contracted sharply. He subconsciously raised his Bolter, only to find that his body was as stiff as a stone statue under that violent sword aura, unable to even pull the trigger.
Nathaniel Garro let out a suppressed roar. His resilience as a Death Guard allowed him to barely take a step forward, but that step felt like stepping into solidified concrete, heavy and futile.
Rauth Solaart let out a painful cry.
Watching his dear friend, controlled by the daemon's will, unleash that venomous strike, and looking at the girl who had given him the only Hope, who was about to be swallowed by that strike, he felt as if his heart had been torn in two by that sword light.
On the battlefield, the only calm one was Leticia.
She stood quietly, her long black hair fluttering slightly in the violent sword wind.
Behind her, Terrania's small, pale face was filled with fear. Her small hand gripped Leticia's hem tightly, forcefully, as if it were the only anchor in the entire storm.
Leticia did not look back.
She simply raised her hand and patted Terrania's cold little hand gently, soothingly.
A tiny movement.
Yet it conveyed a conviction more firm than any language.
Rest assured.
I am here.
She knew that Fulgrim would never let this strike land.
Because a soul that had truly pursued [Perfection], even if only the last dregs remained, would never tolerate becoming an ugly, controlled [Counterfeit].
Sure enough.
Just as the sword tip, flashing with endless evil energy, was about to touch Leticia's slender neck, only a hair's breadth away.
Time seemed to freeze.
"Roar—!!!"
A roar, unlike any human sound, filled with extreme pain and an unyielding will, exploded from deep within Fulgrim's throat!
The lightning-fast sword tip came to an abrupt halt.
It stopped in mid-air, a mere hair's breadth from Leticia's skin.
The evil energy radiating from the sword tip, capable of corrupting stars, was easily blocked and purified by the invisible [Divine Charm] field in front of Leticia, failing to harm even a single strand of her hair.
Fulgrim's tall body remained frozen in mid-air in a bizarre posture.
His right arm still maintained the striking posture, the muscles on his arm bulging from extreme exertion, causing the gorgeous purple pauldrons to crack with hideous fissures.
The bones throughout his body were emitting an unbearable, teeth-gritting groan.
Veins bulged on his handsome face, sweat mixed with blood oozed continuously from his pores, and his expression was twisted to the extreme.
He was resisting.
Using his own remaining, Primarch-level, proud will.
Resisting the daemon's will within that magic sword, which was powerful enough to enslave gods.
This was the bloodiest, most tragic civil war erupting within his own body.
[Let go!!!]
The daemon inside the sword of laer issued a frantic, desperate roar.
[Submit to me! Offer her to me! I will grant you extreme pleasure beyond your imagination!!!]
"Get—"
Fulgrim's teeth gnashed together, making a clicking sound; every word seemed to be squeezed out from the cracks of his soul with all his remaining strength.
"—Out—"
His violet eyes were now completely torn by two distinct lights.
Half was the pure, greedy purple evil light belonging to the daemon.
The other half was his own, bright, golden light burning with an unyielding flame!
That was the glory light belonging to the Emperor's Children, the most primitive, belonging to the [Phoenix]!
He could betray the Emperor.
He could slaughter his brothers.
He could destroy worlds.
But he would never allow his will to be enslaved by another existence!
He, Fulgrim, Lord of the Phoenix, Gene-Father of the Emperor's Children Third Legion!
He would never be a slave to anything!
This was his pride as a Primarch, the final and most fundamental pride branded into the deepest part of his soul!
"—Of—My—Body!!!"
The last few words turned into a thunderous roar, filled with infinite anger and resolute will!
Boom!!!
A pure, golden psychic power, belonging to the Primarch's source, erupted in the core of his soul!
This power was not meant to attack anyone.
It served only one purpose.
To reclaim control of his own body!
[No—!!!]
The daemon inside the sword of laer, for the first time, issued a true cry of shock and fear.
It discovered with horror.
This perfect host, whom it thought had long been played in the palm of its hand and thoroughly corrupted by "pleasure" and "depravity."
This perfect, maturing soul fruit in its eyes.
Had actually ignited the flames of resistance again in the face of the higher-dimensional "True Item" displayed by that mysterious girl.
The pride of the Emperor's Children, which he had abandoned.
The glory of the Phoenix, which he had spurned.
At this moment, it had transformed into the sharpest holy blade capable of piercing it!
Its greed for Leticia was instantly replaced by a more intense emotion called [Fear].
It was afraid.
For the first time, toward a mortal, it felt this shameful emotion that had never existed in its long life.
It was afraid of that girl.
Afraid of the divinity radiating from her, an incomprehensible power that could make the fallen regain glory and the desperate ignite Hope.
That was not holy light.
That was not any kind of power it knew or could resist.
That was a "concept."
A higher-dimensional "Truth" that it could not understand, could not defile, and could not even look directly at.
Amidst Fulgrim's heavy, painful gasping.
Amidst the sword of laer's fearful, impotent, and furious wailing.
A calm, cold voice, as if from another world, drifted into the chaotic, bloody battlefield of the Phoenix's soul.
"Make your choice, Phoenix."
Leticia raised her eyes, her pitch-black, bottomless pupils quietly watching this pathetic demigod struggling in pain before her.
Her voice was devoid of any ripples, yet like a precise scalpel, it cut through all the chaos and clamor, reaching the core of the problem.
"Will you continue to be its slave?"
"Or..."
"Nirvana and rebirth?"
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