Those dozens of Emperor's Children were Fulgrim's most fanatical followers.
Their souls had long been deeply twisted and thoroughly corrupted by the vicious, demonic nature of the sword of laer.
In their frenzied perception, pain was pleasure, destruction was art, and depravity was the only ladder to ultimate perfection.
The scene before them was an intolerable betrayal.
It was the most absolute sacrilege.
"Kill that heretic!"
"For the lord of pleasure!"
Beastly roars erupted from their twisted throats.
In their crimson eyes burned a tainted, frenzied faith.
They raised their Bolters, the muzzles spitting tongues of angry flame.
They activated their Chainswords, the piercing roar forming the most vicious curse against the new god.
From all directions, like a pack of hyenas that had caught the scent of blood, they charged toward that tranquil, holy center.
They wanted to tear the black-haired goddess to pieces.
They wanted to thoroughly destroy the newborn "perfection" that dared to "purify" their father.
Facing this sudden, murderous, and blasphemous siege.
Fogrimia did not even stand up.
She remained kneeling there on one knee.
Kneeling before her goddess, her creator.
As if the storm behind her, capable of tearing steel apart, were merely a few annoying summer cicadas chirping in futility.
In her eyes, there was only that black, calm figure.
Her world consisted only of her goddess.
However, a flicker of cold displeasure at having her sacred ritual interrupted flashed within those brilliant, deep purple eyes.
"Noisy flies."
She spoke softly; the voice was gentle and melodious, yet carried an absolute, divine indifference.
"How dare you interrupt my offering to the goddess?"
Before the words had even faded.
She slowly raised her fair right hand, clad in a pink-purple crystal gauntlet.
Hum—
In the air, those warm, pink-purple motes of light belonging to the power of Divine Charm, as if summoned by a monarch, frantically converged toward her palm.
The light condensed.
It took shape.
An elegantly shaped, long-bladed pink-purple crystal sword, composed entirely of pure divine radiance, silently condensed and formed in her hand.
That sword did not look like a weapon.
It was more like the most perfect work of art, carved by the hands of a god.
A dreamlike luster, like that of a newborn nebula, flowed across the blade; every flicker seemed to play the most harmonious symphony of the universe.
Yet the blade, sharp enough to cut through the laws of reality, exuded an absolute, lethal majesty that made every soul tremble.
And at that very moment.
The attack from those dozens of rebels arrived.
The roar of Bolters, the screech of sonic weapons, and the frenzied whine of Chainswords.
Countless attacks filled with the aura of destruction and Chaos formed a great net of death, descending from all directions upon the two still figures!
The next instant.
Fogrimia's figure vanished.
Without warning.
Without movement.
She just vanished from where she stood, out of thin air.
As if she had never existed.
Immediately after.
Flashes of elegant, lethal, dreamlike pink-purple sword light suddenly lit up amidst the chaotic, frenzied ranks of the rebels.
That was not a battle.
It was the most magnificent and bloody ballet performed on the edge of death.
Every flash of the sword was like a master artist using the sharpest brush to add a touch of poignant, deadly color to this filthy canvas.
The sword light was not fast.
It even seemed somewhat unhurried.
Yet those corrupted Emperor's Children were completely unable to react.
Their senses, their brains, and their nerves, enhanced by Chaos energy, were as sluggish as rusted gears in the face of this miraculous swordsmanship that transcended the limits of their understanding.
They could only watch helplessly as that beautiful, pink-purple sword light traced an elegant arc across their retinas.
Then, their world began to spin.
They saw their own headless bodies still charging forward.
They saw the faces of their comrades, frozen in extreme fear and bewilderment.
They saw that dark red, filthy sky they would never be able to touch again.
The entire process took no more than a few breaths.
The sword light faded.
The clamor ceased.
When everyone's vision was finally able to refocus.
Fogrimia had returned to her original spot.
Still in that impeccable, one-knee kneeling posture.
As if she had never left.
Her magnificent pink-purple crystal armor, clinging to every inch of her skin, was not stained by a single speck of blood or dust.
Her silver hair, as brilliant as moonlight, had not been ruffled in the slightest by the violent movement.
She remained that perfect, holy, and devout "statue."
And behind her.
Those dozens of violent Space Marines who had launched the attack were frozen in place.
Their bodies still held their charging, attacking postures.
But their heads had long since been separated from their bodies.
Thud— Thud—
One after another, heads wearing purple helmets rolled to the ground, emitting a series of dull sounds.
Immediately after, those massive, headless bodies in power armor collapsed with a crash.
The cuts were as smooth as a mirror.
Not even a single drop of blood had splattered.
Because the moment that sword light, imbued with the power of Divine Charm, sliced through their necks, all the blood in their bodies had been completely vaporized by that pure divine power.
Silence.
Deathly silence.
The remaining hundreds of Emperor's Children warriors who had not yet completely fallen stared blankly at this miraculous scene before them.
Their brains had completely stopped thinking.
The frenzied combat aesthetic they believed in and pursued, filled with violence and destruction.
In the face of this elegant, precise, and composed "perfect swordsmanship" that elevated slaughter itself into art at a higher dimension.
Appeared so crude.
So ugly.
So ridiculous.
They looked at the silver-haired sword maiden kneeling before the black-haired goddess.
Looking at her face, which transcended gender boundaries and was breathtakingly perfect.
Looking at her brilliant purple eyes, filled with devotion and fanaticism.
An unprecedented, subversive realization exploded deep within their souls.
This...
This is true "perfection."
This is the supreme "perfection" their Third Legion had been seeking since its inception!
They were wrong.
Wrong, outrageously so.
They had been following a fake, running wildly along a twisted, fallen, and dirty path.
And the true deity, the true perfection, was right here.
Before them.
Clang—
A crisp sound of metal hitting the ground abruptly broke the deathly silence.
An Emperor's Children warrior dropped his Bolter.
In his eyes, the bloodthirsty madness was gone, replaced by a kind of fanatical, enlightened, and epiphanic tears.
He knelt down.
Toward the one who was once his Gene-Father, now the embodiment of perfection.
Toward the black-haired goddess whom he had never seen before, but now revered as his supreme faith.
He offered his belated, humble knees.
This action was like an order, like a signal.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
The crisp sounds of metal hitting the ground rose and fell, merging into one.
Hundreds of Emperor's Children dropped their weapons.
They removed the helmets that symbolized betrayal and depravity.
On their faces streamed tears of remorse, rebirth, and ecstatic joy.
They were like a purple tide.
A tide of faith, filled with devotion and fanaticism.
They knelt down toward that holy center with a crash.
"We are guilty!"
"We are willing to follow true perfection!"
"Hail the Phoenix! Hail the Goddess!"
The roaring, fanatical chants of faith echoed throughout the ruins of Isstvan III.
Saul Taviz, the loyal Captain of the Emperor's Children, stared blankly at this magical scene before him, one worthy of being recorded in epic poetry.
He watched those former comrades who had just been fighting them to the death, now kneeling at the feet of that goddess even more devoutly than they, the loyalists.
He exchanged a glance with Nathaniel Garro beside him.
From the eternally stoic, stone-like face of the Death Guard Commander, he saw a trace of profound shock identical to his own.
They no longer had any hesitation.
Saul Taviz stepped forward, leading all the surviving loyalist warriors from various legions.
In perfect unison, they knelt on one knee.
Their movements were filled with military solemnity and gravity.
"My Lady."
Saul Taviz's voice was unprecedentedly solemn, and unprecedentedly devout.
"All survivors of Isstvan III are willing to offer you our loyalty."
"Please allow us to follow your radiance until the end of death."
Leticia stood quietly, accepting this roaring, overwhelming pledge of allegiance from all directions.
She looked at Fogrimia kneeling before her.
Looking at that kneeling ocean of purple.
Looking at Saul Taviz's face, which was filled with determination.
She knew that her first step had succeeded.
She now possessed the first Space Marine legion of her own.
She was just about to open her mouth to accept this heavy loyalty.
Just then.
BOOM—!!!
The entire world, without warning, shook violently!
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