Whoever Wins Is the Primarch, Whoever Loses Is the Clone

The ground crumbled inch by inch. The air around them grew violently hot, the smell of ozone sharp and pungent. Roaring lightning surged up from beneath the earth, while neatly sliced stones floated in midair.

What terrifying psychic power. The instant that power erupted, Azrael felt reality evaporate like dew beneath the sun, becoming thin and fragile.

The dreadful creature—the giant beast the Eldar called the Malice of Malan Tai—clearly raised its head and looked toward Azrael.

Azrael felt bone-deep malice. The psychic monster's feeding had been interrupted by Azrael's sword, and now it wanted to vent its rage upon him—

Bang!!!!!!

Sharp psychic tendrils suddenly stabbed out, their overwhelming power instantly tearing apart Azrael's shoulder guard.

Soul-deep agony swept through Azrael's entire body. Anyone with even slightly weaker willpower would likely have already descended into madness and mental collapse.

Azrael was thankful that his reflexes had come through once again. By the narrowest margin, he dodged the blow that could have shattered his soul in an instant.

But the instant that tendril grazed Azrael's shoulder, it changed direction, turned at a ninety-degree angle, and stabbed toward his face.

Hraell flashed forward. Once again displaying speed even greater than Azrael's, he used the broad two-handed sword in his hands to forcibly block the Malice of Malan Tai's psychic tendril.

"Move!!"

There was no need for Hraell to say more. Azrael moved, his blade slashing through and forcibly cleaving apart the psychic tendril. The resulting violent psychic shock made his arm ache, and his features twisted for an instant.

The Malice of Malan Tai let out a piercing shriek. The stones suspended in midair by his psychic power exploded directly into dust, while powerful psychic energy became surging waves mixed with sharp pressure that crashed toward the Imperial forces.

Many Astartes