Purple Phoenix, Fulgrim!

At the moment that purple, uncanny figure appeared, the air in the battleship's corridor grew thick and heavy, filled with a sweet, blasphemous scent.

"It's you—!"

Alvin had never seen Guilliman, renowned for his composure, wear such a stricken expression. Even his voice brimmed with a hatred so deep it could not be dispelled.

In the depths of those azure eyes, the ice of calm and reason for which he was famed seemed to crack with the appearance of that "uncanny purple" figure.

"Fulgrim—"

The Primarch spoke the name softly.

The name, the figure, and even the voice were like invisible hands, dragging at the Primarch's reason and pulling him down into the nightmare abyss of Ten Thousand Years Ago.

Fulgrim? Fulgrim!

At first, Alvin had been bewildered by the purple figure who had suddenly joined the battle and rescued Abaddon, wondering who he was.

But the instant the name escaped Guilliman's lips, Alvin's buried memories surfaced as well, flashing through his mind.

Fulgrim, the Phoenix's Son, the fallen Emperor's Child.

Once the master of the Third Legion, he had been renowned for his pursuit of perfection.

Yet this perfect Legion, with its perfect Primarch, had fallen into Chaos's vortex during the Horus Heresy and become a follower of Slaanesh.

If there had ever been a Primarch whom Guilliman considered a "friend," Fulgrim would have been the one.

He had been so dazzling, like a phoenix's feathers—noble, splendid, and utterly perfect. In strategy, tactics, and politics alike, Guilliman had believed Fulgrim was a kindred spirit.

But fate had other plans.

This very Primarch, so perfect in every way, had ultimately become a follower of Slaanesh.

And perhaps...

The seeds of disaster had been planted long before.

Fulgrim's pursuit of absolute perfection went beyond his own martial skill and appearance. It