The Daemon Primarch faced two enemies at once.
The Butcher's Nails buzzed, and the Primarch's mind was almost entirely filled with the urge and desire to chop the two people before it into pieces and hack them into pulp.
But to Guilliman and Clone Angron's surprise, the Daemon Primarch did not immediately pounce and fight them to the death.
"Come, let me see how much power your betrayal has bought you." Guilliman held his sword in his right hand and spun it in a flourish.
This was merely a smug taunt, intended only to drive the Daemon Primarch into even greater rage and buy some time, not to show that the speaker was stronger than the listener.
After speaking, Guilliman glanced to his right.
In the blink of an eye, Khaban, commander of the Greater Demons, had been forced back again and again. That man, still powerfully built by mortal standards, was wielding transcendent strength in a battle that even ordinary Bloodletters could not approach or interfere with.
Guilliman felt reassured. He withdrew his gaze, gave the self-proclaimed "Thunder Warrior," Angrey, a meaningful look, then stepped back and circled the Daemon Primarch.
"Shut your filthy mouth, you fucking damned lapdog!" the Daemon Primarch roared back. "What makes you think you're such a fine figure yourself?"
Its retort sounded weak to Guilliman.
Guilliman merely listened in silence.
"You, Guilliman, you bastard, think back on yourself. Aren't you impulsive and hot-tempered?! I watched your duel with that bastard Mortarion in the Sea of Souls. Of course I know that even after tens of thousands of years, you still haven't changed your nature."
"Just like your damned brats. What were they called again? Oh, right. Sons of War."
"They were people who fought that damned slave-master father of yours to the very end.