"Well done."
As Lotara wrestled with complicated emotions, Khârn carried his great axe and let out a low cheer.
But his helmet concealed his expression, and Clone Angron could not tell whether the praise was sincere or merely something he said before doing what he wanted to do next.
Khârn took several steps forward, gradually closing to within five paces of the Clone Primarch.
What Khorne's Chosen intended to do was already obvious.
Angron's fingers ached from the excessive force he had used to yank at the Butcher's Nails. He had no choice but to grip his chainaxe again. To keep it from falling from his hand during the fight, he tore off a strip of armor lining with his teeth, then used his teeth to bind his arm and chainaxe together.
Back in the gladiatorial pits of Nuceria, the young Angron had tied his weapon to his arm this way whenever he fought himself to exhaustion.
As he made that motion, Clone Angron found himself absurdly laughable.
He was clearly only a clone... a counterfeit... filled with memories and experience he had never truly lived through...
Watching Clone Angron prepare to make another desperate stand against Khârn, Lotara hesitantly spoke. "Khârn, are you sure..."
"If I die in this fight, then you'll drive that Knight over and chop him to pieces," Khârn said without looking back.
Khârn remained in peak condition. Aside from his bare left arm, which was not covered by armor—as though it had "this is Khârn's weak point, attack here" written on it—he looked like a terrifying warrior so powerful that others would tremble before him.
And standing directly across from him was merely a clone of his Primarch, and a gravely wounded one at that.
Yet his years of combat experience made it difficult for