A duel was an art, and the standoff was a very important part of it.
Across human history, duels had taken countless forms—so many, in fact, that it was almost frightening. From men in lace-trimmed doublets crossing rapiers over the ones they loved, to two cowboys in the wild west standing face-to-face beneath the blazing sun, measuring willpower and the steadiness of their aim.
You had to admit, humans were very good at killing one another. Of course, they were also very good at killing xenos.
Mortarion stood before his adoptive father. The latter's face, even his entire form, was shrouded in darkness, and the heavy pressure he exuded was almost suffocating.
The Primarch could feel that pressure too. He tightened his grip on his scythe and said nothing. By coincidence, his adoptive father also held a scythe in his hand.
Only, his weapon was a farming tool. The one in the Witch King's hand, however, was a weapon made utterly and specifically for slaughter. Its edge was so sharp that one hardly dared look straight at it, and ghostly green flames burned quietly at the end of its haft.
The Witch King's voice was heavy, but also very calm. "Kneel now and beg me for mercy, and I will forgive your stupidity, as well as your audacity in descending the mountain without permission to mingle with those lesser creatures."
"No."
The moment that refusal was spoken, two points of ghostly green flame suddenly lit up on the Witch King's face, shrouded as it was in darkness. He gave a cold snort, and mountain-like pressure crashed down onto Mortarion's shoulders in an instant.
He began to sway, gasping with difficulty, but still forced himself to stand firm. His willpower surpassed the limits of his flesh, and something older than he