Mortarion had never fought such a difficult battle—he could swear that to anyone. Never.
Before today, he had never known he could endure such astonishing blows.
Now he stood before the Witch King, three fingers on his left hand no longer able to move because their tendons had been severed. He could feel his ribs were broken; with every breath, they brought pain.
His vision was dim and heavy, everything he looked at blurred in a fog. Perhaps that was because of a Psionic strike three minutes ago.
The Witch King was very patient. He slowly searched for opportunities, releasing each spell to make sure it would take effect on Mortarion.
Now the young Primarch had been burned by fire and struck by lightning. He did not know what would come next, but he believed he could still fight.
And he had to fight.
He panted, straightened, and shot out his right hand like lightning, seizing the Witch King's scythe. His own weapon had shattered long ago. Now, the weapon he relied on was his body.
His bones could rival the Witch King's scythe in hardness, but the pain was unavoidable. When that edge cut through his flesh and lodged against bone, sending a shudder through him, Mortarion still could not help letting out a muffled grunt.
The culprit sneered and retreated, all the way back into the darkness. Its caution was almost irritating. It never truly engaged the Primarch in close combat, only used every kind of trick to wear him down.
"You truly think you can win?" it questioned contemptuously. "Death's Child, it is not too late to admit defeat and kneel."
"Lies."
Mortarion clutched his right hand and watched the surrounding darkness warily. He had to stay utterly focused at every moment. The consequence of distraction was