The onrushing smoke was black as rotting flesh, yet carried a hint of green within its depths.
Leman Russ roared as he swung Mjolnir, the blade the Fenrisian devoutly called the Sword of Night slicing lightly yet heavily across the enemy's abdomen.
Its body was split open at once by the blow, its organs spilling out and dropping steaming onto the snow. Before long, they had melted out a pit.
Yet it still was not dead. It even stretched out its withered claws, trying to seize the Wolf King's armor. Just then, a warhammer descended from the sky and crushed its head straight into powder.
"Vulkan!"
The Wolf King shouted, gratitude in his voice, along with a trace of dissatisfaction.
He quickly tossed out a quip amid the raging snow. "You stole my prey. I was planning to keep its head as a trophy! How am I supposed to show off to my sons now?"
The Lord of the Fire Drakes gave a low chuckle and did not answer.
He and Russ had very similar bearing in battle; both could be described with the word terrifying. Ferrus Manus had once remarked that he was like a god of destruction, and Vulkan agreed. The Lord of the Fire Drakes knew his own strength, and so in ordinary times, he had always restrained himself.
But now, there was no need.
He raised his left hand, and Dawnbreaker was swung once more. In that instant, pure violence was revealed beyond all doubt.
The primarch's dreadful strength made the Walking Corpses fall like wheat under a scythe. Flesh and blood flew, their bodies hammered apart by force while still in midair, melting away, unable even to remain whole.
However, even more Walking Corpses soon swarmed in to occupy the gap he had just created