Beyond anger, what was true?
Sanguinius panted as he swung the blade. He could barely keep his grip on the heavy Greatsword. The scorching sun overhead only made the agony worse; he even had to grit his teeth and force out his strength just to drive the great blade into his enemy's body.
The Minotaur cried out in pain, collapsed, and its corpse dissolved into flowing light.
Which one was that?
The Mage's voice answered his confusion at just the right moment. "The forty-seventh. Not bad, Sanguinius."
"Thank you for the praise, Captain... but can we stop and rest for a while?"
Sanguinius planted the Greatsword in the dark-red sand beneath his feet and raised a hand to wipe the sweat from his brow. If word of this got out, probably no one would believe it—the Angel of Baal was drenched in sweat after killing just forty-seven Minotaurs?
Unfortunately, it was true.
"Not yet, Sanguinius. You're still far from your limit." The Mage refused him with considerable ruthlessness. "It's perfectly normal for you to feel tired. After all, your current physical capabilities are only at a mortal level."
The Archangel smiled bitterly.
If he could do it all over again, if Sanguinius could go back to three hours ago, he would have told Fulgrim with utter gratitude and sincerity—thank you for your blessing, but I'm afraid I'll need more. And not just a little good luck.
Three hours ago, when he had stepped out of the Portal, what the Archangel saw had not been that familiar study, but a circular pit. Seats and enormous light-admitting fissures had been carved into the natural rock walls. Sunlight spilled down from overhead and through the cracks, and beneath his feet was a dark-red sandpit.
Without a doubt, this was an arena, and from