Here.
He thought, Yes, this is it. This is the place. No mistake. He took a labored breath, then wrapped his hand around his Chainsword and pressed the button at the end of the grip, activating it. The roar was as loud as ever, the Monofilament Saw-blade humming through the air. His thoughts began to wander again—What would happen if I put my arm against it?
He knew what would happen, but he could not help thinking it. Perhaps hurting oneself counted as a human instinct too.
But that was not the most pressing matter right now.
He walked forward slowly. The sounds coming from the darkness were still painfully loud. The monster's skin-crawling chewing and swallowing echoed endlessly through the narrow passage, making both sides of his temples throb, while a latent urge to kill forced him into a run.
Fulgrim closed the book.
He had no intention of reading any further. So far, the contents of this book had been dull.
He saw very little interesting description. The author seemed extremely fond of describing how the soldier in his story slaughtered monster after monster with a Chainsword, but the monsters he described had no concrete substance at all—not even an account of their appearance.
All the information the reader could glean from the text was that Monsters ate people, had thick hides and tough flesh, possessed immense strength, and came in great numbers.
Apart from that, there was nothing. Fulgrim could, of course, attach any number of names to this imaginary monster, but he did not want to.
If a creator could not even complete his own work and instead required the reader to fill in the gaps, then that creator was undoubtedly a third-rate, unqualified author.
As a reader, he only wanted to see a good story.