Molten Steel (3)

Van Cleef could swear to his heart that he never imagined things would turn out this way. But for some reason, he was remarkably calm, without the slightest hint of anxiety.

At this moment, he stood silently beside Forrix of the Iron Warriors, the company commander of the First Company of the Iron Warriors and a member of the Trident Council of Perturabo.

Van Cleef had heard of this special position; there were only three of them, responsible for providing Perturabo with advice on military and other aspects, and they were his core advisors.

However, the Iron Warriors's company commander now looked extremely grim, a stark contrast to Van Cleef's expression.

"I can't believe it," he whispered angrily to Van Cleef. "What on earth are your instructors doing, Van Cleef?"

"I wish I knew," Van Cleef said, his eyes fixed straight ahead. "But, in my opinion, this won't be a very fair fight."

"Are you insane?" Forrix stared at him in disbelief. "Your instructor challenged our Primarch to a duel! Do you really think he could defeat a Primarch?!"

Van Cleef did not answer the question.

Listen to me, Van Cleef.

Forrix lowered his voice and spoke again.

"It's not too late to mediate now. My Primarch requests that all high-ranking officers be present. I don't know what your instructors are thinking, but if this gets out, it won't benefit either of us."

"Our instructors have made no demands of us," Van Cleef replied expressionlessly. "My presence here is purely out of personal interest."

"What did you say?" Forrix looked completely bewildered.

"You heard everything." Van Cleef finally turned around. "But, since you've asked me so many questions, I also have a few to ask you, Forrix. Is eleventh-round scrimmage a new tradition or discipline within your legion?"

"."

Forrix nodded silently, his face grim. "The Primarch told us about his ideals, his duties, and his expectations of us. He is a demanding leader, and we will do everything in our power to meet his requirements."

"And then, gain his approval?" Van Cleef asked. An emotion that Forrix couldn't quite understand was surfacing in his dark eyes. After a few seconds, he looked away and shook his head.

The company commander of the Iron Warriors would never admit that he actually felt relieved about this.

"Van Cleef— " Forrix forced himself to speak again. "—It's not too late. We must go down and stop this fight. Do you want to see the Iron Warriors and the Midnight Blade turn against each other?"

"First"

Van Cleef spoke softly.

"This battle has already begun, haven't you noticed? Second, Forrix. The you I knew in the past was a fair and just man. I don't know if that person is still around, but, Forrix from the Iron Warriors, I would like to ask you to answer a question."

"What's the problem?" The company commander of the Iron Warriors asked in a hoarse voice, suppressing his anxiety and unease.

"Do you really think Sergeant Eltelos deserves to die?" Van Cleef asked calmly.

"I won't comment on your tactics or your strict adherence to the time required to carry out orders. But I believe he absolutely did not deserve to die, especially not the extremely cruel punishment of eleven strokes. Go and see the nine officers who were with Sergeant Eltelos, go and see them, Forrix."

He slowly turned his head, his eyes icy cold—in that instant, Forrix found himself almost unrecognizable as the company commander of the Eighth Legion.

They had fought side by side on a battlefield, albeit briefly and unknown to others, but that was a fact. How could this be? He asked himself silently, but received no answer.

"As for now," Van Cleef withdrew his gaze, "Let's watch quietly. You should know better than I that your Primarch's will is unchangeable, Forrix."

The company commander of the Iron Warriors fell silent, then nodded absentmindedly.

Yes, Perturabo's will is unyielding; how can steel be bent by a few words?

"Let me make this clear from the start," Perturabo said coldly. "I won't kill you, Karyl Lohars. You may have insulted me, and even ignited a long-dormant rage within me, but that doesn't mean I'm going to murder you. I'll only take back what's rightfully mine."

Across the arena, Karyl smirked and asked softly, "What is it?"

"You'll find out," Perturabo replied slowly.

He lowered his head and flexed his left wrist one last time.

He wore the Terminator Armour he designed himself. This armor was connected to the data cables implanted within him, activating the command and control system hidden inside the armor. With it, he could control every unit of the Iron Warriors. Its power system was also calibrated by himself to ensure that every bit of power was used efficiently.

This was its first real-world application.

Perturabo was confident in it, even though he hadn't actually had time to mount the pair of twin wrist cannons onto the armor as originally planned.

"Are you ready?" his opponent asked from across the ring.

Perturabo sneered, lowered his head, and picked up a precision-engineered power hammer.

The armor worn by Karyl Lohars was a type he had never seen before; in fact, he preferred to call it a work of art rather than armor.

The rather form-fitting design, along with the cloak that served no purpose in combat, even made Perturabo want to laugh—who on earth designed such a foolish suit of armor? What use was it for fighting, or even for war?

Utterly ridiculous

"Come on," Perturabo said coldly.

He knew that Karyl Lohars was a formidable opponent, even having "gone to Lorgar Aurelian's throats," but that didn't mean anything.

Lorgar told him everything in detail, without hiding anything. In Perturabo's view, Lorgar's defeat was purely because Karyl Lohars had the upper hand and was caught off guard.

Although he didn't know why this person possessed a physique on par with the Primarch,

Why should he lose? He has taken it seriously enough and made sufficient preparations; he will definitely win. He will take back everything that belongs to him without leaving a trace.

A ring, respect, and an apology.

Perturabo gripped his Warhammer, a cold smile playing on his lips, and took a step forward. Karyl stood still, unmoved.

The skull was slightly tilted, and there was nothing behind the dark eye sockets. Perturabo smiled contemptuously, meeting the gaze of those eye sockets—he didn't even intend to launch an attack; he wanted Karyl Lohars to fully understand the difference between them.

Wearing Power Armour, I am far beyond your ability to contend with. You might have been able to resist my attacks before, but I wasn't using my full strength then, and you simply didn't have the power to fight me.

The skeleton ignored Perturabo's sneer. He simply lowered his head slightly, and the next second, a sudden change occurred. A chilling blue light abruptly shone in his dark eye sockets, and a cold aura appeared. The metal that made up the ground began to creak.

The once unremarkable cloak began to twist and turn, transforming into a pure shadow that lurked beneath. The black and white armor, resembling the skeleton of the dead, emitted a blindingly intense light from its gaps, accompanied by a sound similar to the release of steam from a machine.

Then, Karyl Lohars vanished completely from his sight, as if he had never existed.

Perturabo's pupils contracted sharply. He roared and raised his Warhammer to protect his face.

His initial thought of not wearing a helmet so others could see his ease and skill vanished, along with the immense force emanating from his hands and Warhammer. He hadn't even seen where the attack had come from.

Worse still, before he could even finish his thought process, a new wave of attacks had already begun.

This wasn't "speed"; it had transcended the realm of speed. The air was torn apart, and the resounding clang of metal echoed from the Warhammer Perturabo held aloft. The sound was deafening, almost like thunder, reverberating throughout the entire arena.

Perturabo's eyes widened, he took a deep breath, and prepared for a defensive counterattack.

Such speed was undoubtedly related to the steam and blue light. His enemies could not maintain this state for long. Moreover, if they focused on speed, their defensive capabilities would be weak. He rationally waited for that opportunity, and his rationality did not disappoint him.

For a fleeting moment, Perturabo saw a flash of blue light.

He immediately grinned maliciously, his wrist twisting, and with immense force and boundless rage, he swung the Warhammer out. A sonic boom erupted with the blow, accompanied by Perturabo's furious roar, "Got you!"

"Bang--!"

As if a tank had been smashed, a heavy, muffled thud suddenly descended. Perturabo stared wide-eyed in disbelief—he found his Warhammer firmly held in someone's hand, and the Displacer Field that had been activated earlier had vanished without a trace.

The massive hammerhead fit snugly into the black and white gauntlet, as if it had been this shape since it was created from the mold.

"Yes." The skeleton nodded slightly to him. "And then, what will you do, great Perturabo?"

As soon as he finished speaking, a sickening metallic creaking sound rang out. His power hammer began to tremble violently. Perturabo gritted his teeth and yanked his wrist, trying to wrest the hammer back, but he could no longer do so, for it had been completely taken from him.

"What a fine weapon," the skeleton said in its twisted and terrifying voice. "What a pity."

What a pity!

The answer will be revealed in the next second.

He held the hammerhead in his right hand and gripped the handle with his left. Then, he began to exert force. The precision-engineered power hammer, which was already showing signs of damage, crackled violently at this moment, arcs of electricity crackling around it, but the skeleton remained completely unmoved.

He simply and slowly, gently, and unstoppably used his hands to gradually turn the power hammer into a twisted lump of scrap metal.

Then, he casually tossed it out, and it landed squarely at Perturabo's feet.

Outside the dueling arena, the Iron Warriors who had come to watch were deathly silent. Van Cleef silently curled the corners of his lips, turned and left without a word. None of the Night Lords came except for him, and he felt that there was no need to watch this duel any longer.

The outcome is decided.

But Van Cleef still couldn't understand one thing—why would a great Primarch look like this?

In the dueling arena, Perturabo clenched his fists silently, the Terminator Armour humming as the metal rubbed against each other. He spoke in a hoarse voice, anger still etched on his face, but more so a sense of bewilderment.

"You"

"Shh."

Perturabo was stunned for a moment, then his confusion vanished instantly, replaced by a surge of anger that shattered the last vestiges of his rationality.

He roared and charged forward, his pre-battle "no-kill declaration" completely gone. Now he only wanted to do one thing: make the person who dared to treat him like a child taste the pain he was in now!

Then, he was sent flying backward, as if he had been hit head-on by a siege engine. He crashed heavily into the special alloy wall of the Iron Blood Duel Arena, leaving his mark on it.

The world spun around him; the immense impact even made him unable to think for a moment, while his enemy slowly approached, strolling leisurely as if attending a banquet.

"Do you remember what I told you before, Perturabo?" The skeleton stopped beside him and spoke softly. "I'll make you bleed, your forehead swell, your fingers bend, your ribs break."

He chuckled softly, then stretched out his foot and stepped on Perturabo's right hand.

The Iron Warriors remained deathly silent, these warriors holding themselves firmly in their own hands—before the battle began, their Primarch had given a death order: no one was to be allowed to disturb the duel, and those who disobeyed would die, their names forever banished from the Legion.

Therefore, they could only watch helplessly as their Primarch were reduced to a miserable state. They could only watch as the "instructor" swung his arm and tore open the special Terminator Armour as if dismantling a toy. With a mournful cry of steel, Perturabo was pulled out of the armor.

"Are you ready?" the skeleton asked softly.

Perturabo, his neck gripped, gasped for breath, suffering from oxygen deprivation, but that didn't stop him from throwing punches, trying to loosen the grip. He could still fight, he could still—yes, he definitely could still fight. He would find a chance to turn the tables, he would!

"No, you won't." The skeleton shook his head, raising his right hand. "This is a battle you are destined to lose, great Perturabo. By the way, Sergeant Eltelos asked me to give you his regards; he said he doesn't blame you."

The skeleton let out a low, cold laugh.

"But I will."

He swung his right fist, and the painful sound of flesh colliding immediately rang out, accompanied by Perturabo's hoarse scream—was it from the pain, or from Karyl Lohars' words?

No one knows.

Update complete!

I managed to beat up Plankton and write 10,000 words before the deadline, hehe.

To be continued tomorrow.