10 A Steadfast Believer in the Imperial Truth (II)

A blood vessel on the right side of his forehead had burst, blood pouring from it and swiftly staining his still-youthful face like a mottled canvas. The blood ran downward, splitting his face in two, while its owner screamed with all his strength, wholly unable to spare attention for anything else.

Scalding blood fell into his eyes, flooded his nose and mouth, and continued downward, winding like a river toward the uneven hills below. It reached his neck, where bulging veins and blood vessels had long been waiting.

Blood washed over them. His muscles tensed and spasmed without end, and his scream turned into a low roar, making one wonder where such a sound could possibly come from—how could a twelve-year-old child howl like this?

There was no love in it, no joy, none of the innocence and purity a child his age ought to possess. There was not even much of the beastliness born from pain.

There was only hate. Yes, there was only hate.

That hatred overwhelmed everything. It swept away all beauty and reduced a child's mind to the lowest, most laughable void of absurdity. It was merely hatred, yet it was enough to crush all else.

It defeated the body's instincts, devoured his intelligence, reason, and emotions, and did not spare even his soul.

It made the child grin madly with a blood-filled mouth, exposing chewed flesh and a dripping tongue, before bursting into wild laughter.

It made Fulgrim, Primarch of the Third Legion, tremble as he backed away, until his spine struck the wall and he finally swallowed a mouthful of cold saliva mingled with blood.

"...That's it."

He forced out the words, staring through the bulletproof glass at the child strapped to the iron bed, whispering in pain.

"He is seeing what I saw."