16: Walking with Fire (VIII)

Combat had been the primarchs' instinct from the moment they were embryos.

Even without anyone to teach them, they had been born knowing how to fight others, how to wield violence, and how to kill.

The Emperor had created each of these answers according to his needs for war. Had nothing gone wrong, the primarchs would have grown up in laboratories, receiving the Master of Mankind's instruction from childhood, and perhaps the galaxy would have become something entirely different.

Unfortunately, that was only a fantasy. The primarchs who had grown up alone on scattered worlds had not developed as the Emperor intended—yet interestingly, regardless of their differing personalities, origins, and experiences, they had all become peerless killing machines.

Horus Lupercal ranked among the foremost of them.

And now, beneath the blazing sun, two giants utterly identical to his portraits were fighting.

Barehanded.

Horus threw a right hook, striking his enemy like a cannonball. His enemy's eyes differed from his own. There was no rage in them, only calm and weariness, as though someone who had experienced too much were looking upon a far younger, ignorant child.

It was precisely that attitude that ignited his fury. He simply could not understand what his opponent was thinking.

From beginning to end, his enemy had never struck back, only dodged or defended. As a result, he had nearly been beaten raw, already drenched in blood.

But that did nothing to dispel Horus's viciousness—it had been bestowed upon him by life among Cthonia's gangs, had never left him, and had long since become the underlying color of his character. The honors and achievements he gained afterward had merely built upon it.

With a roar, Horus lunged forward and clamped both hands around his enemy's throat like pincers.

Blood surged upward. Breathing became difficult.

He