There were no heart-wrenching cries, no hysterical roars. He stood there as though time itself had frozen around him.
The golden flames that had once symbolized order and purification underwent a horrifying transformation.
The gold faded, as if drenched in the deepest ink, turning into an absolute black that devoured all light. The flames no longer radiated heat or brilliance. Instead, they carried a coldness that froze the soul, a stillness that heralded the end of all things.
If the golden flames had been holy fire that purified filth, then these black flames were silent death itself.
He moved.
There was no roar, no wasted motion. Like a killing machine set to a program, he charged into the horde of daemons.
The black flames in his hands were no longer swords or whips, but the purest and most efficient force of annihilation. Wherever he passed, space itself seemed to warp slightly. The daemons did not even have time to scream. The instant they touched the black flames, they were utterly erased from matter to soul, leaving not even a trace of ash, as though they had never existed.
Bloodletters' massive axes vaporized upon touching the black flames. The pus of plague zombies evaporated before it could draw near. The scheming runes of Tzeentch Horrors crumbled beneath the black radiance, while the seductive voices of Daemonettes were swallowed by absolute silence.
He advanced mechanically, punching, stepping forward. With every strike, a swath of daemons was cleared away. There was no technique, no pattern—only the most primal and direct destruction. A vast mass of daemons surged toward him, only to vanish in the next instant. More daemons filled the gaps, meeting the same fate. He seemed tireless, unceasing, forcibly carving a path through this scarlet and filthy hell, paved with absolute nothingness.