Fulgrim

"Stop."

A calm voice, yet imbued with an irresistible will, rang out.

It's Guilliman.

He remained standing at the edge of the reviewing stand, the Emperor's Sword pointing diagonally at the ground, golden flames burning steadily.

He didn't even turn around; he simply raised his left hand slightly towards the jubilant army and civilians behind him, making a clear "stop" gesture.

As if blocked by an invisible dam, the boiling fighting spirit and momentum of the charge instantly froze.

The Ultramarines abruptly halted their advance. Though their muscles beneath their armor remained taut and their weapons held high, they chose absolute obedience—obedience to the commands of their Gene-Father.

Guilliman's gaze remained fixed on the core of the ever-churning, condensing purple mist.

His eyes held neither the soldiers' fury nor the ordinary person's fear.

There was only a cold, calm demeanor, as if examining some failed work of art, and beneath it, a barely perceptible trace of... sorrow.

"Step back."

Guilliman's voice wasn't loud, but it carried clearly to everyone's ears. "This is... a 'space' that belongs only to us 'brothers'."

brother?

This term sent a deep jolt through the hearts of many veterans who knew history.

As if to confirm Guilliman's words, the center of the thick purple mist suddenly collapsed and shaped itself inward!

A figure, twisted to the extreme yet strangely exuding a morbid "elegance," stepped silently out from the boundary between illusion and reality.

The first thing that catches the eye is six arms that are so long they defy human proportions, covered with a bewitching purplish-black keratin layer and fine silver scales.

They do not grow haphazardly, but rather stretch out in a seemingly casual yet meticulously "designed" posture, with each arm's joints being exceptionally flexible and fingertips as sharp as knives.

One of the main arms wielded a pair of devilish scimitars with astonishingly curved edges, their blades flowing with iridescent rainbow light and eliciting agonizing howls.

"The Laparicia's Delight" and "The Deserat's Pain".

These divine weapons, once belonging to the Emperor's Children, have now utterly degenerated into playthings of Slaanesh.

The lower half of the figure was not legs, but a thick, powerful purple snake tail covered with larger, more ornate scales, which twisted and turned, leaving wet and shiny trails of slime on the ground.

The serpent's tail did not end in spikes, but in a bizarre flower that never faded, composed of living flesh and crystal, exuding an even more intense aura of allure and decay.

His torso proportions are near perfect, with smooth and explosive muscle lines.

Yet it is adorned with luxurious jewels, sharp crystal piercings, and blasphemous runes that seem to have been tattooed with pain.

A head of long, silver hair, flowing like moonlight, cascaded down her back, with stars and Whisper seemingly swirling within its strands.

But what's most captivating is that face.

Once hailed as having the most handsome face among the Primarch, it still retains its striking features.

However, her skin had an unnatural pearly luster, and her narrow eyes were a pure and alluring purple with vertical pupils.

It is permeated with endless lust, madness, and a distorted pursuit of "perfection."

The Third Primarch, the Primarch of the Emperor's Children, formerly known as the "Purple Phoenix".

Fulgrim, one of Slaanesh's most favored Daemon Prince.

The moment he descended, without words or announcements, the oppressive aura emanating from his Primarch essence and the soaring corrupted Psionic Energy spoke volumes.

The air seemed to freeze, the space around him distorted slightly, and the light refracted into a mesmerizing, iridescent glow.

His mere existence here is the ultimate mockery and trampling of the laws of the Realspace and human ethics.

Fulgrim's vertical purple pupils immediately locked onto Guilliman on the reviewing stand.

The corners of his mouth slowly curved upwards, forming a perfect arc that could bewitch mortals but disgust loyalists.

He spoke, and his voice did not travel through the air, but resonated directly in the depths of everyone's minds.

Magnetic, languid, and with a hook-like allure, every syllable seems to tease the listener's most primal senses.

"How...perfect! My dear brother, Robert."

His six arms stretched out gracefully like a dancer on a stage, as if embracing the entire square and the lingering golden light of faith.

"Look at this sight, feel this power! The torrent of pure faith from billions of people... How magnificent, how sweet!"

They shaped you, propelled you, and lifted you to such a fascinating height."

Fulgrim's tone was filled with undisguised admiration, even a hint of jealousy, "A Daemon Prince... strictly speaking, you are a Daemon Prince of ' Chaos Undivided '."

You no longer belong to our four game-loving masters, nor even... to our 'father' who sits on the throne, growing increasingly decaying.

He "swam" forward a short distance, the sound of his snake tail slicing across the ground rustling, and the eerie flowers swaying gently.

But you truly 'belong' to humanity.

You are a completely new 'being' formed and created from their purest desires and most fervent faith.

A gleam of discovery shone in Fulgrim's eyes:

"Apart from our father who bound himself to the human race, you are the first, the first to receive such an 'honor'."

A demigod born from 'faith' itself...

Oh, this is so charming, little brother, you've exceeded all my expectations, you're so much more perfect than that dull and uninteresting person from ten thousand years ago."

His words were enticing, as if inviting Guilliman to appreciate this "achievement" together, and hinting at a more "sublime" belonging:

"You should carry this honor, this 'nobility' that originates from the hearts of millions, and accompany me to the Palace of Pleasure..."

That is the ultimate sanctuary for exploring the true meaning of life and discovering the limits of joy.

We can savor eternity together.

Guilliman's reaction to his fallen brother's twisted "praise" and blatant seduction was unexpected.

He did not rebuke, argue, or even immediately draw his sword.

He simply tilted his head slightly, then covered his forehead with one hand, his gesture filled with a kind of... unbearable helplessness and disgust.

"Yes, I am 'perfect'."

Guilliman lowered his hand, his tone calm, but his next words were like poisoned ice needles:

"But look at you, Fulgrim. You... you're so ugly I can't bear to look at you."

"..."

The perfect smile on Fulgrim's face froze for a moment.

A clear look of astonishment flashed in his vertical pupils.

No... I was complimenting you!

My artistic entrance and praise were met with insults the moment I opened my mouth!

Guilliman, however, seemed oblivious to his reaction, and walked a few steps forward to the edge of the reviewing stand.

Looking down at Fulgrim's mutated body with an almost condescending gaze, as if appraising a failed sculpture, he scrutinized it from head to toe.