No Escape!
He saw--
In the First Age, Guilliman first wielded his sword on the snowfields of Macragge —that was the beginning!
During the Great Crusade, Guilliman's strategic planning across Five Hundred Worlds was truly remarkable!
Horus Heresy, Guilliman's desperate defense and counterattack—that forging!
After a millennium of slumber, Guilliman's struggle and transcendence within the nightmares of Warp —that sublimation!
At this moment, in this place, this punch—
It is the sum of every minute, every second, every swing of the sword, every decision, every moment spent burning the will for the Imperium, and every moment of bearing the burden for humanity over the past ten thousand years!
Within the Warp, countless phantoms of Guilliman simultaneously materialized!
Each of the afterimages adopted the same punching stance.
Every phantom image casts its gaze toward the same coordinate.
Angron!
There's nowhere to hide! Nowhere to escape! Nowhere to hide! Nowhere to conceal!
That's an attack with no blind spots!
That's a deadly strike that locks in cause and effect!
That was an ultimate blow that could not be avoided, blocked, or escaped!
Once that punch truly lands—
Even Lesser God of the Warp will be completely erased, leaving not a trace of their will or a lingering echo in the vast expanse of time!
Khorne rose from the Brass Throne!
His eyes were ablaze with blood, like the first massacre at the beginning of creation!
His chest heaved, as if the invincible god of war had finally found an opponent worthy of his expectations!
His roar shook the seven layers of the Warp, and countless bloodthirsty Greater Daemon trembled and knelt before it!
"Fight!!"
Khorne's voice was not one of anger, but of ecstasy!
"Robert, the Son of War --!!!"
"You are destined to be the most magnificent warrior in the Milky Way galaxy of this world!!!"
"You are destined to unleash that unprecedented, invincible, epoch-making, and eternally powerful punch—the supreme punch—!!!"
Go!
"I've been looking forward to it--"
"Eternity!!!"
The Blood God is roaring and laughing maniacally!
Let's cheer for that punch that's about to land—a punch that belongs neither to Him nor to any Chaos Gods, but solely to the purest and ultimate essence of "war" itself!
That was a cheer from the god of war!
And Angron, bathed in that gust of wind, was like a lone boat standing in the eye of a hurricane.
He smiled.
He recalled Guilliman's earlier comment about "thirty percent of their strength."
fraud.
30%?
It's less than one in a thousand, bro.
He opened his arms, just as Guilliman had opened his arms to meet his axe blade.
Get ready for this punch.
"Come."
He said.
The voice was calm, like a salute to an opponent in an arena.
"Let me see--"
"The full power of the God of the Material Universe"
Guilliman's face was as cold and hard as ancient iron.
That's the demeanor of a true king.
That was an emperor.
Alone and isolated.
"First punch--!!!"
Boom--!!!
The punch struck Angron's right side!
There was no sound.
There was no light.
Only the collapse of existence itself!
Angron's right arm, right shoulder, right chest, and half of his face—along with the Warp curse mark that had accumulated over millennia attached to them—silently turned into the finest dust the instant the fist touched him!
It wasn't a scene of flying blood and flesh.
It wasn't just wreckage scattered everywhere.
It disappeared.
Complete and utter erasure from the material realm!
But Angron did not fall.
He didn't even back down.
The remaining left half of his face still bore that relieved smile.
"Second punch--!!!"
Guilliman's second punch, following the momentum of the first, struck again at the same coordinates with an incredible angle and trajectory!
This punch--
Angron's remaining left half of his body, torso, and legs--
Completely crushed!
It's not death.
It is a decomposition that is deeper than death.
His Primarch body, forged from Primarch genes, Khorne's blessing, and millennia of battles, was like a sandcastle facing a tsunami before this punch that contained the fundamental laws of the Material Universe. It instantly reverted to the most basic primordial particles and dissipated into the air of the arena!
The arena was deathly silent.
Only the fine, red sand-like dust particles drifted slowly down in the setting sun.
That's Angron.
That was the last trace left by the Twelfth Primarch in the Material Universe.
However--
Guilliman didn't stop.
He gathered his strength once more.
His gaze pierced through Angron's vanished body, through the sands of the arena, through Baal's crust and the heavens, through the eternal the Veil between the Realspace and the Warp—
It locked onto the depths of the Warp, where a wisp of spiritual light, entangled in blood and rage, torn apart by millennia of pain and regret, teetered precariously on the edge of the Khorne's Realm.
That is the Warp Essence of Angron.
That is a fragment of the prototype of the "God of Emotion and Strife" from the beliefs of mankind over millions of years.
That too is a soul that has been Khorne, corrupted by the Butcher's Nails, and bound by its own hatred and rejection for ten thousand years.
Guilliman's third punch was fully charged.
His fists were no longer aimed at the remnants of the material world.
Instead, it hurtled straight into Warp!
It is not a projection of Psionic Energy, nor is it an extension of thought.
It is the embodiment of the Material Universe, transcending dimensions, and blasting its physical body into the the Warp!
"Die, brother!"
Guilliman's roar exploded at the boundary between matter and the Warp, like the first thunderclap at the beginning of creation!
Only after death can new life begin!
"Destroy the old and build the new! Fearless and without regret!"
"This is true struggle--!!!"
His fist struck the very essence of that broken and battered fighting spirit!
"This death—is mine, the Son of War— "
"This is for you, God of War--!!!"
Boom----!!!
The third punch completely shattered the Warp Essence that had been entangled with Angron's soul for millennia!
That lingering light, carrying the divinity of "emotions and struggle."
At the instant Guilliman's fist touched him, it first contracted violently, like the final pulse of a dying star; then—
It exploded with a bang!
It's not destruction, it's liberation!
A divine seed twisted by the Butcher's Nails, corrupted by the power of Khorne, and bound by Angron's self-loathing for millennia.
With this punch, it was like a spring bud breaking through the frozen soil, freeing itself from all shackles!
That light was no longer the crimson anger, no longer the filthy madness.
Rather, it was pure, fiery, like the never-setting sun over the red sands of Nuceria's homeland—
The flames of struggle!
Deep within the Warp, atop the Brass Throne, Khorne abruptly returned to his throne.
He was panting.
It was as if we had just experienced an epic battle.
His eyes still held ecstasy, but now also a complex sense of melancholy unlike anything seen before.
"...Good." The Blood God said in a deep voice, his voice echoing in the empty crimson hall, "Good punch."
He did not try to stop him.
There was no attempt to take it back.
Because that punch was more than just power.
That was a gift.
It was the Son of War, the last and first gift he gave to his brother.
Its name is Freedom.
In the center of the arena, Guilliman slowly withdrew his fist.
He lowered his head, his chest heaving, and his heavy breathing was clearly audible in the stillness.
Those three punches nearly exhausted all the source of power he, as the God of Matter, could mobilize in a short period of time.
But he did not fall.
He simply stood there quietly, amidst the boundless, red sand-like dust of light, in an emptiness where there were no nails to remove, no sins to atone for, and no shackles to break.
He waited.
One second.
Two seconds.
Three seconds.
Then--
Amidst the swirling red sand and dust, a faint yet incredibly resilient light, as pure as a newly born star, slowly coalesced.
That's Angron.
Not a butcher driven by rage, not a prisoner consumed by regret, not prey coveted by Chaos Gods.
That was him at the beginning.
It was on the red sands of Nuceria, that young gladiator holding a wooden sword, standing behind his adoptive father, his eyes still shining.
He was a free man who, before the Emperor's arrival, dreamed of liberating his compatriots and dying gloriously as a warrior.
That glimmer of light grew larger and brighter.
Finally, amidst countless held breaths and bursts of tears—
Uniting people.