Facing the Enemy

It used to be the Caliban.

That happened ten thousand years ago.

Back then, it was a lush, desolate Death World, covered with endless forests, hiding countless wild beasts, and nurturing one of humanity's greatest Primarch.

At that time, ancient power flowed through its soil, a mysterious aura permeated its air, and something powerful enough to change the universe slumbered deep within it.

Today, it's called Dragon Spirit Star.

But it is no longer Caliban.

It hovers deep within the Somrim Star-Snatching Belt, surrounded by a dense Chaos Fleet, like a heart besieged by a pack of wolves.

Its size surpasses that of any Imperium fortress—it is not a naturally formed world, but a mobile Daemon World reconstructed by Vashtorr using fragments of Caliban, the most insane creation of the Dark Mechanicum, and the most fortified stronghold of the Chaos Alliance.

Its former appearance has completely disappeared.

Those ancient forests that once covered the entire planet have now become a factory jungle made of metal and flesh.

Countless chimneys rose from the ground, spewing out murky smoke mixed with Warp energy, obscuring the sky and shrouding the entire world in eternal darkness.

The wild beasts that once inhabited the forest have now been replaced by the Daemon Engine.

Colossal mechanical creatures roam the surface, their bodies forged from steel, their blood hot machine oil, and their souls originating from a twisted being deep within the Warp.

Their existence serves only one purpose—to protect this world and tear apart any intruders who dare to approach.

The ancient forces that once flowed through the land are now polluted by Chaos energy.

With every breath, I could feel the stench of decay.

With each heartbeat, I could feel that twisted pulse.

With every blink, I could see that shadow wriggling in the corner.

This is Caliban.

But this is not Caliban.

This is Caliban's body.

This is a desecrated holy site.

This is the shape of Chaos.

At the heart of that world, deep within the colossal fortress known as the "Demon-Forged Palace," a fragment shimmering with a dark green light is slowly rotating within a massive device.

That was a core fragment of Caliban, the last remnant of this world, and part of the key that Vashtorr had been dreaming of.

It was immersed in Chaos energy, manipulated by countless mechanical tentacles, and analyzed, reconstructed, and distorted inch by inch by the Dark Mechanicum.

With each rotation, something belonging to Caliban is stripped away.

With each pulse, something belonging to Chaos is injected.

It is being transformed.

It is being corrupted.

Something that is being turned into Vashtorr.

"No."

Azrael's voice was very soft.

But everyone on the bridge heard it.

There was no anger, no roaring in that voice, only disbelief.

He stood there by the porthole, gazing at the approaching Dragon Spirit Star, at the former Caliban, and at the Holy Land, twisted into a Chaos shape.

His hand slowly clenched into a fist.

The knuckles are turning white.

"No."

He repeated it again.

This time, there was a tremor in the voice.

That was a trembling of anger.

That was the prelude to the long-suppressed anger finally beginning to boil over.

"That's Caliban..."

He muttered to himself, his gaze reflecting the outline of that Daemon World.

That's our home...

"That's where the Lion King was born..."

"That's everything we swore to protect..."

His voice grew lower and deeper, until finally—it burst into a roar.

"Vashtorr!!!"

The roar exploded in the bridge, in the communications channels, and in every single Dark Angels's warship.

That roar contained the pent-up anger of millennia, the shame of having the sacred land desecrated, and the burning flames of revenge.

Azrael turned and strode toward the communications station.

Golden flames burned in his eyes—not Psionic Energy, not any supernatural power, but the light that burst forth from the depths of a warrior's soul when he was driven to the brink of despair.

He activated full-band communication.

His voice echoed throughout the entire battlefield.

"Vashtorr! Did you hear me?!"

His voice was like thunder, exploding in the void.

"I am Azrael, the Supreme Grand Master Dark Angels! Guardian of Caliban! Successor to the Lion King!"

He paused, his voice filled with boundless killing intent.

"You have desecrated our sacred land! You have stolen our heritage! You—must—pay—the price!"

He took a deep breath and then made that final invitation.

"I am here to challenge you! Let's have a real duel! Only one of us will survive!"

His voice echoed in the void.

"I'm going to chop off your mechanical head right here!"

Dragon Spirit Star, Demon-Forged Palace.

Vashtorr stood before the enormous device, gazing at the slowly rotating fragments of Caliban.

His mechanical tentacles danced across the control panel, injecting streams of Chaos energy into the fragment.

The fragment trembled slightly under the impact of the energy, emitting a series of low hums.

Azrael's roar came through the communication channel.

Vashtorr's hand paused slightly.

Then he smiled.

The laughter contained sarcasm, amusement, and a hint of disdain.

"Duel?"

He turned his head and looked at Perturabo beside him.

"He wants to duel me."

Perturabo was leaning against a pillar, listlessly picking at his claws with his power claw.

Upon hearing this, he looked up, a hint of interest flashing in his gray eyes.

"Oh? The leader of the Dark Angels?"

Vashtorr nodded.

He wants me to go outside and fight him one-on-one.

Perturabo was silent for a second.

Then, he smiled too.

That smile contained sarcasm, contempt, and also a kind of pleasure—the enjoyment of watching a clown perform.

"Who does he think he is? The Primarch?"

He chuckled and continued picking his nails.

"A Space Marines? You think you're worthy to fight me?"

Vashtorr shrugged.

"I am a skilled worker."

He said the voice was as calm as if it were stating a fact.

"I'm not a warrior. Duels are not within my scope of duty."

He turned around and continued operating the device.

"Let him wait."

But Azrael's voice came through the communication channel again.

"What? You're afraid, Vashtorr? Can your mechanical heart feel fear?"

Vashtorr's lips twitched slightly.

Perturabo's laughter grew louder.

Listen, listen.

He said the voice was full of schadenfreude.

He's calling you a coward.

A flash of anger crossed Vashtorr's eyes.

But he still didn't move.

Let him curse.

He said coldly.

"Once they've finished cursing, they'll naturally rush in to their deaths."

He continued operating the device.

But Azrael's voice became increasingly arrogant over the communication channel.

"Vashtorr! You coward hiding in the machine! You only dare to ambush, only dare to run away, only dare to bully the Dark Angels without the Lion King!"

"Now the Lion King's offspring stand before you! Yet you don't even have the courage to come out and fight!"

"Who do you think you are, Dark Mechanicum? Who do you think you are, Primarch of Chaos? You're nothing but a coward!"

Vashtorr's tentacles trembled slightly.

Perturabo laughed so hard he couldn't stand up straight.

"Hahahaha--Cowardly turtle--Hahahaha--"

His laughter echoed throughout the Demon-Forged Palace.

"Vashtorr, did you hear that? Shrinking back—turtle—hahahaha—"

Vashtorr finally couldn't hold back any longer.

He turned and looked at Perturabo, his eyes burning with rage.