Let That Small Fry Go

"Since you like to laugh so much, why don't you go?"

Perturabo's laughter stopped abruptly.

He raised his hands, making a gesture of surrender.

"No, no, no, I'm not going."

A sly glint flashed in his eyes.

"A Space Marines is not worthy to fight me."

He glanced at the communications station, his gaze filled with undisguised contempt.

"Only that Chaos Warmaster is suitable to fight these kinds of small fry."

The bridge of the Vengeful Spirit.

Abaddon was leisurely listening to Azrael's roar as he sipped some precious beverage from a conquered world.

A faint smile played at the corners of his lips.

"Interesting."

He muttered to himself.

"The Supreme Grand Master of the Dark Angels has personally issued a challenge. It's been so many years since I've seen anything like this."

Behind him, a Chaos Lord stepped forward.

"Warmaster, should we respond?"

Abaddon, then shook his head.

No rush.

He said there was a hint of amusement in the voice.

"Let Vashtorr worry first. Let's see how long that mechanical face can hold up."

He picked up his cup and took a sip.

But the next second, Perturabo's voice came through the communication channel.

"Only that Chaos Warmaster is suitable to fight these kinds of small fry."

Abaddon's hand paused.

His expression froze.

The entire bridge fell into a deathly silence.

All the Chaos Warriors held their breath, watching their Warmaster with extreme caution.

Abaddon slowly put down the cup.

A dangerous flame ignited in his eyes.

What did he just say?

His voice was eerily calm.

The Chaos Lord swallowed hard.

He said... you're suited to be a lowly laborer...

Abaddon was silent for three seconds.

Three seconds later--

"Perturabo --!!!"

The roar shook the entire bridge.

The equipment on the communication station overloaded simultaneously, causing a burst of sparks.

Several Chaos Warriors who were nearby were knocked to the ground by the sound wave, covering their ears in pain.

Abaddon abruptly stood up, the massive Terminator Armour screeching as he exerted his furious power.

"That arrogant, conceited, and perpetually sour-faced bastard!!!"

His roars grew louder and louder.

"Who does he think he is?! The Primarch is so great?! The Daemon Prince is so great?! I, Abaddon —am the man who inherited Horus's will! The Warmaster launched thirteen Black Crusades! A being blessed by the Four Chaos Gods!"

He grabbed the sword that the Greater Daemon had transformed into—the terrifying weapon known as "Drach'nyen," its blade wreathed in flames powerful enough to tear apart souls.

"You're saying I'm only good for playing minor roles?!"

He grinned maliciously, a grin that contained anger, madness, and a kind of excitement—the thrill of being provoked.

"Then I'll call him and show him!"

He strode towards the hangar.

Behind them, countless Chaos Warriors followed in a panic.

"Warmaster! Are you going to personally lead the troops into battle?!"

"Warmaster! That was merely the Supreme Grand Master of the Dark Angels, unworthy of your attention—"

"Shut up!"

Abaddon didn't even turn his head.

"I'll show Perturabo who the real killer of small fry is!"

He boarded the landing craft and headed towards the flagship of the Rock.

Towards that impending duel.

Azrael stood on the Rock bridge, watching the approaching Chaos landing craft.

Behind him, Ezekiel's voice rang out.

"Sir, they responded. Abaddon himself has come."

Azrael's lips curled into a slight smile.

It was a cold laugh.

"Good timing."

He said the voice was as calm as if it were talking about the weather.

"No matter who it is, someone's head will have to roll today."

He raised the sword in his hand—the "Sword of Secrets" that had been passed down for ten thousand years, the sacred object that had slain enemies in countless battles, the blade about to drink blood.

"Prepare the airlock."

He said that, and then strode toward the hangar.

Ezekiel to follow, but he waved him away.

"This is my battle."

His voice was unquestionable.

"You hold this place."

The airlock is open.

The void surged in.

Azrael took a step forward—stepping into the Chaos Landing Ship.

Step into the enemy's lair.

Step into that battlefield of duels.

Inside the landing ship, countless Chaos warriors stood ready for battle.

Their weapons were aimed at Azrael, their eyes burned with murderous intent, and their bodies were tense, ready to pounce at any moment.

But Azrael didn't look at them.

He simply walked straight to the bridge, towards the enemy who awaited him.

None of the Chaos Warriors dared to move.

It wasn't because of an order.

It's because—that man's aura was too terrifying.

He walked like that, as if strolling on his own warship, as if inspecting his own territory, as if—a king—walking toward his throne.

His steps were calm and firm, each step steady and powerful.

His gaze was calm as still water, as if everything before him were mere dust.

He held his sword in his hand, but it wasn't meant to threaten; it was meant to wait.

Waiting for the moment to drink blood.

Finally, he reached the bridge.

Abaddon stood in the center, fully armed, surrounded by the light of the Four Chaos Gods ' blessing.

His left hand held the Talon of Horus —the terrifying weapon that had once torn apart the Emperor's body.

In his right hand was Drach'nyen —the sword formed from the Greater Daemon.

He looked at Azrael with admiration, wariness, and a kind of excitement—the thrill of meeting a worthy opponent.

"Azrael."

His voice was deep and resonant, echoing throughout the bridge.

"Supreme Grand Master of the Dark Angels, you have great courage—to dare to board my warship alone."

Azrael looked at him, a cold smile playing on his lips.

"Courage?"

He said the voice was calm.

This is not courage.

He raised the sword in his hand, its blade gleaming coldly in the dim light.

"This is -- a responsibility."

His voice suddenly rose, like a thunderclap.

"The glory of the Inner Circle must be defended!"

At that moment, golden light burst forth from his body.

That was the Emperor's blessing.

That is the glory passed down for thousands of years.

That was the divine might that a warrior unleashed in the face of utter despair.

Sword and claws clashed.

At that moment, the entire bridge trembled.

The shockwave spread outwards from the two of them, blasting away all the surrounding equipment and knocking down the Chaos Warriors who had no time to dodge.

The sounds of metal tearing, energy exploding, and the teeth-grinding scraping of metal mingled together, setting the stage for this duel.

Azrael's first strike was aimed straight for Abaddon's throat.

That was a fatal sword strike, as fast as lightning and as ruthless as a venomous snake.

Any ordinary enemy would surely die under this sword.

But Abaddon was no ordinary enemy.

His Talon of Horus shot up, blocking the sword's edge precisely.

The sound of metal clashing exploded, and sparks flew everywhere.

"What a fine sword!"

Abaddon grinned maliciously as his right hand swung Drach'nyen across the room.

Azrael dodged to the side, the blade grazing his armor and leaving a burning trail in the air.

He could sense the Chaos power emanating from the sword—the resentment of the Greater Daemon, the curse of the Chaos Gods, a terrifying presence capable of corroding the soul.

But he did not back down.

His second sword pierced Abaddon's abdomen.

The sword pierced through the Terminator Armour, through the protection of the Chaos Blessing, and through Abaddon's flesh—a single sword piercing his body.

Abaddon's body trembled slightly, but there was no expression of pain on his face.

He merely glanced down at the sword piercing his abdomen, and then—smiled.

That's it?