I Am the Unyielding Stone!

His gaze fell on the figure moving on the ground, a complex light flashing in his gray eyes.

It wasn't pity, nor sympathy, but rather a slight exclamation. "You're quite the climber, aren't you?"

Then he raised his hand.

The Forgebreaker spun half a circle in the air, its head pointing towards the Swarm Prince.

Perturabo exerted force with his wrist, and the warhammer, accompanied by a whistling sound, a silver-gray sheen, and enough power to crush a small mountain, flew towards the direction of the Swarm Prince.

The Swarm Prince could hear the wind, feel the approaching killing intent, and imagine the fate that would ensue when the hammer struck him.

But it did not turn back, because it had no time to turn back.

It could only keep crawling, keep crawling towards the Hive Ship, keep using its last bit of strength to move towards that possible chance of survival.

Of the twenty Hive Creatures that were rushing towards them, the closest one had already reached the side and rear of the Swarm Prince.

It spread its arms, the two long blades extending from its bones crossed in front of its chest, attempting to shield its prince from the warhammer.

The Forgebreaker slammed into it.

The creature's body deformed instantly under the impact of the hammer; its carapace shattered, its bones broke, and blood and flesh splattered everywhere.

Its body was like an egg being smashed by a hammer, disintegrating, exploding, and turning into countless fragments from the point of contact.

The fragments, mixed with dark green bodily fluids and silvery-gray energy remnants, drifted through the air like a brief, cruel firework display.

But its sacrifice bought the Swarm Prince less than half a second.

That half-second was enough for the Swarm Prince's body to crawl out of the range of the warhammer's impact point.

Let the hammer blow into the spot where it was just now, creating a crater several meters in diameter in the sand.

Perturabo's Forgebreaker spun three full circles in the air, accompanied by a whistling sound and a streak of silver-gray light, before crashing straight into the Swarm Prince's back.

The hammerhead struck precisely at the spine of the Swarm Prince; a single blow would cleave the dark green body in two.

The Swarm Prince could feel the killing intent, the oppressive feeling that made every nerve in his body scream.

Its fingers dug deeper into the ground, its nails sparking in the gravel, and it continued to move forward, but it was moving too slowly.

Then, a golden figure stood in front of the warhammer.

The figure appeared at the perfect moment, not a step too fast, not a step too slow, but just right.

His figure was as large as a mountain, and his golden Power Armour gleamed in the sunlight. There were no superfluous decorations or patterns, only pure gold, just like his spirit.

He held a Chainsword in his hand; the serrated blade emitted a deep hum as it spun at high speed, a hum that echoed across the battlefield like some ancient war song.

The head of the warhammer struck the blade of the Chainsword.

The sound of metal clashing exploded, and a silver-gray shockwave spread outwards from the point of impact, blasting away the Tyranids that were gathering nearby.

Perturabo's Forgebreaker paused in mid-air for a moment before being deflected by the Chainsword sword and spinning back into Perturabo hand.

Perturabo caught the warhammer, his gray eyes fixed on the golden figure. His gaze shifted from shock to anger, and finally—a subtle satisfaction, one he himself was unwilling to admit, a kind of "you've finally come"—was revealed.

"You've finally arrived."

His voice was loud, but his tone was harsh, as if it had been carved out of stone. "I thought you were going to play dead all day."

Roge Dorn did not turn back.

His gaze fell on the twenty insectoid creatures charging madly ahead. The twenty dark green figures were approaching at an alarming speed, their eyes burning with blue and white light, and various grotesque biological weapons extending from their limbs.

His voice was calm, as if stating a fact that had already occurred. "Speed up, Perturabo. Leave these to me. Leave the Hive Prince—we'll have his brain for tonight's snack. A brain made up of a lot of biomass must be well-nourished."

Perturabo's lips twitched slightly.

He wanted to argue, to say what right you have to order me around, to say I don't need your orders.

But his eyes—those grey eyes—sparkled for a moment.

It wasn't because of anger, but because of something more complex, something he himself was unwilling to delve into.

The corners of his mouth turned up slightly again, then he quickly suppressed it.

"Snort."

He scoffed, "Easier said than done. You think you can take on twenty by yourself?"

Roge Dorn did not answer him.

He simply raised the Chainsword in his hand, the divine weapon known as "Terra's Glory," forged from a mineral unique to Dorn's mother, capable of easily cutting through Power Armour.

Now enveloped and empowered by eternal power, it is even more formidable.

The Chainsword whirred and hissed as they spun at high speed, a sound like a sleeping beast awakening.

"I am Roge Dorn."

His voice wasn't loud, but every word seemed to leave an indelible mark in the void.

Those seven words, like an invisible city wall, stood in the way of the twenty insect hive creations.

The stubborn rock stands here, guarding this area.

A calm oath, yet domineering and authoritative.

Perturabo looked at him, at his golden Power Armour, at his roaring Chainsword, at his expressionless face.

A complex emotion welled up within him—an emotion he had never experienced in the ten thousand years of the Eye of Terror, an emotion he had long forgotten in the rotting mire of Nurgle's Garden, an emotion he had rediscovered in Guilliman's Law of Eternity.

That emotion had a name, but he was unwilling to say it.

"Snort."

He snorted again, but this time it was softer than before. "Don't put on that superior attitude towards me. You only barely beat me today; yesterday was my victory, and the day before yesterday too!"

Roge Dorn's lips curled up slightly.

The angle was so small that you wouldn't notice it unless you stared at his face for more than three seconds.

But Perturabo discovered it.

He looked at the barely perceptible curve of Dorn's lips, and a more complex emotion welled up inside him—a mixture of anger, amusement, and a hint of joy that he himself was unwilling to admit.

When did this guy become such a show-off?

He recalled that a few months ago, after Dorn returned from Terra, he was a completely different person.

The former Roge Dorn was a stone.

Silent, stern, inflexible, never joking, and never saying anything superfluous in any situation.

But now, Roge Dorn is still a stone, but he has become a smiling stone.