"Lorgar will rise again on the thirteenth day after his burial."
Curze's voice rang out through the dense fog, low and hoarse.
As his words fell, his Arm Blade caught Vulkan's descending Warhammer. Sparks exploded between them as metal collided, illuminating their twisted faces.
"And it's already the twelfth day."
The impact drove him half a step backward, cracking the ground beneath his feet, but he gritted his teeth and held against the force.
His gaze remained fixed on Vulkan. Those eyes, once filled with madness, now burned with an unprecedented clarity.
"One last day, one last day..."
Curze fought with everything he had to hold Vulkan back.
He stood in Vulkan's path, his Arm Blade sweeping through the air and tracing trails of shadow that sealed off every route forward.
There was no longer any finesse to his movements, only a frantic, reckless willingness to fight to the death.
Plaguebearer swung ceaselessly in Vulkan's hands.
The enormous Warhammer was as light as straw in his grip, each swing carrying enough force to shatter mountains.
The dark green energy coiling around the Warhammer left corrosive trails through the air, staining the surrounding fog a sickly hue.
But Curze took the risk of trading wound for wound.
He neither dodged nor yielded. Whenever Vulkan's Warhammer came crashing toward him, he took the blow with his own body, then seized the opening to leave a wound on Vulkan.
Both knew that the course of every battle to come would be decided within this single day.
If Curze could hold Vulkan back through this final day, Lorgar would rise again, the Word Bearers would welcome their Primarch, and the balance of the war would shift.
If Vulkan could break free of Curze, carry out his plan, and destroy Lorgar's corpse, then everything would