The moment Akurduana's figure vanished into the rubble, Fulgrim did not even turn to look.
His gaze remained fixed on Angron, his violet eyes betraying no surprise, as though he had foreseen this scene long ago, like a conductor who had already heard every note of the entire score.
Akurduana's defeat had been entirely within Fulgrim's expectations.
He was an outstanding warrior, a killing tool painstakingly honed with psychic energy and drugs, but a Space Marine was still only a Space Marine.
Before a Primarch, the most they could do was offer a brief overture to this grand performance.
In this battle, Akurduana had been no more than an appetizer.
The true main course stood at the other end of the corridor, breathing heavily, eyes burning, twin axes hanging low, like a hound ready to spring and bite at any moment.
Fulgrim gently flexed his wrist.
The Purple Longsword turned halfway around in his palm, flinging the blood still clinging to its blade onto the wall in a crimson arc.
He raised his other hand and waved casually, signaling the members of the Primarch Guard beside him to spread out.
The guards in purple-and-gold armor withdrew without a sound, like an ebbing tide, clearing the center of the corridor.
He lowered his longsword and spread his arms, his posture at once a salute and an invitation to a duel destined to enter the annals of history.
His voice was quiet, yet it carried through the entire corridor and reached Angron's ears clearly. "This battle belongs to me alone, Angron."
As he spoke, Fulgrim took a deliberate step closer to Angron.
Neither fast nor slow, the step was as measured as a leisurely stroll. His boot heel struck the deck with a crisp sound that echoed through the silent corridor.
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