Fulgrim broke free of Angron's grip. There was no grace left in his movements; he all but scrambled away on his hands and knees.
His broken arm hung limply at his side, and scraps of purple-and-gold armour clung to his body like a lavish robe torn to shreds.
He braced his remaining hand against the floor and dragged his ravaged body backward, each movement accompanied by the grinding of displaced bones and a trail of dripping blood.
He retreated past the shattered corpses, past the still-burning wreckage, past the crater his own body had just been smashed into, until he had put some distance between himself and Angron again.
Angron did not pursue him.
He stood where he was, one hand pressed against the horrific wound in his neck. Blood welled between his fingers and ran down his powerful chest in a shocking wash of red.
But the bleeding was slowing visibly, and the edges of the wound, deep enough to expose bone, were knitting together.
His body had long since grown accustomed to enduring such injuries in countless gladiatorial bouts, to sealing near-fatal wounds within a few breaths.
Angron's wound was healing at incredible speed. The severed muscle fibres seemed to be stitched together by an invisible needle and thread, ruptured blood vessels reconnected, and raw red flesh grew at a terrifying rate.
When he lowered his hand, only a faint scar and a smear of blood that had yet to clot remained on his neck.
Fulgrim saw it all.
He wiped at the blood plastered across his face and watched Angron's body steadily recover through that sticky red haze, his pupils narrowing slightly.
He knew there was no point in continuing this fight.
If he kept fighting, his defeat was certain.
He no longer had the strength to