In stark contrast to the solemn splendor of the celebrations in the distant city center, the War Hounds' temporary encampment teemed with a raw, rough-edged, vibrant uproar.
At the center of the camp, warriors of the War Hounds in blue-and-white Power Armour crowded around a circular arena marked out simply with packed earth and gravel.
Deafening shouts, roars, and the clash of metal merged into a searing wave that surged toward the sky.
"Come on! Come on! Come on! Get him, lad!"
"Good! Beautiful throw!"
"Anthony! For victory! Take him down!"
In the center of the arena, two Space Marines of the War Hounds were locked in a fierce unarmed bout.
This was an ancient tradition within the Legion—gladiatorial combat.
It had its roots in Primarch Angron's past in the Gladiatorial Arena, and had once been a brutal, exceedingly bloody ritual through which warriors settled disputes, competed for honor, and even decided matters of life and death.
Yet after Angron became master of the Legion, he had personally intervened and reformed the tradition.
Fights to the death were strictly forbidden, replaced by fierce contests aimed at subduing an opponent and forcing him to concede.
Though every punch still struck home, and the clashes of strength still set blood racing, the warriors' lives were at least protected, reducing needless losses to a minimum.
Now, a relatively young Recruit with only a few Service Studs in his forehead was grappling with a seasoned veteran.
The Recruit moved with speed and explosive force. Seizing a tiny opening in the veteran's defense, he suddenly closed in and executed a clean takedown, using the astonishing strength of his core to slam the similarly built veteran hard into the ground!
Before his opponent could react, the Recruit moved like a hunting cheetah, swiftly locking his legs