As he watched two silent Medical Attendants swiftly carry Akurduana out on an Anti-grav Stretcher, his magnificent purple-and-gold Power Armour covered in sand, his arms hanging limply, the knuckles of the hands that had once gripped a famed sword twisted and the flesh between thumb and forefinger split, Fulgrim, the Phoenix Lord, drew in a sharp breath.
That breath passed through his perfect teeth, carrying a trace of forcibly suppressed shock that even he had failed to notice.
Akurduana...
He was the crowning swordsman of the Emperor's Children Legion, foremost among the Court Swordsmen whom Fulgrim had personally trained and whose mastery he had watched reach perfection.
The speed, precision, and elegance of his swordsmanship were extraordinary even in a Primarch's eyes.
Fulgrim had considered the possibility that he might lose to the mountain-like Hercules. After all, an absolute disparity in size and strength could not always be fully overcome by skill.
But he had never imagined that defeat would come so completely, so swiftly.
Ten seconds?
No, perhaps not even five.
It had not been a narrow defeat after an evenly matched struggle. It had been delicate glass striking meteoric iron. Before absolute, brutal strength, every trace of skill and elegance had been ground to dust.
Cold calculation swiftly replaced the initial shock in the depths of Fulgrim's violet eyes.
He no longer looked at his son being carried away. Instead, he fixed his gaze on Hercules, who silently put away his sword in the arena as though he had merely done something utterly trivial.
He began rapidly working through the possibilities. What if...
*If this giant were not an ally, but an obstacle that had to be removed, a fortress on the other side of the battlefield that had to be taken, what price would I, Fulgrim, have