"Number One Below the Primarch! Is! Hercules! Of the Word Bearers!!!"
The verdict rang out over the broadcast, cold and thunderous, carrying an unquestionable finality, like a last seal stamped heavily upon the end of this long contest.
The roar surged and echoed through the ancient, magnificent Gladiatorial Arena, striking the hearts of hundreds of thousands of spectators before settling into a deeply conflicted, endlessly humming silence.
At the center of the sand, Hercules slowly straightened.
He struck no victor's pose, did not roar, did not raise his weapon.
He merely stood there, head slightly bowed, looking at the metal fragments scattered at his feet and the yellow figure lying nearby in blood and dust, still clutching a broken sword hilt.
His heavy breaths escaped through his helmet grille in white clouds, rising into the cold air.
He bore plenty of wounds himself. His Power Armour was covered in dents and scorch marks, and the thin streak of blood across his cheek was especially striking, but none of it diminished his presence as a living monument to victory.
In the stands, the silence broke beneath the first wave of low, suppressed unrest.
Shock, resentment, disbelief, profound wariness, and even a trace of barely perceptible fear flashed across countless faces, only to be swiftly restrained by iron discipline.
Whether they were the proud Emperor's Children, the brooding Night Lords, or the champions and warriors of other Legions, however much they resented the outcome, however many theories they harbored about tactics, luck, or anything else, they now had no choice but to regard the silent giant in the arena with a new, solemn gaze.
The contempt, curiosity, or simple competitive spirit once held in those gazes had been replaced by a grim recognition of something "abnormal" and of "absolute strength."
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