Lorgar: How the Hell Am I Supposed to Fight That?

Deep within the Law of Faith, the Warship tore through the veil of the Warp at astonishing speed, sailing silently along the boundary between reality and illusion.

Outside the hull flowed bizarre, indescribable currents of chaotic colour, while within the Bridge, everything lay beneath an almost sacred solemnity.

Primarch Lorgar sat motionless in his command throne, like a statue from time immemorial. Only the faint scratch of his ink-dipped pen across expensive Parchment proved that time still passed.

He was wholly absorbed in reviewing the mountain of reports before him. Those parchment scrolls recorded every aspect of the Legion's affairs, each character carrying a heavy burden of responsibility.

At one point, the thought had crossed his mind to visit the training grounds and spar with Angron.

His brother, once a gladiator, fought with a wild purity, brimming with raw power.

However, after Lorgar personally witnessed Angron smash hundreds of heavily armoured steel Servitors to pieces in the training grounds with nothing but his flesh-and-blood body and the sheer force of his battleaxe, without using so much as a trace of psychic energy, he immediately and wisely abandoned the idea.

How the hell am I supposed to fight that? I give up. I give up.

Lorgar assessed himself calmly. He knew the extent of his mastery of psychic arts, but stripped of that supernatural power, relying solely on martial skill and physique against Angron's battleaxe and its destructive intent, he did not think he would last very long.

Just as the administrative work on the Parchment drew him out of his contemplation and back to reality, the heavy adamantium doors slid silently open, breaking the Bridge's stillness.

The man who entered was Rockefeller, Chapter Master of the Word Bearers' First Chapter.

His steps were steady, his heavy Power Armour producing a