Chapter 560

In the warp, Fulgrim was burned by Fulgrim's searing pride, his palms aching with revulsion, utterly repelled from entering this body—pure, untainted by corruption.

As Fulgrim had expected, no matter how humble and courteous this clone appeared, he was, at his core, as fiercely proud as Fulgrim himself.

What surprised Fulgrim was that Fulgrim was so proud—so impossibly proud—that he looked down on Fulgrim, despised him, and would rather die than share his body with him.

Fulgrim believed Fulgrim's corruption stemmed from imperfection, and that he himself was destined to be perfect, flawless—how could a being destined for perfection ever share his body with a filthy, flawed failure? Fulgrim was unworthy.

Moreover, Fulgrim did not merely believe Fulgrim's corruption came from imperfection—he believed it came from insufficient pride.

How could a truly proud man allow a mere demon to possess his body? Allow a mere demon to whisper orders into his ear? Allow a mere demon to force him to kill Ferrus?

Fulgrim was still not perfect. Not proud enough.

Fulgrim's nose lifted slightly, his face twisted in revulsion, thin lips pressed into a cruel line, his violet eyes filled with nothing but utter contempt.

Like a noble aristocrat sneering at a vile prostitute, like a lofty emperor looking down upon a beggar on the roadside.

He was so proud that he even despised the imperfect version of himself.

Fulgrim let out a shrill scream, wounded by that gaze—his fury surged uncontrollably; he no longer sought to claim the body, but to tear this ridiculous clone apart.

But—he felt Slaanesh's gaze. The Lord of Desire grew even more enamored with the clone; the more Fulgrim prided himself, the more Slaanesh craved him, and the more Slaanesh forbade Fulgrim from destroying him.

Fulgrim gritted his teeth and sank back into the warp's tide—he had sensed that Sanguinius was watching him.

+Die here!

Fulgrim shrieked his rage, then his voice vanished from Fulgrim's ears.

"I will not die. I am destined to be perfect. I will not perish here!" Fulgrim's face twisted in fury.

How could he die here? He was destined to be perfect, flawless—even Sanguinius had no right to kill him.

He believed this with absolute conviction—but reality seemed to contradict him.

Sanguinius's spear grew deadlier, more perilous; gradually, Fulgrim could no longer hold back.

Sanguinius moved his spear—suddenly, it knocked the Broken Furnace from Fulgrim's grip, the sharp tip pressing against Fulgrim's throat.

"I will not die! You have no right to kill me!" Fulgrim screamed until the very last moment.

Sanguinius's spear halted at Fulgrim's throat, a trickle of blood seeped from the tip—but it never pierced his windpipe.

"You are right. He will not fall—for now," Sanguinius murmured, as if speaking to someone unseen.

Sanguinius gently retracted his spear. He could feel the Lord of Desire growing restless—if he pushed the spear forward even slightly, the Lord of Desire would intervene to save Fulgrim.

"Based on future conditions, his fall is a fifty-fifty chance. But until that moment arrives, he remains pure." A figure suddenly teleported beside Sanguinius.

The figure appeared human, wearing a glove, holding the Infinity-Tarasin who had vanished moments earlier.

"It is not because he is loyal. It is because his pride is more extreme than Fulgrim's ever was," Sanguinius said, his tone soft and weary.

"I am not proud. I seek perfection," Fulgrim murmured, rubbing his throat wound—the Primarch's inhuman regenerative ability had already healed it.

The Primarch's acute senses and mind quickly understood that Sanguinius's actions had been a test—a forced choice between life and death.

Fulgrim felt slight irritation at the test, yet a quiet pride stirred within him—he had passed Sanguinius's trial.

Yet all these emotions were hidden behind a humble, gentle smile.

He turned his gaze to the seemingly human figure: "You must be Saint Doraemon. I have heard of your deeds twenty-two times among the stars."

"I do not question your judgment. I will never fall. I seek only ultimate perfection—the path of perfection admits no corruption."

Zhou Yun gave no visible reaction to Fulgrim's words, only replied calmly: "Malcador once said that the pursuit of perfection is doomed to tragedy, destined to slide into imperfection—and the more obsessively you chase it, the harsher the backlash."

"I humbly listen to your teaching and take it to heart," Fulgrim did not argue, only smiled and nodded, as if accepting Zhou Yun's counsel: "If you fear my betrayal, why not let me follow you and Sanguinius? Let trials test my loyalty and purity—"

"Done," Zhou Yun nodded slightly, agreeing outright: "Take the Broken Furnace too."

Fulgrim froze. He had prepared many arguments—but had not expected this Saint Doraemon to agree so directly, so simply.

As if he had known from the start exactly what Fulgrim would say.

"Gabriel, explain to Sanguinius why the Broken Furnace ended up in your hands," Zhou Yun tossed Tarasin beside Anrakiel, then called to Gabriel, who lay trapped in the pit, unable to rise.

Two Blood Ravens hurried forward to lift Gabriel out of the pit.