Chapter 656: The Weapon of the Ancient Saint

“Are you going to betray our father again?”

Ferus, gripping the flame sword he had forged himself for Fulgrim, asked in a low voice,

clearly, the child’s corpse was attempting to attack his mind in this manner,

“You may not understand—if He seizes the throne in His way, our father’s burdens will double instantly.”

“If He falters, the Dark King will be born, and destroy this galaxy He cherishes with His own hands.”

Ferus’s voice was identical to his former one, causing Fulgrim’s body to tremble slightly,

but the clone of the Purple Phoenix clenched his teeth: “I believe in my father—the Lord of Mankind will never fall.”

“He has already fallen once, because of you—”

Before Ferus could finish, Fulgrim surged forward with the Hammer of the Forgebreaker, striking before Ferus’s eyes,

“Filth, if you dare speak another word in Ferus’s voice, I will make you know true pain!”

Fulgrim’s face twisted, the three scars he had carved into his own flesh making him resemble a horrifying Gorgon.

A flicker of shock crossed Ferus’s face,

this situation exceeded his expectations,

how could this be?

Shouldn’t Fulgrim, facing Ferus, have hesitated and recoiled like Perturabo did before his mechanical sister?

Long Linxing had employed a psychological tactic similar to Zhou Yun’s, yet the effect was strangely different,

this frustrated Long Linxing; the mental strain of sustaining Ferus and Leman was considerable, and the longer they persisted, the greater the cost—each moment here slowed his progress toward the Ancient Saint’s vault,

but now, there was no time to change tactics,

he could only hope Fulgrim would still hesitate before Ferus.

The flame sword clashed with the Forgebreaker, molten fire spraying in all directions,

Ferus’s iron hands were stronger—he forced the blade backward, pressing Fulgrim into retreat, while the Gorgon armor’s backpack unfolded, revealing a pair of plasma burst cannons aimed at Fulgrim’s head.

Ferus’s strength was indeed greater, but in speed, Fulgrim still surpassed him,

Fulgrim’s form became a flowing blend of purple and gold, instantly distancing himself from Ferus; plasma beams rained down but always fell a fraction too late, leaving a trail of scorched ground behind.

Exquisite, isn’t it?

Even as a vile copy, he still possesses extraordinary talent.

As Fulgrim dodged Ferus’s attacks, he thought:

it felt as if he were speaking to himself, yet also to someone else,

he was always so excellent—you’re right, look at those iron hands, flowing like mercury, powerful yet capable of crafting masterpieces,

he is closer to the true Ferus than Fabius’s crude clones—he is a reflection summoned from time and space, yet

“But he is not Ferus.” Fulgrim shouted aloud, as if speaking to himself, yet more so to another version of himself.

Yes, he is not. No matter how similar his appearance, he is not Ferus.

“He forged our swords with his own hands!”

We forged his hammer too.

“You know this was the deepest bond in his eyes.”

Yes—in his eyes, no trust was more real than this,

he was a true warrior; warriors care most for their weapons. He would never allow just anyone to forge for him, nor would he forge for just anyone,

“He trusted us. He relied on us.” Fulgrim said.

Yes, yes—we relied on him too.

Ferus swung the flame sword in a lethal arc, closing in on Fulgrim’s throat,

Fulgrim dodged, but the blade still seared a molten scar across his breastplate.

A fine strike—but if the real Ferus were here, your head would already be off.

“This sword was forged by Ferus himself—for us,” Fulgrim bit his lip, his violet eyes blazing like molten violet fire.

I truly hate you, you little bastard.

“I truly despise you, you coward.”

But I hate more the one who toys with Ferus—only I can. Only I can toy with Ferus.

Accept my acceptance

“Kill him for me.” Fulgrim’s face grew more like a venomous serpent; his aura shifted utterly.

In the Warp, Fulgrim, slaughtering Khorne demons with abandon, suddenly shuddered,

a Bloodthirster lunged at him, slamming its heavy hammer directly onto the Chaos Prince of Slaanesh’s face,

Fulgrim’s tail snapped rigid, and he crashed to the ground with a clang,

the Bloodthirster froze, staring in disbelief at the hammer in its hand,

Fulgrim’s expression was dazed—not because he’d been struck, but because

he sensed something within him, something fundamental, draining away into the clone’s body,

as if his subconscious believed that clone, not himself, was the true vessel.

And all of this was because

his love for Ferus had made him betray himself.

“Filth.” Rage surged from his core; his limbs swung blades, slicing the Bloodthirster into bloody shreds.

“I am the true Fulgrim, the Lord of the Phoenix—how dare you, false thing?”

Fulgrim’s face twisted, but the Hungering Lord forbade him from coveting the clone’s body now,

“When the One completes his ascension, I will take your body, devour your existence, and toy with all you are.”

Fulgrim gripped the Forgebreaker, yet felt his soul grasp something else,

a latent hunger—not as ugly as greed, nor as filthy as gluttony, nor as desperate as lust, nor as ruthless as ambition, nor as false as vanity, nor as idle as sloth,

it was the yearning for perfection, the craving for absolute perfection—like walking a fine wire, never a step off, never a step wrong—this craving was Fulgrim.

Fulgrim felt utterly different in this moment; his body showed no change, yet deeper within, he was no longer the same,

Fulgrim now understood why he had never defeated Leman, nor Saint Guilliman, nor even Sanguinius—they were not merely human,

they were the convergence of all thoughts, all wills, across all time and space—a vast tide. Only another tide of equal magnitude could stand before them.

But this Ferus—

this Ferus was hollow. His body held no fire of Medusa, no cold of the Iron Hands—he was merely a shell, a counterfeit.

He could defeat him easily.

Fulgrim’s body evaded Ferus’s next strike with near-perfect grace,

his movements light, fluid, utterly natural—he had reached the pinnacle at this moment,

Ferus lunged again with his sword, but it was meaningless—Fulgrim slipped away effortlessly, his body pivoting sharply toward Ferus, the Forgebreaker hammer crashing down upon Ferus’s iron hand.