Chapter 674

Hammer met hammer, Breaker met Breaker, and in an instant a gale of fury erupted.

Fulgrim moved faster than the Clone Horus; his power armor was lighter, more agile, better suited to unleash the speed granted by his Primarch’s transcendent physique.

The Clone Horus was fiercer; his power armor was heavier, more powerful, each swing of his warhammer like the eye of a storm that unleashed destruction.

Fulgrim leapt lightly, dodging the gale stirred by Horus’s heavy hammer, while his own Breaker hammer surged with furnace-bright light, striking down at the opening exposed by Horus’s attack.

But Horus was still Horus; even as a clone, the combat instincts etched into his genes still guided him to the correct decision.

Horus did not dodge at all—he charged at Fulgrim like a reckless metal beast.

The Breaker struck Horus’s body, its hammer unleashing furnace-like radiance; Horus’s heavy armor twisted and deformed, yet the Breaker was also halted by Horus’s massive frame.

The Clone Horus crashed into Fulgrim’s embrace, his Worldbreaker hammer rising from above to smash toward Fulgrim’s delicate chin.

Fulgrim was stunned by the wildness Horus displayed.

He looked into the eyes hidden beneath layers of muscle and saw the manifestation of destruction itself.

But Fulgrim laughed—he felt his blood accelerating, an indescribable exhilaration and joy exploding within his body.

Fulgrim discarded the Breaker without hesitation, freeing his body; with speed far beyond mortal limits, he stepped back, his nose brushing mere millimeters from the Worldbreaker’s descending blow.

Then, bare-handed, Fulgrim swung both fists.

His fists, sheathed in violet-gold gauntlets, rained down like a storm upon Horus’s face.

The sound of flesh against metal rang out—blood spattered from beneath Fulgrim’s relentless fists—

CRACK!!

Fulgrim’s left arm was suddenly seized by Horus.

The Clone Warmaster exerted one-handed force, wrenching Fulgrim’s arm open and exposing his own bleeding face before Fulgrim’s eyes.

“I—”

BANG!!

As the Warmaster opened his mouth, Fulgrim punched him squarely on the chin with his right fist.

“You!!” Horus roared in fury.

Fulgrim struck again—on the nose, then the eyes, the forehead, the cheeks.

Fulgrim sought to force Horus to release his arm through pain.

But Horus’s grip grew stronger; his fingers sank into Fulgrim’s armoring.

He surged with sudden force—Fulgrim felt the world spin; the Clone Horus lifted him single-handedly, swung him in an arc, and slammed him hard into the ground behind him.

The entire Murder Star trembled, as if a bolt of lightning had exploded beneath its surface; the ground within three to four meters around Horus and Fulgrim sank inward.

Fulgrim felt dizzy, every bone in his body screaming in agony.

Yet Fulgrim could not help but laugh.

Blood raced through his veins; joy surged within his body.

+We must destroy him!+

That voice spoke within Fulgrim’s mind.

Fulgrim nodded in agreement.

He would kill the Warmaster’s clone, proving he was far more than merely a clone.

He was the true Primarch, long since walking the path of perfection.

The Clone Horus gripped the Worldbreaker warhammer with both hands and brought it crashing down upon Fulgrim on the ground, a torrent of infernal wind following the blow.

But Fulgrim rolled nimbly aside, evading the hammer aimed at his skull; then he flipped upright, snatching up the Breaker hammer beside him.

Fulgrim swung the Breaker, meeting the Worldbreaker in collision; the energy fields of the two hammers resembled two stars colliding, merging, crushing each other.

To the Astartes watching, Fulgrim and Horus themselves burned like stars.

Fulgrim was a bright, mature sun—fiery, perfect, flawless, not a single sunspot marred his luminous sphere; the gold and violet radiance he emitted stung the skin.

Horus was the first star rising at the brink of midnight—scorching, mighty, furious, determined to burn midnight to ash; his body radiated terrifying power of destruction.

Hammer met hammer again; the Murder Star shuddered, the clouds tore open, and the thin light of the dying sun pierced through the rifts, falling upon the two true stars.

Yet on this battlefield, besides these two blazing stars, two planets clashed with equal intensity.

The Hellbeast Abaddon relentlessly poured bullets upon the Primarch-Engine, while the daemon of the Unfeeling Killing Realm, “Hun,” dwelling within his body, continuously fired deadly arrows, seeking to slay the Primarch-Engine.

The Primarch-Engine continually evaded Abaddon using the instant-movement ability granted by his training box and his own psychic power.

Psychic runes woven from nature, from the cycle of life and death, from storms—if a Fenrisian Rune Priest were present, he would marvel at the power displayed by the Primarch-Engine.

But not only the cold winds of Fenris swirled around the Primarch-Engine—other forms of psychic energy also circled him.

Spells entwined with fate, structured by wisdom.

Curses nearly indistinguishable from superstition, grounded in numbers.

Storms shaped by balance, fused with the spirit of nature.

The powers of the Space Wolves Rune Priests, the Thousand Sons’ Supreme Sorcerers, the Death Guard’s Numerological Masters, and the White Scars’ Storm Seers all manifested upon him.

The intense euphoria of the Umbilical Aura enveloped him; he sensed his cells being torn apart by surging psychic energy, his muscles rupturing from overexertion of his genetic power, the pain from his genetic flaws constantly sparking along his nerves.

Yet he felt no pain—his body was entirely under his command; pain could not bind him, could not restrain him.

Unchained psychic energy roared toward Abaddon; flames of psychic fire blazed from the Primarch-Engine’s eyes; the Hellbeast Abaddon, faced with such wild psychic force, could not draw near.

Twelve minutes and thirty-one seconds remained. The Primarch-Engine calculated the duration of the Umbilical Aura’s efficacy.

But at that moment, the Primarch-Engine caught a faint, elusive scent of flowers.

In that instant, he seemed to see countless strange crimson blossoms slowly unfurling, slipping into his body.

Poppy—the Chaos Daemon born from the addictive drug that once devastated humanity—was unleashing its power.

This daemon silently seeped its will into the Primarch-Engine’s body, attempting to drown him in pleasure, delight, and joy.

“Hmm?” the Poppy Daemon let out a soft hum.

Its will, upon entering the Primarch-Engine’s body, sensed something wrong.

It—it felt immense delight within the Primarch-Engine’s body.