Chapter 703: The Mathematical Level of Mortarion

“Ferrus”

Fulgrim’s words caused Fulgur’s expression to falter slightly, his lips trembling:

“You mean Ferrus.”

“Of course!” Fulgrim gripped his Warhammer of the Broken Hearth, growling: “What would Ferrus say seeing the once-purple phoenix fallen to this?”

“I have never regretted killing Ferrus,” Fulgur whispered.

Fulgrim froze: “I didn’t ask—”

“I have never regretted killing Ferrus!”

Fulgur’s voice rose sharply, his four arms swirling like blossoms, swords, whips, and claws crossing into a kaleidoscope as they bore down on Fulgrim.

Fulgrim’s face hardened, the Warhammer of the Broken Hearth surging with searing furnace fire.

The serpent-twisted blade in Fulgur’s left hand shrieked as it clashed with the Warhammer, the exploding energy illuminating hundreds of meters around like daylight.

Fulgrim’s arms went numb, cracks forming in his bones—he felt he faced an ancient titan greater than an entire Titan Legion, a god who had descended into mortal dimensions, yet the one suffering was not He, but reality itself.

Sanguinius, Lion, and Guilliman never used their full strength when fighting me in the arena.

“He deserved to die!”

Fulgur’s voice sliced like a blade.

“You wretch—I fought shoulder to shoulder with Ferrus, I forged weapons with him, we bled together, we swore oaths together.”

“But you—you wretch—only peered into my memories. When did you ever see Ferrus?”

The lethal whip lashed down; Fulgrim’s armor shattered in an instant, flesh torn by the barbs, agony ripping through his body.

This whip was no mere weapon—it was a full-fledged instrument of torture, drenched in toxins that did not kill but inflicted endless torment; a mortal would have collapsed from such horror long ago.

Yet Fulgrim, at least in flesh, remained an Primarch—his supernatural immunity suppressed the pain swiftly, his superhuman reflexes allowing him to pull slightly away.

“Ferrus was stubborn! Boring! Cold as iron!”

Fulgur roared as he pressed forward, his flame-blade carving an arc that struck the Warhammer of the Broken Hearth.

“He understood no art, appreciated no painting, sensed no rhythm in music, knew nothing of beauty.”

The flame-blade before Fulgrim suddenly multiplied into thousands, slashing from every direction—he swung the Warhammer desperately to block.

Yet some attacks pierced his defense.

His armor dented, cracked, and blackened continuously.

“He stole my honor again and again, overshadowed my glory again and again, betrayed me again and again!”

“I—I invited him with brotherly affection, because of our true friendship I invited him to join a new order.”

“But he refused me! He betrayed our friendship!”

“He deserved to die by my blade!”

Fulgur’s voice turned shrill and piercing:

“So ungrateful! So obstinate! So utterly incorruptible! So unyielding! So resilient! So never-broken!”

Fulgur’s voice grew quieter.

“Yes,” Fulgrim nodded. “I have never seen Ferrus with my own eyes—I only peered into your memories.”

“Yet I still know his resilience, his indestructibility. If anything in this world is perfect without carving, it is Ferrus.”

“I never walked beside him, yet I loved him. You walked beside him—how could you not love him?”

Fulgur’s assault halted. He opened his mouth slightly, violet eyes glistening with tears.

Fulgrim felt a force surge within him—as if it had come from Fulgur’s own body.

Fulgrim remembered the words Kaul had once spoken.

He was becoming Fulgur.

Fulgrim let out a primal battle cry.

He leapt upward, swinging the Warhammer of the Broken Hearth in an arc, the hammerhead aimed straight at Fulgur’s twisted face.

Fulgur, as a Primarch, was faster than Fulgrim—even with Fulgrim seizing that fleeting moment of hesitation, Fulgur still evaded it.

The Warhammer struck Fulgur’s shoulder; a sharp crack rang from his armor, the finely carved eagle emblem snapping off, exposing Fulgur’s shoulder to the air.

“Wretch!” Fulgur shrieked, thrusting the twisted blade at Fulgrim.

Fulgrim leapt aside, swinging his hammer to strike the broken eagle on Fulgur’s chest.

The eagle emblem flew from Fulgur’s chest—the talons, it turned out, had pierced his flesh, dragging out streaks of blood.

Fulgur howled and staggered back.

“This was given to me by my father!” Fulgur cried, staring at the shattered eagle on the ground.

“The Emperor’s gift?” Fulgrim landed, tilting his head slightly to ask.

He had not expected Fulgur to still keep the Emperor’s gift.

But Fulgur ignored Fulgrim’s question. His grotesque face slowly lifted; the wound on his chest healed almost instantly.

He fixed Fulgrim with a deeply gloomy gaze.

“You stole from me,” Fulgur growled.

“I prefer to call it recognition,” Fulgrim tightened his grip on the Warhammer, smirking: “You yourself admitted I am more the purple phoenix than you.”

“You are a fake. A counterfeit. A clone,” Fulgur’s voice pierced like glass.

“The Primarch of the Sons of the Emperor must be the most perfect,” Fulgrim stared at Fulgur, showing no fear: “Who is more perfect is the Primarch. Who wins is the Primarch.”

“Fool,” Fulgur laughed. “The more perfect you become, the more you resemble me. If you defeat me, it only proves you have become exactly like me.”

“The path to perfection is this: the more you walk it, the clearer your imperfections become. You call my posture corruption—I call it the necessary path to perfection.”

“I do not believe this is the result of the path to perfection.”

Fulgrim shook his head.

“I have been thinking—what does perfection truly look like?”

“Do you remember the jade pendant from early human civilization that Chagatai Khan once gave us?”

“You praised its beauty, admired its history—but it was born from waste.”

Fulgur paused, stunned.

He remembered the jade: a traveler in a hooded cloak walking through swirling snow, a withered tree swaying beside him. He had indeed been captivated by its craftsmanship, unable to suppress his admiration.

“This pendant was made in the era Zhou Yun once lived in. When I spoke of it to Zhou Yun, he told me it was born from waste.”