Chapter 706: Fugreim

Helpless,

a profound sense of helplessness engulfed Fugen,

his memories were hazy, his perceptions chaotic; he remembered only charging at Fugreim, and Fugreim charging at him,

like a boulder rolling down a mountain again, and the man pushing it from below rushing once more toward the stone,

then everything around him blurred, the entire world dissolved,

he and Fugreim melted and reformed, converged and separated, indistinguishable from one another,

they seemed to have been decomposed, molecular bonds in their bodies shattered, barriers between substances vanished, their entire forms merging into one greater whole, while Fugen and Fugreim fused into a similar unity,

he bathed in a sea of interwoven purple and gold, the liquid flowing down his handsome, unarmored body, seeping into his skin—or rather, he was dissolving into the sea,

as if he had been born within this sea, this sea the sole amniotic fluid nurturing only him, the primordial womb from which he alone had emerged,

in a daze, Fugen realized this sea was the infinite longing for perfection from all beings—past, present, and future,

he understood why the Primarchs must have mothers: the key lay in the inclination to be born, to instill in the unborn entities of the Warp the desire to be born; Eldar’s true contribution was not her extraordinary genes, but the faith once Huiju upon her when she was worshipped as a human goddess of birth, reproduction, and fertility—the countless human longings for birth,

it was Eldar who bestowed upon them the desire to be born, allowing them to emerge into the world.

Normally, Fugen might have been intrigued by this secret, but now he had lost nearly all impulse, leaving only one intense longing and drive,

he must kill Fugreim, he must devour Fugreim,

Fugreim was submerged in the sea, unarmored, yet still in that twisted, grotesque posture, floating lazily, powerless, and degraded,

just as one appears after realizing the destiny of perfection is forever unattainable.

Fugen charged at him, like the very first traveler chasing perfection, stepping into the sea, brimming with hope and vigor,

he swung the Hammer of the Broken Hearth toward Fugreim, the heavy mallet like a massive boulder sliding from a mountain peak, crashing down upon Fugreim,

Fugreim lazily raised his flame sword to block; Fugen’s hammer easily swept aside the flame blade and struck Fugreim’s head,

Fugreim shattered like a lazy wisp of cloud, violet-pink mist dispersing beneath the hammer,

after Fugen lifted the hammer, Fugreim’s form coalesced once more,

but Fugen sensed it clearly: Fugreim’s aura had noticeably weakened—direct attacks still affected him.

Realizing this, Fugen began swinging his hammer with blinding speed, striking Fugreim’s body again and again,

while Fugreim merely offered symbolic, lazy resistance to Fugen’s assaults,

Fugreim’s body continuously shattered and reformed, each time weaker; many times Fugen felt he would vanish entirely, yet he never did,

Fugen kept swinging his hammer, again and again, again and again, until the count blurred even in his own mind,

he felt as if he were pushing a heavy boulder, each time believing he had nearly reached the summit, only for the stone to roll back down, forcing him to repeat the process endlessly,

until his arms stiffened, until his muscles ached, until swinging became an instinctive motion, until time slipped away bit by bit.

Fugreim raised his flame sword, lightly deflecting the blow, slowly rising from the interwoven purple and gold liquid,

he gazed at Fugen with a look mingling pity and self-mockery,

“You said we are two different choices toward perfection, not its beginning and end?”

“No, you are wrong. We are both two different choices toward perfection—and its beginning and end.”

Fugreim’s lips curled in a sneering smile:

“Whenever anyone sets out to do something, they always imagine they will perfect it—after all, who has not clung to false confidence? Like the dreams of a child, naive and fragile—you—or rather, my former self—were that reflection of illusion.”

“Most ordinary people soon realize they cannot even approach perfection; merely achieving mediocrity demands all their strength.”

“A few gifted individuals go farther, reaching heights from which they overlook the masses—but the farther they go, the more they feel how impossibly distant perfection remains, how each step forward is so arduous.”

“Repeated again and again, honed again and again, step by step—but progress in skill is minuscule, gains in achievement imperceptible, even regressing with age and fading talent—how utterly despairing.”

“Yet this is not the most despairing. The most despairing is when you seem to have reached perfection, when you believe you have attained an unassailable state—when you have forged a flawless wooden vessel, when you have mastered dragon-slaying through countless trials, when you have become a noble knight through relentless discipline.”

“...you discover your prized creation is commonplace, that dragons never existed, and on the horizon there are only windmills, no knights.”

“All of life is like this—punished by gods and fate to push a colossal boulder, no matter how hard you strain, you can never reach the summit, only to roll back down again and again, endlessly, meaningless.”

“Then you are left with only two choices.”

“One is like me: realizing all this is meaningless, understanding that the feeling of the journey itself is all there is—embrace pleasure, embrace joy, embrace even more extreme sensations.”

“The other is you: knowing it is all meaningless, yet endlessly pushing that boulder again, deceiving yourself into believing you are happy, telling yourself you must imagine yourself happy, and continuing the meaningless repetition.”

“But your repetition will one day end—either you die, or you realize its meaninglessness and make the same choice as I did.”

Fugreim leaned close to Fugen, chuckling:

“Do you understand? So you can never kill me. You can only die—or become me.”

“The cruel Master of Craft also knows this—he understands you—or I—have never had a chance at rebirth through fire.”

“Now, death or pleasure—which will you choose?”

Fugen gripped his hammer tightly,

“Pleasure? To me, it is merely cowardice,” he whispered.

“The second choice is merely recklessness and self-deception,” Fugreim slightly stepped back from Fugen.

“Recklessness is closer to courage than cowardice; death is closer to perfection than corruption.”

Fugen’s violet eyes were steady:

“And you are wrong. Perhaps when I repeat this pointlessly again and again, I must pretend I am happy.”

“But when I lift this boulder and strike it against the gods and fate that punish me, against perfection forever unattainable—I do not need to pretend. I am happy.”

“Then you will die,” Fugreim said, staring at Fugen.

“Yes,” Fugen nodded in agreement: “How happy.”

Soll’s eyes streamed with tears,

he could not believe what he saw,

Fugen fell—Fugreim had pierced his body with his flame sword; his form collapsed like a hollowed-out skin, limp and lifeless,

Fugreim gently extended his arm, catching Fugen’s falling body; Fugen melted, dissolving into Fugreim’s form.

“.” Fugreim turned his head, fixing Soll with a stare,

though only for an instant, Soll thought he saw a figure—a purple, golden figure,

not Fugen, but Fugreim—the old Fugreim—but only for an instant; Fugreim reverted to his grotesque, twisted, fallen form,

yet his face no longer bore its former madness; the colorful paint had flaked off from battle, revealing a pale visage, now etched with complexity and contradiction,

he had killed Fugen—but had not made Fugen become him.

Fugen had undoubtedly died utterly, yet what he symbolized still lingered within Fugreim, creating a profound sense of division within him.

“My son,” Fugreim said to Soll, slowly approaching him,

he waved his hand, signaling Ma Luesi to step aside,

“Soll Tavitz, it seems you have made another wrong choice—standing with the defeated.”

“But I am always forgiving. I offer you a choice: serve me, become my chosen one, return to my embrace.”

“Soll, I hope you are not as dull as Tavitz.”