Chapter 707: If You Cannot Be Reborn from the Flames, Then Burn in Them

Fire burned, so searing, so intense, igniting from another dimension, from the realm of the dead, instantly engulfing Thor’s body.

Only the Warhammer of the Breaker of Ovens bathed in the flames, growing ever more blinding, ever brighter, like a beacon standing upon the earth, calling to its former master.

A pair of broad hands reached out from the fire, serpents of flame coiling around them yet leaving not a single mark, instead gilding the hands with an orange-gold furnace glow that made the silver metal flowing across them shimmer brilliantly.

Those hands seized the Warhammer of the Breaker of Ovens.

The modifications, corruption, and distortion imposed by Perturabo were instantly incinerated, revealing the Warhammer of the Breaker of Ovens as it had first appeared when pulled from the furnace.

Pure, resilient, unyielding—like a cold blade of steel from deep within the mountains, uniquely distinct among all of Fulgrim’s creations.

It bore no excessive ornamentation, no gemstones or gilding, radiating a powerful simplicity.

Fulgrim still remembered how he had watched Ferros illuminated by the fires of Mars, and, unable to resist, had shaped this hammer after the man, whom he then considered dreadfully dull.

And that man now stood once more before Fulgrim.

He stepped forth from the roaring flames, fire outlining his form—a body eternally burning, ash composing his muscles, fuel his bones, smoke his armor.

Hands like flowing silver lifted the Warhammer of the Breaker of Ovens; above his neck, a blurred, flickering phantom head, shaped by firelight, swayed gently with the shifting glow.

Fulgrim let out a pained cry, his body trembling slightly.

Malcador spat a clot of blood, pulled the Stinger Sword from his own neck, and tried to intercept the burning flame giant before he could reach his Primarch.

“No,” Fulgrim roared. “Malcador, do not stand in his way. Let him come. Let me see him.”

Malcador faithfully obeyed his Primarch’s command, allowing the fire-wreathed giant to approach Fulgrim.

Fulgrim extended his hands, moving like a blind man, cautiously probing to bring his fingers closer to the burning giant.

But his fingers halted just before touching the blurred head, as if fearing the head before him was but a dream, a bubble that would burst at the lightest touch.

“Fulgrim,” the flame giant’s voice rumbled like cold rock, echoing in Fulgrim’s ears.

Fulgrim let out a mournful wail and snatched his hands back, curling into himself.

“Have you come to kill me? Have you come for revenge? Did Father send you to kill me?”

“No! No! He, the Emperor, has no power here. You cannot frighten me.”

“I see—you are but a bubble, a flicker. Your body holds no true power!”

“You are right,” the flaming giant did not deny Fulgrim’s words. “Our Father’s power cannot be squandered. I stand here not by the Emperor’s command, nor to kill you.”

“I stand here because I wish to. I wish to speak with you.”

Plain, direct, carrying an irrefutable force.

Even though Fulgrim knew the figure before him was but a powerless phantom, he still shrank back, emitting a shrill cry.

“You lie! You never came to me in ten thousand years! Do you know how desperately I wanted to see you?”

“I knew,” the flame giant’s voice was firm and certain. “You rejected me, Fulgrim. You turned me away, again and again, refusing me access to you.”

“You lie!” Fulgrim shrieked, swinging his flame sword wildly, yet not a single strike landed on the flaming giant. “I saw it—your eyes were full of hatred. You are a wraith summoned by the God of Vengeance!”

“I still remember your eyes when you died—full of hatred. It terrified me!”

“Of course I hated you!”

The flame giant’s voice rose slightly.

“When you severed my head, it was not only hatred I felt—I felt sorrow.”

“Not because you killed me.”

The flaming giant stepped closer to Fulgrim.

“But because the Fulgrim I loved—”

“—was gone forever.”

Fulgrim whimpered and retreated again, putting distance between himself and the flaming giant.

“O Phoenix, how pitiful you are,” the giant sighed, his voice sincere, yet to Fulgrim it felt like a thousand sharp knives.

“Then why! Why are you standing before me now!” Fulgrim roared, driving his flame sword deep into Ferros’s side.

“Because you are different now, Phoenix,” said the flaming giant.

“Oh!” Fulgrim’s voice rose sharply, a bitter ache spreading through it. “You came for him—the clone?”

“Then you’re too late! I’ve killed him. The clone you wanted no longer exists.”

“You killed him, but you did not destroy him,” the flaming giant gazed at Fulgrim, his eyes piercing through the twisted shell to the soul beneath. “And I have never seen any clone. I saw only Fulgrim.”

“You,” Fulgrim’s voice lost its edge, “you’ve learned to flatter, to lie.”

“I never understood flattery. Don’t you know that yet, Fulgrim?”

The flaming giant shook his head.

“The current Faxon is you—you bit his tail and fused with him.”

“Remember: time does not exist in the Warp. If at the end Faxon is you, then at the beginning—Faxon was always you.”

Fear crossed Fulgrim’s face.

“You are Fulgrim. You are the perfect Fulgrim. You are the true symbol of perfection. You’ve said a thousand times: true perfection is unattainable.”

“Then how could Fabius possibly clone a perfect Fulgrim?”