Chapter 707: Fulgrim

Powerless.

A deep sense of powerlessness swept through Fulgrim.

His memory was somewhat blurred, his perception somewhat chaotic. He only remembered that he rushed toward Fulgrim, and Fulgrim also rushed toward him.

Just like a rolling stone on a high mountain falling again, and the stone-pusher under the mountain rushing toward the stone again.

Then, everything around seemed to become blurred, the entire world dissipated.

He and Fulgrim both melted and reorganized, gathered and separated, difficult to distinguish between each other.

They seemed to have been decomposed, the molecular bonds in their bodies collapsed, the barrier between matter and matter did not exist, the entire body formed a larger whole, and at the same time, Fulgrim and Fulgrim merged into a similar whole.

He bathed in a sea of purple and gold, the seawater flowing down from his beautiful body not wearing power armor, merging into his skin, or rather he was merging into this sea.

As if he were born in this sea, this sea was the amniotic fluid that nurtured only one creature, his own, the primitive fetal sea of his birth.

In a trance, Fulgrim realized that this sea was the infinite thirst for perfection of all creatures in the past, present, and future.

He also understood why Primarchs must have a mother. The key lies in the tendency of birth, to give the desire for birth to those Warp existences not yet born into the world. Erda... Erda truly contributed not her extraordinary genes, but the faith gathered on her when she was worshipped as the human goddess of fertility, reproduction, and abundance in the past, the desire of countless humans for birth.

It was Erda who gave them the desire for birth, letting them be born into the world.

If it were normal, Fulgrim might be interested in this secret, but at this moment he had almost lost all impulses, leaving only a strong desire and impulse.

He wanted to kill Fulgrim, he wanted to gnaw Fulgrim away.

Fulgrim was already soaked in the sea, not wearing power armor, but still in that twisted and ugly posture. He was soaked in the sea, lazy, powerless, decadent.

It looked like the emotion produced after realizing the destiny that perfection could never be reached.

Fulgrim rushed toward him, just like a traveler who had just started chasing perfection. He stepped into the sea, full of hope and vigor.

He swung the Fireblade warhammer and smashed toward Fulgrim. The heavy hammer was like a heavy rolling stone, sliding down from the mountain peak, smashing toward Fulgrim.

Fulgrim just lazily swung the flame sword to block. Fulgrim's hammer head easily pushed aside the flame sword, smashing onto Fulgrim's head.

Fulgrim shattered like a lazy cloud, pink-purple clouds dissipating from under the hammer head.

After Fulgrim raised the hammer head, Fulgrim's figure condensed again.

But Fulgrim also sensed that Fulgrim's momentum was significantly weaker... Weakness attacks were still effective on him.

Realizing this, Fulgrim began to swing the warhammer in his hand extremely fast, smashing onto Fulgrim's body again and again.

And Fulgrim just symbolically, lazily blocked Fulgrim's attack.

Fulgrim's body constantly cracked and reorganized, weaker each time. Many times Fulgrim felt he was about to dissipate, but he never dissipated.

Fulgrim still swung the warhammer in his hand, again and again, again and again, so many times that he seemed to have forgotten it himself.

He felt like he was pushing a heavy rolling stone. Every time he thought he was about to push it to the mountain peak, this stone would fall, and Fulgrim had to repeat this process again and again.

Swinging until his arms were stiff, swinging until his arms were sore, swinging until swinging became an instinctive action, swinging until time passed bit by bit...

Fulgrim raised the flame sword, lightly pushed aside this sword, slowly climbed up from the liquid mixed with purple and gold.

He looked at Fulgrim with a gaze of pity and self-mockery intertwined.

"You said we are two different choices for perfection, rather than the beginning and end of the path of perfection?"

"No, you are wrong. We are both two different choices for perfection, and the beginning and end of perfection."

Fulgrim hung a mocking smile at the corner of his mouth:

"Every time someone wants to do something, they always fantasize that they will do it perfectly. After all, who hasn't harbored hypocritical confidence? Just like a child's dream when they are young and ignorant, illusory and fragile. You... or rather, the former me, is the reflection of that fantasy."

"The vast majority of mediocre people will soon realize that they don't even talk about touching perfection; even achieving a decent degree is already trying their best."

"Some people with talent can go further. They can reach the level of looking down on all living beings, but the further they go, the more they can feel how far they are from perfection, feeling that every step they take is so difficult."

"Repeated again and again, tempered again and again, walking step by step, but the progress of skill is minimal, the progress of achievement is imperceptible, and even regressing with the loss of age and talent. How desperate..."

"But this is not the most desperate. The most desperate thing is when you seem to have reached perfection, seem to have reached a realm where you can't advance, when you have forged a perfect integrated wooden bottle, when you have learned dragon-slaying techniques after going through thousands of hardships, when you have become an excellent knight after long tempering..."

"... You find that the work you are proud of is just easily obtained, you find that there has never been a dragon in this world, and there are only windmills rolling on the horizon, no knights."

"Everything in life is like this, like being punished by gods, by fate, to push a huge stone, no matter how hard you try, you can't push it to the top of the mountain, finally rolling down again and again, repeating again and again, meaningless."

"Then you can only make two choices."

"One is the same as me, realizing that all this is meaningless, realizing that the feeling in this process is everything, embracing pleasure, embracing joy, embracing more extreme sensory experiences."

"The other is you, knowing that all this is meaningless, still repeating the pushing of that stone, and then deceiving yourself, assuming you are very happy, telling yourself you must imagine yourself as happy, and then continuing the meaningless repetition."

"But your repetition like this will eventually come to an end one day, either dead, or realizing the meaninglessness of all this, making the same choice as me."

Fulgrim leaned close to Fulgrim, giggling:

"Do you understand? So you can never kill me; you can only die like this, or become me."

"That Lord of Vicious Craft also knows this. He understands that you, or rather me, never have a chance to be reborn from the ashes."

"Now, death or pleasure, which one do you choose?"

Fulgrim gripped the hammer head.

"Pleasure? In my opinion, it's just cowardice." He said in a low voice.

"The second choice is also just recklessness and self-deception." Fulgrim distanced himself from Fulgrim slightly.

"Recklessness is closer to courage than cowardice, and death is closer to perfection than depravity."

Fulgrim's violet eyes sank:

"And you are wrong. Perhaps when I repeat it in vain again and again, I need to assume that I am happy."

"When I raise the giant stone, smashing toward the gods and fate that punish me, smashing toward the perfection that can never be reached, I don't need to assume; I am happy."

"Then, you will die." Fulgrim stared at Fulgrim and said.

"Yes." Fulgrim nodded in agreement: "How happy."

Saul's eye corners shed tears.

He couldn't believe what he was seeing.

Fulgrim fell. Fulgrim pierced his body with the flame sword. His body was like a skin bag sucked dry, falling down softly.

Fulgrim gently extended his arms, supporting Fulgrim's falling body. Fulgrim seemed to melt, merging into Fulgrim's body.

"..." Fulgrim turned his head and stared at Saul.

Although it was only for an instant, Saul seemed to see a figure, a purple, golden figure.

Not Fulgrim, it was Fulgrim, the Fulgrim of the past... But it was only for an instant, and Fulgrim became that ugly, twisted, degenerate posture again.

But his face did not have the previous mania. The pastel fell off his face due to the battle, and his pale face was exposed to the air, carrying complexity and contradiction.

He killed Fulgrim, but did not let Fulgrim become him...

Fulgrim had undoubtedly died completely, but the things he symbolized still existed in Fulgrim's body, making Fulgrim feel a strong sense of splitting.

"My son." Fulgrim looked at Saul, slowly approaching Saul.

He waved his hand, signaling Marius to hide away.

"Saul Tarvitz, it seems you have made the wrong choice again, standing on the side of the loser."

"But I have always been tolerant. I give you a choice. You can serve me, be my chosen, return to my embrace."

"Saul, I hope you won't be as boring as Tarvitz." ===== CHAPTER 708 =====