*BANG*
Nazareth struck the ground like a meteor.
Ash and pulverised stone erupted around him, swallowing his form as the impact drove the air from his lungs in a screaming rush. His face was forced skyward, vision swimming wildly, as blood flooded his mouth. He coughed—and a wet spray of red pattered against the ruin-choked ground. Every nerve in his body shrieked in protest, lighting him with agony from crown to heel. His sword had been torn from his grasp during the fall, vanishing into the smoke and debris, and his armour lay dented, scorched, and smeared with filth and gore.
A shadow fell over him, vast and all-consuming.
"TELL ME," Skarbrand thundered, his voice shaking the very bones of the world, "WHY KHORNE HIMSELF HAS CAST ME DOWN UPON YOU! WHY HAS HE SENT ME—HIS CHOSEN—to reap a WEAK, BLEEDING MORTAL!"
The daemon tore his axe from across his back and brought it down in a murderous arc, hatred given form.
The blow punched through Nazareth's armour with a scream of rending metal. Adamantium and necrodermis wailed as they failed, the sound like a dying machine-spirit howling its last rites. Bone cracked. Pain detonated through Nazareth's chest as the axe was torn free—only to descend again, heavier, angrier, and utterly unstoppable.
For a heartbeat, the rising blade eclipsed Skarbrand's view.
Nazareth moved.
He rolled aside, flesh screaming as he forced his shattered body to obey through sheer will alone. The axe missed him by a handspan and continued downward, striking the ground with cataclysmic force. The earth buckled violently. Towers hundreds of metres away shuddered, their stone structures cracking as the impact rippled outward like a living earthquake. Dust, ash, and debris rained from the sky in choking waves.
Skarbrand snarled, incandescent with fury.
Once, he had borne two sacred axes—both blessed by Khorne himself. One had been taken from him through a filthy trick: a sword driven into his back by a coward who dared steal the Blood God's gaze. And now that same creature denied him again, refusing an honourable death and scrambling away instead of meeting his blade.
Coward.
Nazareth dragged himself upright, staring up at the daemon with a mixture of dread and grim, immovable resolve. Skarbrand towered over him—an avatar of slaughter, wings torn and scarred, entrails exposed and steaming—yet still he stood unbowed. A fall from orbit. Organs missing. His body carved open beyond mortal limits.
And still he fought.
They faced one another across the shattered ground.
Skarbrand spread his wings, each thunderous beat stirring cyclones of ash and heat, a living wall of rage, blood, and divine hatred. Nazareth stood opposite—burned, broken, drenched in crimson—more corpse than man, yet utterly unyielding.
The wind screamed between them. In the distance, the clash of soldiers and daemons echoed like the drumbeat of a dying world, the sound of a war reaching its final breath.
Nazareth moved first.
He launched himself forward, shattered legs propelling him with inhuman force born of desperation and faith. His fist rose—and slammed into Skarbrand's jaw.
The impact split the air.
A sonic boom tore across the battlefield as Skarbrand was hurled backwards, skidding through ruins before his wings snapped open, arresting his flight mere metres from the ground. Stone vapourised beneath his claws as he dug in, sparks and flame erupting where he struck.
Nazareth did not hesitate.
He sprinted for his sword, lying half-buried in rubble only a few metres away. Every step was agony; every breath tasted of blood and iron. He ran anyway, refusing the mercy of collapse.
Skarbrand watched him go.
His grip tightened around his axe until the haft groaned in protest. Rage poured from him in visible waves, heat and flame bleeding from his skull as steam hissed from his wounds. The ground beneath his feet blackened and cracked, scorched by his fury alone.
Nazareth's arm fully extended as he wrenched his blade free from the earth. Once a work of sublime craftsmanship—golden adamantium traced with eerie green necrodermis—it was now caked in mud, ash, and filth. Still, as he turned to face his enemy, the weapon seemed to drink in the light itself, defiant even in ruin.
Skarbrand watched as Nazareth steadied himself, forcing his failing body into readiness through sheer stubborn defiance. The two locked eyes. Both bore the unmistakable marks of re-entry and brutal combat—wounds carved deep, blood steaming in the poisoned air.
Nazareth swayed, legs screaming for rest. His armour hung in tatters, chest plate shattered, blood flowing freely as his arms trembled beneath the pain borne upon them.
Yet he stood.
His hazy gaze never left the daemon as they began to circle one another, slow and deliberate, granting no opening, no mercy.
With a thunderous clap of wings, Skarbrand exploded forward.
The daemon closed the distance in a heartbeat, axe raised high before crashing downward with all his might—a blow meant to end gods and shatter faith itself.
Nazareth answered.
Both hands locked around his hilt as he drove his blade upward to meet the strike.
The Absolute of the Materium met the Absolute of the Immaterium.
The collision rang like a world breaking, a blinding shockwave ripping outward as the two forces crashed together—mortal defiance locked against incarnate slaughter.
Dust and surrounding filth were hurled skyward as the invisible explosion from their clash sent many near the battle flying from their feet.
The human soldiers, loyal to Luminar, rushed towards the epicentre; any could see that the final move had been played, and whoever still lived would decide the fate of the war itself.
The daemons, however, stayed back. None wished to confirm whether Skarbrand had fallen or if the human had perished. If either were true, then many of them would die as well. Yet interrupting a duel between such foes was a sin against their god, and so they waited, watching as the psychically charged dust and filth slowly settled.
First to arrive within the crater was Karl—the madman—wielding his adrathic destroyer. He charged the moment he saw his god clash with the daemon, sliding rapidly down the walls of the pit formed by their titanic struggle.
When Karl finally reached the bottom, his eyes widened in equal parts horror and relief. Standing there, sword clasped in his right hand and an axe embedded through his left, was Nazareth. Beneath his feet lay the headless corpse of Skarbrand, Khorne's mightiest daemon.
"M-My Lord?" Karl shouted, his voice breaking, as he forgot the wider battle entirely and threw himself forward to embrace his god.
Nazareth, dazed from catastrophic blood loss and utter exhaustion, nearly collapsed as Karl clung to him, the Kriegsmann shouting prayers and broken thanks into the smoke-filled air.
(AN: Ngl, really had fun making this chapter. Had to revise it ab 4 times cuz I wanted it to be 2k words, but going over it there were pieces which didn't make sense, so i had to cut em. Thanks for reading anyway, and see you next time Also, plz leave a comment. I like when people interact, and its kinda lonely not receiving any comments. :) )