In the Smoldering Ruins of the Underhive City
The convergence of Bastion's troops toward the tower of flesh and shadow was a spectacle of absolute order within chaos. Lines of fire and suppression advanced like the jaws of a titanic vise. Be'lakor's clone, watching from his daemonic perch, felt boredom, then annoyance, then a dark excitement at this overly organized resistance. He was tired of watching his hordes be harvested.
He turned his gaze toward Mother, still trembling with impotent rage. Without a word, a contemptuous smile on his lips, he spread his great wings of shadow and horn. With a powerful beat, he tore himself from the balcony, plunging into the poisoned sky like a prehistoric condor.
Julius saw him immediately. A blot of perfect shadow, denser than night, moving with terrifying speed and grace against the purple maelstrom of the sky.
"The boss is here," he said simply, his voice devoid of fear, laden with cold anticipation.
Where Be'lakor's shadow passed, corruption intensified. Flames burned greener, warp whispers became shrieks, the remaining daemons swelled with frenzied power, and surviving cultists fell into a suicidal frenzy, attacking armored vehicles with their bare hands.
The First-Damned Daemon Prince wasted no time on flourishes. He dove like a meteor. His black sword, Dawn of Eternal Night, pierced the upper armor of a Thor with a shriek of tortured metal, spearing the heart of the mechanical giant, which exploded in a firework of plasma. Then, in a spinning motion, the same blade sliced a Sisters of Silence Colossus from top to bottom, cleaving the heavy armor and the warrior inside into two neat halves that crashed heavily to the ground.
Julius watched, analyzing. This was no longer cannon fodder. This wasn't even an ordinary daemon. This was a being of ancient power, a primordial force of Chaos. The most powerful adversary he had ever faced. A thrill, not of joy, but of essential warrior's excitement before the ultimate challenge, vibrated within him.
Be'lakor landed lightly on a pile of rubble, not far from Julius's command position. With his free hand, he lifted the dismembered body of a Death Trooper impaled on his blade, brandishing it like a macabre trophy. Then, he pointed a clawed finger directly at Julius. The invitation was clear, primitive, devoid of all subtlety.
Julius gave no order, made no gesture. He simply looked at his generals, his Pillars. "Continue the cleanup. I have a Boss to kill."
His dorsal Ark reactors, integrated into his Umoja armor, activated with a sudden roar that shook the ground. Cobalt blue flames shot out. With a powerful thrust, Julius tore himself from the ground, slicing through the air at full speed, straight at Be'lakor.
The Prince of Darkness exulted. At last! A challenge! A soul to break or conquer that was worth the effort. He shoved aside the Death Trooper's corpse and launched himself as well, his wings propelling his massive body with daemonic agility.
They met in mid-air, above the devastated battlefield. Julius's Black Spear, wreathed in blue lightning, met Be'lakor's black sword in a clash that released a sonic shockwave, repelling the smoke and shaking broken windows hundreds of meters away.
Their eyes met in the chaos of the impact. In Be'lakor's eyes, a voracious jubilation, the perverse joy of the game and of domination, his serpentine tongue tasting the violence-charged air. In Julius's electric eyes, an absolute cold, an inflexible determination, the look of a man who has already calculated every outcome and chosen victory, whatever the cost.
Neither needed to speak. Both knew, in that first exchange, that this duel would end only with the death of one of them. The battle for Dakora-7 had just been reduced to two titanic wills clashing in the sky of hell.