Abaddon was wreathed in the flames of fury, and the Warp's blasphemous, wicked power surged from his body.
The myriad faces on drach'nyen shrieked in unison, singing of death, corrosion, and destruction.
To be mocked by a mere mortal, to be suppressed by a mere mortal in front of the elite of the Black Legion—Abaddon simply could not tolerate it.
The Black Legion was, after all, a loose organization.
If he showed even a hint of weakness, his subordinates would develop disloyalty, the Black Legion's power would diminish, and the goal of overthrowing the Imperium and slaying the False Emperor would become even more distant.
This was something he absolutely could not endure.
He had to kill this mortal here and now—
Seeing that Alexander no longer wielded the now dim and lusterless toy sword, a light flashed in Abaddon's eyes, and he thought, 'Sure enough.'
It was that sword; all the problems stemmed from that toy sword.
Although he didn't know why drach'nyen hadn't detected the problem with that toy sword,
Nor did he know why a mere toy sword could withstand the demonic weapon born from humanity's first murder,
But clearly, that toy sword had a time limit.
Now, Abaddon could easily take that mortal's life!
drach'nyen was now cooperating with Abaddon more than ever; it too was enraged by its recent failure.
It was the bane of all humanity; even the Emperor, the Emperor, should fear its authority.
It was the death of humanity, an inescapable murder.
drach'nyen roared, unleashing its Warp's evil power upon the mortal named Alexander before it.
Suddenly, Abaddon felt drach'nyen hesitate slightly.
Abaddon also felt a sudden chill down his spine; he suddenly noticed that the white pouch on Alexander's stomach had, at some point, expanded.
An ordinary master-crafted Power Sword cut through the wind and snow, its pale blue energy field roaring with powerful Psyker energy, melting the snowflakes falling from the sky.
In an instant, that sword seemed to have cut a wound in Krasus' cold mist.
Abaddon couldn't keep up with the speed of that sword, even when his attention was solely focused on the Power Sword.
drach'nyen seized control of his arm, quickly retracting to intercept the Power Sword that was thrusting directly at Abaddon's chest.
But Abaddon's own physical prowess dragged down the Demon Sword.
"Ah!!!!"
A cry of extreme agony escaped his lips, and Abaddon staggered back a few steps.
The chest of his Power Armor was torn open, and grotesque, twisted, tentacle-like cables wriggled out from the gash.
At the same time, the wound left by Sigismund in the past was exposed to the biting cold wind, continuously bleeding.
That wound now had a whistling Power Sword plunged into it, its blade imbued with powerful Psyker energy, scorching Abaddon's flesh and soul.
Moreover, that Power Sword had precisely pierced one of Abaddon's two hearts, causing him unbearable pain.
The Black Sword, hung at his waist as a trophy, vibrated slightly; the machine spirit within it seemed to have reanimated, as if mocking Abaddon.
Perhaps a trace of Sigismund's consciousness remained in this sword, or the machine spirit within the sword had been imbued with Sigismund's personality and emotions.
This was also why Abaddon insisted on hanging the sword at his waist; he yearned for Sigismund to witness him slowly destroy the Imperium.
However, now, the Black Sword had only witnessed... only his clownish, continuous failures.
Abaddon raised his head ferociously, staring intently at Alexander.
Alexander subtly twitched the pouch on his stomach and looked at Abaddon with a slight smile:
"Warmaster, can you perform that again?"
"You know... 'The age of the Primarchs is over!'"
As Alexander's words fell,
A tall figure draped in a flaxen robe emerged from Alexander's pouch.
The cold wind blew, and the flowing flaxen robe swayed with the wind, the sweeping robe also brushed over the snowy ground, leaving a faint trace and outlining the figure's form.
The robe outlined a towering, indistinct figure, seemingly between reality and myth, a marble-like posture.
He might have been over three meters tall, or perhaps five or six meters tall.
Perhaps he had wings, perhaps not.
Perhaps he wore armor, perhaps he was only draped in a robe.
Everything was uncertain; it seemed that what was beneath the robe was merely a shadow.
But undoubtedly, even if it was a shadow, it was a shadow full of divinity.
The air was more silent than at any other moment.
Both the Black Legion and the Expeditionary Force paused their actions at this instant.
The two sides, who had been fighting, involuntarily looked at the figure standing beside Alexander.
They did not know who it was, nor what kind of being it was, but they all felt a being far superior to mortals standing there.
Saint Celestine let out a joyful and surprised gasp; the wound on her chest, caused by Abaddon, had already healed, her pure wings gently resting on the ground, her gaze filled with both disbelief and piety.
"Who are you?!"
Abaddon let out a sharp roar.
That sword just now, this physique, this power, this sacred sense transcending the mundane world—
As an Astartes warrior who had lived through the Great Crusade era and witnessed the forms of many Primarchs,
Abaddon knew that standing before him was undoubtedly—
"This is impossible!!!"
"Your era is over!!"
"Are you some kind of illusion? Or the False Emperor's evil magic?"
Abaddon roared, condemning the figure before him.
However, the figure merely let out a sigh that was almost pitying.
Abaddon inexplicably found the voice familiar, as if it belonged to someone he should never forget.
He suddenly reached out and fiercely pulled out the ordinary Power Sword from his chest, throwing it onto the snowy ground, blood instantly staining the ground red.
And the wound on his chest did not heal under the action of the cells released by the Larraman's Organ; instead, it continuously gushed blood, as if the Psyker energy remaining on the wound was constantly damaging Abaddon's body.
A dizzying sensation assailed Abaddon's brain; he looked at the scar on his chest,
And found that it contained not only the Emperor's power but also the power from the Chaos Gods.
Abaddon couldn't help but let out a sneer, saying to the unknown figure before him:
"Look how hypocritical you are, claiming loyalty yet already having fallen into the abyss of Chaos!"
"I only use Chaos, but how pathetic you are, to actually submit to them!"
"..Abaddon, what has blinded your eyes?"
A slightly muffled voice emanated from the figure draped in the flaxen robe; his finger subtly took the Hot Playback Clapperboard & Robot Director from Alexander's hand and gently pressed it.
"You were once a member of the Four Kings Council, sworn in the name of Luna to offer counsel to the Primarchs."
"But you made mistake after mistake, personally covering your own eyes."
"You knew the Great Heresy was a mistake, yet you erred again and again, committing a ten-thousand-year mistake for one error."
"You knew the Gods manipulated the Warmaster, and manipulated you, yet you turned a deaf ear, ignoring your own degeneration."
"Ezekiel, what have you become?"
There was not a hint of hatred for Abaddon in the figure's words, only pity, regret, and deep self-reproach.
And Abaddon felt the voice become increasingly familiar.
"No!"
Abaddon suddenly recoiled a step, screaming in terror:
"You can't be him! You're just a trickster!"
"Does the False Emperor think this can scare me?!"
Abaddon roared in anger, disregarding his wounds, raising drach'nyen high, and lunging like a madman at the figure draped in the flaxen robe.
That figure didn't even have a weapon in his hand.
And Ezekiel Abaddon held the Demon Sword Drach'nyen in his hand—
However, Abaddon was already wounded, and his speed was significantly slower than before.
The figure draped in the flaxen robe elegantly dodged the Demon Sword's blade, the flowing robe coincidentally brushing against drach'nyen's glowing, eerie blue blade, and the robe subsequently caught fire, as if mocking Abaddon.
Then, the figure's powerful arm suddenly gripped Abaddon's wrist, and his body abruptly closed in on Abaddon.
Before Abaddon's brain could even process the situation, the figure draped in the flaxen robe reached for Abaddon's waist.
"Ezekiel, this does not belong to you."
The Black Sword was unsheathed, its machine spirit roaring in exhilaration, igniting the night-like energy field on its blade.
This Black Sword, forged from the fragments of Sigismund's sword, was gripped in the robed figure's hand and brought down in a direct, cleaving strike.
"Ah!!!!"
Abaddon wailed; his face was split down the middle, his forehead, nose, and mouth all cleaved in two.
It was then that drach'nyen exerted its power, controlling Abaddon's arm to block the Black Sword's second attack.
In an instant, a burst echoed in the void, and the souls of everyone present felt a tremor.
They all seemed to see an illusion, an illusion of one person killing another with a stone tool.
Then Abaddon stumbled back several steps, and the figure draped in the flaxen robe also retreated a step.
"No wonder Father feared you so much, drach'nyen," the flaxen-robed figure said with a slight gasp of admiration.
Abaddon braced himself, attempting to lunge at the figure again, but his legs gave way, and he suddenly knelt in the snow.
He gasped for breath, fiercely looking up, and the robed figure slowly walked towards Abaddon.
The cold wind gently stirred the flaxen robe, slightly revealing the figure's face, which Abaddon happened to see.
He gasped, his pupils trembling uncontrollably, his mouth agape, his tongue spasming, and it took him a great effort to utter a complete sentence:
"Dad?"
"How are you not dead?!"