Argall stepped onto the bridge of the Conqueror. The air was heavy with the tang of blood and the scent of burning metal. Bodies of World Eaters lay scattered across the deck, the aftermath of his Prometheans' slaughter. But there, at the center, stood Angron.
The Red Angel loomed, a monstrous figure clad in crimson and brass. His twin chain-axes roared to life, their teeth spinning with a hungry growl. His movements were restless, shifting from one foot to another, muscles coiled like a predator ready to pounce. His eyes locked onto Argall, red as embers, wild and unrelenting. Behind the madman was a woman in white, bearing the sigil of Angron's legion about her beast. She looked utterly fearless.
Argall held his Warscythe at his side, the green energy along its blade humming softly. He didn't speak. Angron didn't either. No words needed to be exchanged. Argall knew what he came here for. And Angron knew what would happen the moment he decided to attack the Hyperboreans. The silence was shattered as Angron lunged forward, his axes carving twin arcs through the air.
Argall moved.
He sidestepped, the axes whistling past him, and brought his Warscythe up. The blade intercepted one axe, deflecting it upward in a shower of sparks, while his free hand caught the haft of the second. The teeth screeched against his armored gauntlet as he shoved Angron back, gaining a moment of distance.
Odd, Argall mused. The Warscythe should've very easily cleaved through Angron's glorified chainsaw as it had all the other glorified chainsaws wielded by his children. So... why didn't it? What was he missing? What wasn't he seeing?
Angron didn't pause. He charged again, swinging low, then high, the axes a blur. Argall twisted his Warscythe, parrying each strike. The energy field along the blade flared as it clashed with the roaring chain-teeth, sending jolts up the shaft with each impact. Argall's feet shifted smoothly, his movements deliberate, his scythe a barrier of precision.
Angron roared, his attacks growing faster, more erratic. He feinted high, then spun low, his axes coming in from opposite sides. Argall pivoted, the Warscythe sweeping in a tight arc to deflect one blow while his body leaned just out of reach of the other. The air between them crackled with tension as the weapons clashed, sparks dancing like fireflies.
Each strike from Angron was a storm, wild and unpredictable. He moved like a beast unleashed, snarling with each swing. His strikes were heavy, relentless, aiming to overwhelm through sheer ferocity. He pressed closer, forcing Argall to step back with each flurry. Argall's Warscythe spun in fluid motions, parrying and redirecting the blows, the hum of its energy field a constant note in the chaos. It was like fighting a very fast and very angry beast from the Scrapyards, but a thousand times more dangerous.
A downward swing came, both axes descending in unison. Argall stepped back, letting them crash into the floor. Metal screeched as the axes bit deep, and Angron wrenched them free with a feral snarl, his chest heaving. Argall took the moment to reposition, his Warscythe steady in his grip, waiting.
Angron lunged again, faster this time. One axe came in low, aiming for Argall's legs, while the other swept in high, targeting his neck. Argall stepped into the attack, his Warscythe spinning. The blade intercepted the low strike, the energy field severing the haft of the axe with a flash of green light. Angron snarled, twisting his body to bring the remaining axe down in a crushing overhead blow.
Argall raised his scythe horizontally, catching the axe just above his head. The chain-teeth roared, grinding against the blade, but they couldn't penetrate the energy field. Sparks sprayed as Angron pressed down, his muscles bulging, his growl deep and guttural. Argall's feet slid slightly on the blood-slick floor, but he held firm, his expression cold, his movements precise. Angron was stronger and more ferocious, but he was faster and calmer.
They were somewhat equal. Argall was the better duelist, but Angron would be an absolute monster in an open war.
With a sharp twist, Argall disengaged, his Warscythe whipping out in a tight arc. The blade cut close, forcing Angron to jerk back, his armor scraping as he narrowly avoided the strike. Argall stepped forward, pressing the advantage with a series of quick thrusts, the Warscythe slicing through the air with surgical precision. Angron deflected one strike with the flat of his axe and twisted to avoid another, his movements agile despite his massive frame.
Then Angron dropped low, his free hand slamming into the floor. He launched himself upward in an explosion of movement, his axe carving a deadly crescent. Argall spun, the Warscythe intercepting the strike mid-swing. The impact sent a shockwave through the room, lights flickering as the two forces collided.
Argall's blade held, the energy field crackling. He stepped into Angron's guard, his armored shoulder slamming into the Red Angel's chest. Angron stumbled back, a deep growl rumbling from his throat, but he didn't falter. He charged again, his remaining axe a blur of fury.
Argall waited, his Warscythe held low, the blade angled slightly. He studied Angron's movements, noting the subtle shifts in his stance, the telegraphed swings of his axe. Angron struck, a heavy diagonal swing aimed at Argall's torso. Argall pivoted, letting the blade pass inches from his armor, and brought the Warscythe up in a swift, precise counter.
The green blade slashed through the haft of Angron's axe, severing it cleanly. The weapon clattered to the floor, its teeth spinning uselessly. Angron roared, his hands now empty, his rage uncontained. He lunged barehanded, his fists swinging with the force of an asteroid.
Argall met him head-on, his Warscythe spinning in tight arcs. The blade came close, grazing Angron's armor, forcing him to twist and dodge. The bridge echoed with the sound of their clash, the raw fury of Angron against the calculated precision of Argall.
Neither yielded. Neither faltered.
The storm raged on.
Angron's fist slammed into Argall's side with the force of a wrecking ball, denting the armor slightly but failing to breach it. Argall grunted, his Warscythe flashing up in a counterstrike, grazing Angron's pauldron. Sparks sprayed as the energy field carved a shallow furrow into the exotic metal, leaving green-lit edges that smoked and hissed.
Angron snarled, his teeth bared, and swung a clawed hand toward Argall's helm. Argall tilted his head, the claws grazing the side of his helmet, leaving faint streaks but no damage. He retaliated with a quick jab of the Warscythe's haft, driving it into Angron's ribs. The impact dented Angron's armor and sent the madman stumbling back a step, his chest heaving.
Angron roared and lunged, his movements wild and erratic, his strikes faster now. He struck low, then high, feinting with one hand while the other came in with a brutal hook. Argall twisted, the Warscythe spinning to parry. The haft intercepted Angron's blow, but the force of it jarred Argall's grip, the vibration running up his arm. In that instance, Argall realized that Angron was better at hand to hand combat than he was with his axes.
Blood streaked Angron's armor where the Warscythe had bitten deep earlier, the jagged edges of the wounds oozing crimson. His movements were slowing, but the fury in his eyes burned hotter. Argall remained cold and methodical, his breathing steady, his armor gleaming with faint scorch marks and scratches but otherwise unbroken.
Angron closed the gap again, his fists hammering at Argall's defenses. Each strike was a battering ram, meant to overwhelm. Argall's Warscythe moved in tight arcs, deflecting and redirecting the blows. A fist grazed his shoulder, denting the armor there. Another strike clipped his hip, staggering him slightly. Argall didn't falter. He shifted his stance, his blade sweeping upward in a sharp counterstrike.
The Warscythe carved through Angron's forearm plate, slicing into flesh. Blood sprayed, splattering the bridge floor. Angron didn't recoil. He drove forward, his other hand slamming into Argall's chest with enough force to send him skidding back. Sparks flickered where the strike landed, the advanced plating absorbing the blow.
Argall's eyes narrowed. He stepped forward, his Warscythe a blur. The blade came in low, forcing Angron to twist to avoid it. Argall shifted, the blade reversing direction in a seamless motion. It caught Angron's thigh, slicing through armor and flesh. Angron roared again, stumbling, but used the momentum to pivot, bringing his elbow crashing into Argall's side.
The impact drove Argall back a step. He steadied himself quickly, his Warscythe spinning into a defensive position. Angron pressed the attack, his fists hammering against the haft of the weapon, each strike ringing out like a bell. Blood dripped from his wounds, staining the floor beneath him, but he didn't stop.
Argall parried, countered, his movements sharp and efficient. He drove the haft of the Warscythe into Angron's stomach, forcing a grunt, then followed with an upward slash. The blade tore into Angron's shoulder, splitting the pauldron and drawing another spray of blood.
Angron reeled but caught himself, his breathing ragged. His fists clenched, blood running down his arms. He roared again, his voice a guttural bellow, and charged.
Argall met him head-on. The Warscythe flashed, deflecting a punch, then slicing down in a diagonal arc. Angron twisted, the blade cutting shallowly across his torso. He lunged, his hands closing around the haft of the Warscythe, pulling Argall into a brutal headbutt.
The force cracked the side of Argall's helmet, sending a fracture through the visor. Argall staggered, but only briefly. He released one hand from the Warscythe and drove his fist into Angron's side. The blow landed with a dull thud, cracking ribs and forcing Angron to release the weapon.
They separated, circling each other. Angron's chest heaved, blood dripping from multiple wounds. His armor was cracked and stained, the ceramite barely holding together in places. Argall's armor bore scratches and dents, but the advanced material remained intact, its systems compensating for the damage.
Argall shifted his grip on the Warscythe, his movements calm, precise. Angron lunged again, his speed astonishing despite his injuries. Argall deflected the first strike, then sidestepped the second. He twisted, the Warscythe spinning, and drove the blade into Angron's side.
The bestial Primarch roared in pain, his body twisting as the energy field burned through his armor and into flesh. Blood poured from the wound, but Angron didn't fall. He grabbed the haft of the Warscythe again, wrenching it to the side, and drove his fist into Argall's chest.
Argall staggered, the impact denting his armor slightly, but he recovered quickly. He disengaged, pulling the Warscythe free with a sharp motion. Angron swayed, blood dripping steadily, his breaths ragged but filled with defiance. His eyes burned, wild and unrelenting.
Argall stood ready, his Warscythe gleaming with blood and energy. He waited, watching for the moment to strike. Angron snarled, his body trembling, but he charged again, fists swinging, refusing to fall. And then, Angron's right foot slipped over a puddle of his own blood. And, for a moment, his guard faltered.
And that was all it took.
The Warscythe moved.
A blur of green light arced downward. Angron's right arm severed cleanly at the shoulder, the energy field burning the wound shut instantly. Angron staggered, his balance lost, and Argall stepped forward, the Warscythe spinning in a tight circle.
The left arm followed.
Blood sprayed, a crimson mist in the air, staining Argall's armor as the severed limb crashed to the deck. Angron stumbled, his massive frame swaying as his balance faltered further. His chest heaved, his breathing ragged and uneven, but no sound of pain left his lips. His knees buckled, and he dropped to them, his head rising to meet Argall's gaze.
Argall didn't hesitate. He brought the Warscythe down again, its blade flashing toward Angron's legs. The left leg separated cleanly at the thigh, then the right, the cuts precise and brutal. Angron collapsed, his body hitting the blood-soaked floor with a dull thud.
The bridge fell silent save for the hum of the Warscythe and the faint crackling of severed armor. Argall stood over him, the blade poised, energy coursing along its edge. Angron lay there, limbless, blood pooling beneath him, his chest rising and falling in labored breaths.
Argall's hand tightened on the haft of the Warscythe. He stared down at the shattered form of the downed Primarch, his expression cold, his movements mechanical.
Then, Angron did something unexpected.
He smiled.
A faint, weak curve of the lips. His eyes, red and wild, softened just slightly. Blood trickled from his mouth as he chuckled, a low, broken sound that echoed in the stillness. His head tilted upward, his gaze locking with Argall's.
His lips moved, the words too faint to hear. But Argall saw their shape.
"Thank you."
The Warscythe wavered for a fraction of a second. Argall's grip tightened again. His breathing slowed, steady, as the realization settled over him.
Angron wasn't fighting to win. He never was.
The fury, the carnage, the reckless assault - it was all for this moment. He sought release.
From the nails that addled his mind.
From the rage that overtook the entirety of his life.
From the life that had been thrust upon him.
Argall stepped closer, his shadow falling over Angron's prone form. He stared down at his brother, his expression unreadable, his body rigid.
Angron's smile didn't fade. His breathing slowed, his chest rising and falling with diminishing strength. He didn't flinch, didn't look away. His eyes, once blazing with rage, now gleamed with something else.
Relief.
The Warscythe's energy flared, its green light casting long shadows across the bridge. Argall raised it, the blade shimmering, poised for the final stroke.
Angron closed his eyes.
AN: Chapter 55 is out on (Pat)reon!