"I don't wish to waste time crushing an ant beneath my heel. If you still cling to life, look away now, while you have the chance."
Clutching the shard of ceramic steel, Sorlax faced the man without fear. He truly had no desire to squander his energy killing a mere insect during his escape.
"I seek a duel with an Astartes," the man declared, drawing a power sword from his back as he approached the towering and battle-scarred Sorlax.
Sorlax was momentarily stunned. A duel... with an Astartes? Had mortals grown this bold?
This man's audacity stirred something within him—a warrior's honor demanding he grant this mortal a worthy death. As he moved forward, he spoke, "If it's a duel you desire, then we ought to exchange names. One should at least know who they'll die facing."
"Grote."
"Grote... Well, then. My name is Sorlax. You are among the rare few privileged to know it."
They approached each other, and Grote, with his gaze unwavering, issued a command through his neural interface, signaling his power armor to disengage, piece by piece.
Sorlax paused, raising an eyebrow in mild surprise. "You believe I'm helpless, do you? That you can defeat me unarmored and carry my head as a trophy? A tale to share of how you, unarmored, slew Sorlax, the Oathbreaker?"
Grote remained silent, his stride unbroken as he closed the gap.
"I advise you not to, lest you forfeit your life to your own arrogance."
"I simply want one true fight before I die," Grote murmured, shifting into a defensive stance with his power sword raised. "This battle will end one of two ways—either you kill me, or we both fall."
Excitement ignited in Grote's eyes, his body trembling with fervor. It had been a decade since he had felt the thrill of close combat, restraining his own bloodlust to avoid the madness that claimed his fallen brothers. But now? Now he could revel in it.
He wanted nothing more than to die in battle against this Astartes.
"You… you are… " Sorlax faltered, baffled by the sight of a sane man willingly throwing himself into certain death. In his life, he had never seen one who was not under the Butcher's Nail, willingly seeking oblivion.
He charged at Grote, who waited patiently, seeking the moment to strike, the fleeting instant when both he and Sorlax might die together.
With the force of a tank, Sorlax bore down on Grote. When his form consumed Grote's vision, the power sword swung, yet Sorlax slipped aside with impossible grace, dodging the blade in a smooth, effortless motion.
How could one so massive, armored in ceramite, move with such agility? The question barely formed in Grote's mind before a sharp pain tore through his shoulder, Sorlax's shard of ceramic steel buried deep.
Sorlax yanked down on the shard, severing Grote's left arm with a casual twist. He tossed the limp limb aside, ready to sneer, but then sensed the approaching blade, dodging back just in time.
Even one-armed, Grote was still coming at him. This mortal had come too close to killing him, and for the first time, Grote saw the vast gulf between a mere man and the transhuman might of an Astartes. The other was grievously wounded, his armor cracked, his body bleeding from countless wounds, yet his speed was unflagging.
"Now we're even—both down an arm," Sorlax muttered, tossing the severed limb aside.
Grote held his silence, his stance unwavering.
Sorlax hesitated, studying him. Something felt off. Grote's eyes were alight, his entire body quivering with a rapture beyond reason, utterly devoid of fear or pain.
It was strange. Though the Blood God's gaze lingered on this battlefield, this mortal's courage and fighting spirit seemed unnatural.
To eliminate any suspicion of dark blessings, Sorlax decided to end the fight quickly.
Seeing Sorlax charge, the shard aimed at his heart, Grote lunged forward to meet it. Flesh and bone yielded to the shard, pain flooding Grote's mind as he was impaled. But in his suicidal maneuver, he'd found his moment.
With the shard lodged in his chest, Grote drove his power sword through Sorlax's breastplate.
"You... worm!"
With a bellow of fury, Sorlax lifted Grote and slammed him against the wall. Dazed, Grote barely registered the crushing blow that shattered his jaw. Another followed, then another, each punch sinking deeper, each bone shattering with ruthless efficiency.
Sorlax's assault continued for a dozen blows until he was certain life had left Grote's battered form. Only then did he turn away.
"Conqueror! Conqueror!" Sorlax called out.
"This is the Conquer... sssssss..."
Relieved, he gave the order, "Extract me from this cursed planet!"
The Conqueror prepared to retrieve him, but as the world began to fade, Sorlax felt something clutch at his leg. Looking down, he found the broken, bloodied form of Grote, clinging to him, barely alive.
Sorlax sighed. Instead of kicking him away, he extended his hand. "Come with me. I'll see you remade as an Astartes. You can unleash your thirst for battle freely then, in the Blood God's name."
"Blood... God? Damn your... Blood God... I don't want to become a murderer," Grote rasped, defiant even in his ruin.
Sorlax paused, staring at him for a moment, before delivering a dismissive kick, sending Grote sprawling across the floor. Yet, as Grote's body tumbled, a small blue sphere rolled from his grasp, shimmering with ominous light.
"Throne curse it, let that not be a teleport beacon," Sorlax muttered, scowling. "I'm through with this."
The blue light dimmed abruptly.
An instant later, the corridor erupted in flame, the explosion reverberating for miles.
...
The storage bay lay in ruins, walls disintegrated, drones reduced to smoldering fragments. Amidst the rubble, Grote's broken body stirred. Somehow, he was alive, though disappointment and fury burned within him. To the desperate, survival was a bitter fate.
Groaning, he crawled forward, reaching for his weapon. But exhaustion claimed him, and he could go no further. It felt as if chains bound him in place.
Reaching back, his hand brushed against a cord wedged beneath the debris, and he followed it, tracing its length all the way to his own abdomen.
"Throne…" he muttered, his voice a cracked whisper. "Why couldn't I have just died in the blast?"
Life was slipping away, but death was not yet his. His power armor detected a surge of warp energy.
"Warp energy detected. Warp energy detected..."
Grote's bleary gaze lifted to the sky, his vision obscured.
Then, golden light filled his sight, revealing three winged figures. Two soared above, one descended slowly, surrounded by a radiant aura.
Grote's mind struggled to grasp the sheer divinity of what he beheld, a beauty both visceral and celestial. His wounds began to heal, his severed limbs regenerating, even his shattered lower half restoring.
In his youth, he'd been told the Emperor's Angels were his loyal Astartes. Yet, gazing upon these three women, Grote felt he finally understood the essence of true angels.
The angel nearest him inspected his broken form with a divine gaze. A blast erupted above them, drawing her attention. She glanced skyward, and with a powerful beat of her wings, she ascended into the heavens.